Erica Lane

In Plain Sight

saturday

underground, purple light
finds my
skin,
foreshadows
the color of my
wrists.

you douse
flames
with
fireball,
arm resting on the
wall
behind me, runaway
cage.


sunday


my eyes,
sink-
ing
into the shirt
of a friend,
tiny submarines
eroding.

i take strips
of the cotton,
attempt
to patch up
the holes in my
hull.
the tag reads
“machine wash only.”


monday


like a leaky
faucet,
my eyelashes
begin to accumulate
mold.

57 bus doors,
     impatiently
they screech at me
to take a
seat.

everyone
in those
dirty half-chairs
has
your
face.


tuesday


all the
sexual assault
response
cards

in the student health
center are
gone.

I take a slip
from the
stack of
nothing,
fold it into a
crane

send it
towards a
new skin,
one
lacking
fingerprints.


wednesday


the man in the red
baseball cap on
television
has
your
face,

only
withered and
hosting more
foundation.


Erica Lane is a freshman at Boston University, planning to major in Film and Television in COM and Visual Arts in CFA. When she is not in class or walking a mile to class, she spends her free time writing or blasting music and singing along very loudly and terribly with her roommate. This is the first time her poetry has been published in a journal, and she hopes to submit to other journals in the future.