The Closet Was Never a Closet by Ian Smith

the closet was never a closet

by Ian Smith

rather, a glass box under lights: ankles crossed daintily with braided rope, hanging like a slab of meat in the freezer .

ears to the ground, hearing the whispers but never the noise; always the subject never a question about it . consider the luxury of hiding away what still needs time to metamorphosize; consider how warm a secret feels

whispered into your hand . i wrote my name on the walls not as a sign of strength, but as a warning . look close, and peeking from beneath pant legs: the burn, still hissing .

art | Maggie Brosnan