Nika McKagen

Unwarranted Atmosphere

 

Downstairs via the stairs, the janitor makes a fool of his bride, the broom. For us, imagining
bondage is enough. A red shed. My abdomen hurts, my thorax. Everyone unsure for pain is not
words. A dinner party stained the shed. That’s me. Rusted, rust and I are leaving. The girl turns
to me to say, “Definitely flesh. Flesh ineffable.” Guilt is not like pain. All of us can feel her guilt.
How can one be totally stagnant? Let me show you how. Let me show you how indefinitely
stagnant us birds can be.

 


Nika McKagen

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