feel this city skyline, its beautiful body
and us rib-spilt all over
the rooftop. tongues groping
the distant lights – somewhere, a mother
we pretend not to miss.
→ can you tell us what your name is?
all our sentences start
and end with this isn’t
that important. we warn
the world of our lack, draw thin
and flimsy threads of what we think
we want or don’t; then pull
and knot together, swallow
in sync. our guts inflame,
the sky a stake to burn. for once
→ can you tell us where you are?
this emptiness folds into limbs
and wraps from outside.
no one here knows their limit.
you know, the carpet is
still stained. you know,
→ do you know what time it is?
i am leaving soon. i push into you
that you will not miss me
until you believe it.
don’t listen to me in this state,
but the world is doubling, and
there’s still only one door.
→ do you know what happened?
the stars giggled and splintered
in the night. we’d loamed into
a mound of eyes and cups on the couch,
watching as a girl got dragged out
of the shower, wheeled
through the lobby, hair dripping
some incomprehensible words.
how we looked at each other,
said i hope she’s okay, then at least
she was found, at least
she can still talk. still find something worthy
of saying, and say it.
Ariadna (Arina) Maksin is a poet and neurobiology researcher. An alumna of the Iowa Young Writers Studio and three-time Scholastic Art and Writing Awards Gold Key awardee, her work is published or forthcoming in Scapegoat Review, Garden Wall Magazine, and Eunoia Review. She is the recipient of a 2026 Laidlaw Scholarship for her research on opioid addiction. She splits her life between the West and East Coast, and her time dissecting either diction or brains.