ISSUE VI

The Lose/Lose Game

“Yet somehow people still kept fucking and breeding and popping out new fodder for the grave.” - Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch

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I try on every version of my future
            like choosing a funeral outfit,
each fitting like a noose.
            I spent all my Julys hoping
my bones would surface
            on my skin like lifeboats.
Then I wasted January folding grocery lists
            into planes, aiming them at the sun.
When my mother asks of my future, I want
            to say that all career paths
lead to a grave. Instead, I vow to take
            a wolf’s last name, and to learn to love
the knife. Say I won’t elope on my wedding night
            and other things I don’t mean. For now,
I suffocate myself in every headline,
            speed through every yellow light,
and play loose with life before
            I play dead. No matter though.
I’m only thirty two teeth and
            one heart away
from some grander truth. Once,
            I asked my mother
how much suffering it takes
            to martyr. She only laughed,
said misery mothed to us like predator
            to prey. Some cruel joke

played by a crueller god.