by Malaea Ergina

1.

the hair that grows from the bathroom wall is
wavy and dark, slick with condensation,

unruly, when the body is lost,
the hair is still present, still growing,

still clinging wetly as I brush by it,
uncoiling down the wall,

knotted, grasping, infinitely growing,
infinitely hungry, uncontained

animal longing, uncontained
animal filth.

2.

like leftover crepe paper streamers,
the moth webs trail down from the ceiling

sticky, gray, multiplying,
dust and more dust, shivering,

writhing as the moths burst out—
in the bed, body webbed and sticky

with pain, there’s something else moving too,
a soft and ceaseless motion, the unwilling

movement of life in a dim room filled with
insect castings and unwashed laundry.

3.

the flowers on the shelf are just dead things
that don’t know they’re dead yet meanwhile

the spider plant is dying in the corner
and the things you acquired for nurturing

are brown and dead meanwhile you pull
your body along behind you on a leash

which is sometimes very long and sometimes very
short, your body so close you can feel

its breath on your face, another
thing to feed and water, another unbearable thing.

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Malaea Ergina is a writer from Tiohtià:ke/Montreal, where she is currently pursuing an MA in Creative Writing at Concordia University.

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