yesterday, I learn her boyfriend’s church is covered with saran wrap, edges of their world bunched
at the poles, where barely enough care to lift their hands—a congregation concealed in stillness.
sure, some folks squirm, but even as the planet tips upside down, she tells me they can’t slide around
like standing metro passengers at an unexpected stop. no, she’s secluded in this ice age of plastic
with women not allowed to do this or that. it breaks me catching me with no right words as she slips under
with him into the cold. I wait till dark, rise up and up till the atmosphere pops like pink bazooka bubble gum
and poke a few holes, so she can breathe, with a pin. lungs aren’t meant for synthetic polymers, but song.
Rebecca O'Bern is a writer, editor, photographer, and educator. Her work has appeared in Storm Cellar, Black Coffee Review, Dark Matter, Blue Monday Review, and others. She's a graduate of the MFA Program at Southern Connecticut State University. Originally from New England, she now resides in Pennsylvania next to a pasture of playful horses. Learn more about her at rebeccaobern.com.