Gregor Samsa Redux

Alrisha Shea

I do not recognize the body

watching me. I pull up

my boxers and pretend I could

wear high-waisted pants, as if

the telltale bulge wasn't there.

What am I if not a clay doll

in the oven? A mockery

of a man. 

I can only glare back through

the windowpane and

pretend my eye contact

still has worth. When I step

outside, the first moment

is a migraine. My eyes maladjusted

to the thin atmosphere. Meteorologists

call this light pollution because they do

not understand how a skyline could

be dysphoric. The stars, stripped

away by runny ochre paint, will

turn into dust specks &

we will squint harder

towards the sky. &

the ceramic mannequins

will rejoice at their lack

of eyes. & I will find another

inanimacy to be jealous of.

One day I will learn how to be.

But not soon.