by Sophia Holtz
the moon is a cataract that can’t see rats
chewing bone-filled trash, the satellites
passing above us making maps
of everything we touch. a machine
recognizes a human face, I forget
everyone's names, & somewhere
a man is making a list of threats
he's calling law. sometimes while I walk
I look for places where I could hide
because once or twice in my life
a man has tried to follow me home.
certain games are practical,
the way animals gnaw on what's inedible
so they'll become better knives.
at work, the children are playing
in an open space, all of them hiding
behind a trashcan, the game more ritual
than search, but it also reminds me
of towns likely burned to the ground
before they were emptied, or at the very least
erased from the map. if you’re small
your best trick is to become invisible.
even insects know this: how many
generations for a moth to resemble lichen.
Sophia Holtz is a writer, illustrator, and performer. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Gulf Coast, Underblong, BOAAT, glittermob, and other journals. She received her MFA from NYU, where she was a Goldwater Writing Fellow. Born and raised in New York, she currently lives in Boston.