When you can’t leave for the forest–
bloomed flower petals on white tile
by the toilet rug. Black comb bleach
cleaner. A tendril reaches from water
glass, vine lights looming. What for
but pale wall? Crystal window. Self-
haircut grass. Small room. Small
ambition. I track my movements.
My hunter is somewhere, hiding.

(originally published in Sybil Journal, Summer 2023)