The sound of fascism is for a small
while less intrusive than the work

in progress on your neighbor’s wall,
which is also yours. 7 A.M. drills,

hammers infiltrating space.
Sun crystals shining through

bathroom window might say fall,
could say end. Dracaena sitting

in darkness on a different sill
amidst loud nearby noises.

Gonna see my family for the first
time in months. Whose side are they

on? I squeeze the lavender
satchel handed down from not-

my-grandma. All was passed
down from stars, but that is

a different story. Eternal light
in dust. What disgusting precedent.

The disturbed mornings
in which simply drinking

coffee hurts the backside
of my lower lip. Fish flesh.

I don’t know why the liquid
slashes me. That’s why

I drink so quickly.

(originally published in mutiny! magazine, Summer 2022)