beware of plastics

yesterday, I learn her boyfriend’s church is covered
with saran wrap, edges of their world bunched

at the poles, where barely enough care to lift
their hands—a congregation concealed in stillness.

sure, some folks squirm, but even as the planet tips
upside down, she tells me they can’t slide around

like standing metro passengers at an unexpected stop.
no, she’s secluded in this ice age of plastic

with women not allowed to do this or that. it breaks me
catching me with no right words as she slips under

with him into the cold. I wait till dark, rise up and up
till the atmosphere pops like pink bazooka bubble gum

and poke a few holes, so she can breathe, with a pin.
lungs aren’t meant for synthetic polymers, but song.
Rebecca O'Bern is a writer, editor, photographer, and educator. Her work has appeared in Storm Cellar, Black Coffee Review, Dark Matter, Blue Monday Review, and others. She's a graduate of the MFA Program at Southern Connecticut State University. Originally from New England, she now resides in Pennsylvania next to a pasture of playful horses. Learn more about her at rebeccaobern.com.
header: Baran Lotfollahi via Unsplash