Trapdoor in the Closed Circuit My Life Was Meant To Be

I am an enthusiast of looking back. Looking
to leaving, & everything leaving represents.

In the unassuming neighborhood, nuns pass
illicit shortbreads through a slot in the monastery door,
while in the adjacent alley, I leave cuttings of myself

for another to stitch. The heat traces a coronet
of mosquitos around my head, golds my pacing eyes.

Would the parrots sing like that if they knew
they’d be shot come spring? I would, but what do I know—
I killed myself once, but it didn’t take.

Now I’m Lazarus in scarlet charming the dinner guests
with my talk of ghosts. Death & I, my first fiancé,

sneaking off to the bathroom to stick tongue in ear.
But desire triangulates, thrones a tyrant of absence,
it takes every tenth head. Death’s always calling a Lyft.

Who will catch my shadow? She’s slit
from my ankle & smearing red lipstick

down the throat of my past life. Like the protagonist
I weep, I make a scene, I clear the tablecloth
in one frivolous sweep. Love, why not me?

Why leave me among the bitter fruit
imported only for its scent? The old self opens

like a ribcage to the sky, & a woman crawls out
paler than summer grass, crying take me, take me.

Read more from Issue No. 32 or share on Twitter.