Zoe Canner
Meaningless
I press my eyelids into
the wet cloth. It’s drafty
in here now that you’re
gone. Permission to talk
over women {granted}.
Age is just a name. Sleep
is just a number. Nine
eleven is a teenager
already &I feel far
worse digging deeper
democracy &all that
wavers. Remember that
flag shit. The grasping
when you feel like you
can’t do anything else.
Forced long walk &lung
corruption. I press my
mouth into the wet cloth
&blow hot air, making
sound. Remembering is
my middle name.
Zoe Canner is an angry, anti-racist, 3rd Generation Holocaust Survivor. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in in The Laurel Review, Arcturus of the Chicago Review of Books, Naugatuck River Review, SUSAN / The Journal, Maudlin House, Occulum, Matter, Pouch, Chaleur Magazine, Nailed Magazine, and elsewhere. She lives in Los Angeles where she indulges in hilly walks at dusk when the night-blooming jasmine is at its peak fragrance.
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