receding monologue
by Mackenzie Kozak
darling, as of late no word on the lacking
breeze. meltdowns, sure, and a few slivers
through blinded windows. and armor, and
a rug stretched to amber, the carried lanterns
resembling no future. something in you
that’s deliberate means sprigs erupt where
spigots should be. my streaked navel, my
welded furnace, my opening through which
doves appear, are you alive in there, forehead
and capsule. i could have wandered here until
my feet were spires. darling, do you wonder
about our misshapen brows, or are you open
to some stitch that peers through fabric, are you
peeling that open, these approaches to heat—
