by Rebecca Lawrence Lynch
On my back, the bathroom floor is a bus seat.
God is here, his usual yellow hue—you are here,
a break from your usual absence—I am not sure I am
on my back, the bus, my feet—whose arm is on my face?
Some hairy man’s, maybe my father’s
but I don’t find his face—I miss your face,
I love your face—face down on the floor, the bus—
the street is tiled pink and reddish brown for four straight hours
until I—somewhat more sure now I—hear your voice
weeping through the toilet’s cracked wax seal,
screaming from the gaps in the grout:
Get up! Get up you useless stomach holder!
There are cats to feed and puke to scrape off walls, books, a globe
spins and I wonder where you went, why I am alone—
Rebecca Lawrence Lynch
Originally from Halifax/Kjipuktuk, Rebecca Lawrence Lynch is a writer trying to be trans in Montréal/Tiohtià:ke. Her work has appeared in The Malahat Review, Yolk’s In Transit series and Concordia’s Soliloquies Anthology, among others. Rebecca lives and writes with her cat, Maurice. Who is pretty ambivalent about poetry in general.
Headlight Anthology 