Locked by Inna Mosina
Mania Drops Me Off In ChinatownMy hands weave the fountain
into a music box. Try to wring out
the static.The static a woodpecker
making it’s nest in my stomach.
I am in a place I don’t recognize.
The maps, webs of streets
stretched tight across my brain.
I am in a place I don’t want to recognize.
My body, a fishing net,
ghosts of sharks. My body,
a lung, trying to exhale.
The jewelry box of this city.
Everything a metaphor
for mania: Yapping dog.
Chainlink fence. Dirty apple
by the side of the road.
I am standing on the edge of the fountain,
trying to spit myself out.