by C M Taylor

small country:
bordered & boarded up
invisibly against the outside, alien.
When strangers cross our path
we ford asphalt & flee & no one
says a word or shares a nod,
though we peer through each window
passed. Two young men get into their car
& it coughs like it can smell the smoke, too,
like its headlight eyes are burning.
A couple college kids walk too close behind us
for a few blocks. We hold hands & don’t.
Tonight in the same neighborhood
into which I moved last July, maybe I stayed
& broke the world, maybe this is the way I go, drowned in home,
maybe I don’t get repeated twilights, but
I know you’re smiling under the mask
from the other end of the supermarket aisle.
I know where the stores are at the apocalyptic, empty mall,
I have the key to the gate under the laundromat vents,
I pay the rent from my account, I chose to stay
this time, through whatever has happened,
however long it takes,
our house with its walls & windows.

C M Taylor is a poet, songwriter, painter, and essayist living in Buffalo, NY. They earned their BA in Creative Writing and Dance Studies from Knox College in 2016. They serve as Art Editor for Variant Lit. More of their work can be found at Perhappened, Ghost City Review, and elsewhere. They’re on Twitter @carma_t