My Old Self

My old self, wrapped round me,
was shroud. One day she slipped
away and flew off. Tangled
on a fence like a translucent scarf,
she cried out for my help and I
waited. All new selves witness
odd disappearances. Here,
the voice I used to encourage,
a form of gentleness.

To the Box Cutter

I sit with you on the floor, disassembling cartons.
For you, the blunt break, despite yourself unlikely
to mark skin, I ignore the phone in its cradle,
lines crossing, uncrossing. I hoard anything
that won’t be noticed: binder clips, stamps
with bells and hearts, mustard from the fridge.
I put you in my bag with paycheck, borrowed
book, a warhead. The other intern I don’t meet.
I know her only by search history. We both know
she doesn’t love you like I do.

Serena Solin lives in Brooklyn by way of St. Louis and New Jersey. Her work has appeared in Fence, DREGINALD, tammy, The Atlas Review, The Portland Review, The Adroit Journal, and elsewhere.