Kayla Naab

Sixteen

Take the elevator, level sixteen.

Lives tucked under our arms, we’d run.

Alley gravel stuck inside our treads,

lucky we made it.

 

If they’d give us a key to the city,

we’d wash ourselves in lamplight

every night.

 

Instead, we take this morning and stuff it, stiff

into a button-down shirt that barely fits.

We’re stuck inside our boxes,

screaming on the inside.

 

If they’d give us a key to the city,

we’d soak the hazy dawn

into our pores, and sing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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ISSUE 91
Imaginary
Numbers

 

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