Originally published by New Millennium Writings, finalist for the 44th New Millennium Writing Awards, Fall 2017 

Fly-Trap

When Casey's lover leaves her,

she finds a small paper 

napkin crumpled

on the floor of her living room

is like a mild toxin

in the brain.

Or in the back.

Only a little rot. One good

thought of a plant, a succulent

owned by a friend, is enough to

drive it away, fend blight 

up the veins and back 

into the bean;

but there it is again, in the kernel

caught between tiles of

a sidewalk, or in the deep-colored hats

sold from out of dark 

and musical dens walked by 

on Fulton Street. No, it is in 

her subway line—but not the car

at total rest, or at full speed

screaming past her on sacred missions

into the midnight tunnels. It is the subway

slowing down at her fingertips,

sliding past to open

the doors, yawning slack and

lily-like in the morning,

breathing crowds out

against the damp cement;

it is a longing for a lily

that would not just as soon

close on her hand

as open for it.