liminal cities

by ISOBEL PEREZ

orange squares of light hive the skyline
and i’m just a pair of eyes, peeking through my blinds
wondering if the sky is flavored with the same salt and rust
that the city sweats.

currently, i occupy a venn diagram of space: a small corner of my
window where a pane of glass separates me from you. i wonder what
space you occupy: your cubby of life, so neatly folded behind your
square of light. you effortlessly close your blinds and i am left
wondering who you eat supper with
and what you dream of late at night.

vertebral architecture ruptures from the earth;
each level a separate joint of the city’s spine.
thin walls vibrate with the ghosts of conversations
riddled with words i cannot define. who are you? i ask

to the shadow of the world i cannot see.
i write love poems for all the strangers i pass by on the streets.

Isobel Perez (they/them) is a high school senior from Houston, Texas. They have been a Texas Young Master in the Literary Arts (class of 2020) and an alumni of the Iowa Young Writers’ Studio. They’re obsessed with witchcraft and will give you a tarot reading if you ask nicely.