Plague Doctors

Six months ago, when I first moved into this asbestos-potential house of mirrors and
cracked paint,
our landlord said we might get a surprise
through the mail flap in the door.
“Like a horde of locusts?” I asked.
My roommate shook their head and groaned.

Six months later I lay in this blinding
field of sunlight on a couch with a lifetime
preceding mine, tears dripping down my face
as I try to hold onto normalcy, onto understanding the world, remembering
what it used to be.

It seems like everyone is writing poetry about the last days, about paranoia and
musings of what will come. I have run
out of milk and the grocery store is
business as usual, just a five minute
walk in melting snow.

My gears have ground to a halt, melted snow
causing circuits to blow, I have always seen
germs everywhere, I peel my skin even more. I want to know why I can’t
cook myself a meal with the ingredients
we have reasonably stocked our fridge with,
why I can’t read three pages of a book without
devolving into sobs, shaking, lamenting how
my skeleton was not built to hold itself up, at least not anymore.

I want to know why the Earth, even as it is melting, burning, swelling, can go on turning.

Avoiding Spring Cleaning

cobweb fuzz hangs over my heart in drapes, unused paperweight souvenir gift to a
loved one from a trip they did not take. what does it mean

to live un-vicariously, boldly, forcing made up words in between sentences you don’t just
long to speak. hold this organ heavy

in my chest, carry it to full term, push it out of my ribs when it’s ready to enter this world,
puncturing it on the way, folding my bones in halves. loving is

easier than breathing. easier than taping these pieces together, feeling like a premature
organ donor. bone dust settles

in my insides, makes me sick, unleashes allergies to myself on myself. weep crystals
that shatter on the floor, tiny minute bacterial bits that mix in with the cobwebs. isn’t
dust

seventy to eighty percent human skin?

Suspension

I know I seem like my head is in the clouds. Words blur like mist in mountains, condense
on my cheeks, roll off my chin, catch in the wind.
I didn’t even know there was any.

I zone out, drifting into middle distances,
empty horizons where snow meets sky.
I trek through the still white-blue,
imagining myself standing at a shore, the waves
nibbling at my toes, frothing at my ankles.
Feather sweet kisses, like a moth has just flown onto my nose, the fuzz on their wings
brushing my skin and I remember when moths would leave me shaking violently.
In truth, my head is not in the clouds. My head hangs somewhere on the ground. I can’t
see past the blocked horizon, I haven’t seen the sea in years, moths still scare me, and
the clouds collect in my head.

Dry Cell

You are meant for brighter visions than the ones I flicker to false fruition in this dim
room. Press the on button, shine me on shadow,
I may not respond in time, not in time to help you see.

I am dust motes to your sunbeams. You glitter across every surface you touch,
illuminating hidden spots, deciphering the very scratches
that paint them. Your shift will be over soon,
but I’ll still see. I’ll still see you bouncing off the moon.

My batteries need replacing and I will get to it eventually. You can’t keep shaking
my body, rattling my bones, hoping for a stronger light. The problem is intrinsic.
I can replace my batteries,
but you need to buy a new flashlight. You can find one at the electronics store,
I’m sure.

Suwaibah Gangat is in her final year of a BA in English and Film Studies in Edmonton, Canada, where she has moved to from South Africa (where she had moved to from Pakistan). She enjoys jigsaw puzzles, crosswords, and sudoku, and just needs seven cats to complete the old lady aesthetic. Her work has previously been published in Glass Buffalo.