Why make it easy, as you say,
a scar to sooth a runaway
unadorned by ink or stitch,
just its function,
to make no sudden moves,
to empty me out,
to be unseen, bone-dry,
as if honesty was radiant,
a glowing debacle just for you,
because it’s not, that is,
these words are not viable
or what you think of them
when they offer in sound
abuse the eyes take in,
or why the skins shiver in defeat—
how cave walls dim
in echo,
how cathedral ceilings fade
in paint,
how my pleas
neither pagan nor pious
have any way out
and, in fact,
like me,
no place to hide behind
themselves,
and no space left inside either
to spill original meanings
to let you down lightly,
as if torment wasn’t vain, too,
as if this line was hands-down
conceivable,
or ordained,
a cicatrix
to be ordered or arranged.
Mikal Wix is a queer writer from Miami, where most things go to unravel. Their writing has appeared in many literary journals, including Uncanny Magazine, North American Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, Berkeley Poetry Review, Moss Puppy, Door = Jar, Portland Review, and Gone Lawn. They edit poetry at West Trade Review. You can find their published works at https://linktr.ee/mikalwix.