40
March/April 2022
POEM
Safer by Meaghan Cronin
If I stand still enough, I start to hope I’ll make myself an empty space—once girl, now gone. I’ll be no threat, no haunting rope or loaded gun. I want to live unfurled and light, a soft and hurtless thing, no sledge to wield against the world. I paint myself in plumes—but even feathers have their edges. The blades are always pointing out. I shelve these weapons, do my best to hold them safe— along the handle, blades away from me, to face the floor and no one else. I wish myself away. I chafe, I swarm like bees. I’d rather turn to rust—disintegrate and fall to earth. If I am small enough, I will be soft.
