Creeps in all sloth-like
claws extend from
to reflect on the absence
of your touch,
how I survived alone for days
as you catered to your own wounds,
unaware I was slowly evolving into one of them.
Sleep entices, then intoxicates.
My body pushes through
Hallucinations so vivid
I hear voices of the dead
pleading I join them.
On the J train, they call to me again;
between the muffled
crackling of loudspeakers,
they urge me to leap.
All the while feeling insignificant,
longing for this vast world to engulf my entire being.
At work, I greet with a smile.
My teeth bleached.
My curls in perfect ringlets.
The windows on the eighth floor
against the cold glass;
too bad for safety locks.
But then it’s Saturday morning,
my children’s laughter,
cracking an egg into the batter.
The shell mixing in.
My son, licking
the corners of his sticky mouth,
asks for more syrup,
brings our plates
to the sink before going to his room,
stops to hug me, and tells me he loves me.
My daughter looks up and smiles,
the small gap she inherited
from her father.
I find myself falling, falling.
My forehead pushes up
against the cold glass, my breath
forms a fog in the shape of a cloud.
I watch it slowly disappear.
Thank God for safety locks.
Koylan Massiell Gomez is a poet and essayist with fervent adoration for the written word. Born in the Dominican Republic and raised in Corona, Queens, Koylan’s exposure to Caribbean culture, music, and language infuses her writing, through which she explores her Dominicanyol upbringing and portrays her dual identity. Koylan graduated from Hunter College with a major in Creative Writing. Her literary work broaches love and spirituality, being a minority, and healing generational trauma. She is featured in Spanglish Voces online journal. Dominican Writers Association has published her poetry and essay in the #dwaCuenticos chapbooks: La Doña: Essays on the Dominican Matriarch, Dominican Moms Be Like, and De Eso No Se Habla. She is the proud mom of two beautiful school-aged children and resides in New York City.