too fast to see
his face, a man on a bicycle
flies by, chirping
oh me, oh my
once, my gynecologist held up a plastic
vagina and said, it would be better
if we were see-through like this. It would be
better if I could see clearly
in orange pixels, news floats
by like trash on the breeze, carrying
names and other fruitless facts.
like, a man punched a woman in the face
on the fourth of july in johnson county.
like, he shot the ceiling and screamed.
hearing the cries of the old world
sparrows, oh me oh my, oh, doctor,
gift me a plastic model of my city to see through without invading.
the same wish as the one to tell
all the people I hear in confessional,
I was listening at the door,
Abby Johnson is a poet and a Hoosier who is proud of the local art scene that fostered her. She is pursuing her MFA in Creative Writing through Butler University. Her micro-chapbook No Line Except is published through Ghost City Press in their Summer 2019 collection ( https://ghostcitypress.com/2019-summer-microchap-series-1/no-line-except ). She has individual pieces published in Turnpike Magazine, Josephine Quarterly, and Requited Journal.