IT DOESN’T WORK.

by W. Khalisah

you think it can be fixed back

but it can’t. you see this broken

thing in my hand, wings folded

backward, bones jutting out white

metal gears spinning endlessly

more out of momentum than actual

movement. it’s going, it’s gone, and

if it’s not yet dead it’s dying.

we know this. we carry it in

our chests like ugly truths waiting

to be spoken aloud to be made

real. it takes two to make it work

but we are tired. we’re not the well

oiled machine we were when this

started, motions in sync and thoughts

travelling through invisible telephone

lines between our heads. maybe it

was distance, we could blame it on

that. the saltwater leaves a trail

of rust between the joints

of the armour we thought was

impenetrable. you want to take it

apart, rearrange the wires, fix

the parts of it you think went wrong

except that you know nothing of

circuitry. it’ll be easier, i think, to

pretend this broken thing

is still working than to admit

that something is a lost cause.