She lived alone on Wyckoff.
In Brooklyn where the loose
Cigarettes burn through sticky filters
Where lungs find comfort in grayness.

She lived alone on Wyckoff
but dreamt of the 10th
Arrondissement where lungs
find not healing, but Duchamp;

She wakes up in a windowless room
The sun draws a line in the corner
The line that leads to the door;
The line that shows as though
It was a glow stick, not of the sun’s stream
But as though produced in darkness
A darkness that glows as death glows

The green shine of absinth that led her,
continued out to the street from the dark den
where she lived alone on Wyckoff dreaming of the 10th;
the rest of the world dimmed too
with the blatant darkness;
the line still leading

The mentor of light stopped and peered back at her
where she lived alone on Wyckoff
“Do you not love the Chair you’ve been gifted?
Why must you part with it?”
“It sits in a windowless room
where I sit alone on Wyckoff,
God smites the creator of that chair.”

“My bones become splinters, penetrating
not only into my back but my ass, my neck;
that chair keeps no secrets of its hatred
for me and my dim timeline;
that’s ok, I too, hold no secrets.”

She sank down the subway steps
The blotchy cement blocks that housed nothing more
Than blood and dirt — under Wyckoff;
Her guide seeps onto the train
Artificial in its green radiance;

She left her windowless room
Dragging her lonesomeness down
With her, underground; in a murder attempt
Of her cravings for the 10th
Arrondissement where windows strain
Sun rays that pierce the skin with serenity

Accompanied solely by her thinning, green
stream of sickening light
she rode alone under Wyckoff
“Where are you going, thinning away,
abandoning me as I, myself, did months ago?”

One stop, two stops, three;
the hurdling mass of metal and dirty glass
forces time into a prison
holding minutes for ransom
depriving her of the escape
from her reality, decaying only by incoherence;

The seconds passed, but not without
the slow disintegration of her
rationality; her guide, joining her sanity,
dissipated, leaving her to her nothing;

Her eyes closed only to hear the conductor spit
“C’est de Paris-est — the 10th.”
She no longer lived alone on Wyckoff;
She no longer rode that train with saline crystal windows;
she finally felt the sun, yet it lay cold on her skin;
keeping a secret from excreting through her swollen pores.

Iain McDonald is a sophomore transfer student pursuing a BFA in Photography and Video at SVA. He was born in Colorado Springs, Colorado, but has found a creative home in New York City.