By MAX PASAKORN
and nothing comes out. I didn’t know
what I was expecting—
babies, perhaps? Ones with wings
too small to lift them back up,
cursed little things
with no-return policies.
As a child, I watched Dumbo and
thought that was how I arrived,
birthed from the sky, hand-delivered
by storks. In middle school, I learned
I was actually a product
of pain, that my mother wanted me
so bad she was willing
to be fucked over and over
by a man she only claimed to love,
a beggar cupping her hands, biting her lips
for hand-me-downs to start a new life.
When I arrived, I was so excited to leave
her behind, I almost tore her apart.
I couldn’t believe that. I wanted only
to believe in imaginary things:
Forces visible only to physicists.
Handsome heroes in YA novels.
The tear in the sky doesn’t heal.
Tears can’t, generally. I look up
and see a door with its hinges
battered to dust. In the breeze,
the ripped edges flagellate, protecting
its secrets like the makeshift umbrella
of a mother’s body in rain.
Soon, I stop wishing for something
to fall into my hands. Nothing is coming.
I watch the hole grow bigger. Only then
do I realize I’ve done something horribly,