Last night, I opened every closet in western Massachusetts to prove I wasn’t there. I woke up, looked in the mirror and there I wasn’t: tiny tits on a too-huge ribcage. I searched for my younger self in every closet in western Massachusetts and found him crouching under his mother’s dresses every time. All day I left him there. I couldn’t sleep. I laid my pillows on my windowsill and hung half my head outside my window. I smoked a joint in bed and counted stars as my brain blossomed. I looked at the crescent moon until I looked through it. I could feel the earth spinning six miles between heartbeats. I sat up. I looked at my softening cheeks and hard stubble. I looked at my black bangs framing my face. I looked into the double eclipse of my pupils. My breath fogged on the glass as my eyes started to close. My lips were so cold, I flinched.

About the Author
Robin Arble is a poet and writer from western Massachusetts. Her poems have appeared in beestung, Midway Journal, Poetry Online, Quarter After Eight, and Roi Fainéant Press, among others. She holds a Bachelor of Arts from Hampshire College and works as a substitute middle school teacher in the Holyoke Public Schools. She lives in a house in Northampton with her partner and friends.