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—