I stay inside with you, windows closed. I stay inside knowing 

there’s an arena with your name spelled in devil’s rope.

Inside, we remark on very little. Each sentence out

your throat requires too much polish. Context. Even

with me, you asterisk every other statement. We tape your

proper meaning to the refrigerator in long, languid 

scrolls. Hide your souvenir magnets, little traces. You take 

to trimming your own hair: first luscious, autumnal 

locks shoulders up. Next, odd strands on your knuckles. 

Navel, thighs. Finally, you take out a brow, two, let me smooth you.

Blank slate freed of last season’s cells. The news comes from your lawyer: 

the timing’s right to lift the blinds, splay you out in plain view. 

I am hesitant but play my role. Who else? Who else could stand 

next to our deep basin sink and prepare the thick, pink meat

of a toxic breast. Who else could drain the juices. Knowing all that I know. 

With a mastery I never asked for, I pull the thread. Attach the sequined 

feathers, one by one. One by one. Again and again, proving I can keep a promise. Proving I know how

to bring someone back.

Britt McGillivray is a poet and editor from "Vancouver, BC," the unceded territories of the Musqueam, Squamish and Tsleil-Waututh Nations. Their poems have recently been published in Room Magazine, Contemporary Verse 2, The New Ohio Review, and elsewhere. Recently, they were shortlisted for the 2021 Foster Poetry Prize. McGillivray is currently working on their first full-length book of poetry and developing a workshop series for and by queer writers.