"and yes, I believe that somewhere still, my reflection is walking away from me" by Megan Busbice

The black-and-white corridor smells

of the memory of cigarettes, parables 

of ash caught above the coating of clorox. each step

documents the gaps where the wind and the noise

and the darkness seep through: light fixtures

installed off-center, the spaces where the windows

don’t quite fit. the staircase leans towards the

center, some countless odyssey of rises and

falls, forgetting marks of progress. this was once

a possibility of a home—the dizzying polar curl of tiles, 

the twist of iron rails, a barely-covered dilapidation 

pretending at elegance. but what seeps through the cracks

is a poison. the rot is crawling through 

the floor. I remember that time I first saw

the madness of parallel mirrors, stopping suddenly

in the hallway, staring at the endless iterations

of myself curving into an infinity. the puzzle

of everything that could have been, had one

or two or two-thousand things gone differently.

even to this day I am still standing there, watching

the slight delay as some happier self steps out

of the frame. 

Megan Busbice is a poet and fiction writer currently living in Chicago. She is a graduate of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, as well as a Fulbright grant recipient, and currently works in public policy. Megan’s work has appeared in the literary magazines New Critique, Rogue Agent, Cellar Door, and Rainy Day. Her work is upcoming in Door Is A Jar.