Today, this one lies alone—desperate for a physical “other”. Another with her duplicate selves—young bodies—clinging, clamoring at her—all hours, minutes of the day. Neither can get away to different spaces, from their own unique voices vying for attention—at times soothing, other times terrifying. All the while down the street—a woman just wants the chance to see her 88-year-old father—now in hospice--
through a window
screens continue to warn, throw numbers while floating heads gather and pretend “it’s just as good”, “it works just as well”. Still. Any of us would trade places with Somebody. Except for the 36-year-old in the ICU, struggling to breathe while the only one who speaks to him is a
stranger, her own breathing ragged and worn.
But that’s a distance—until it isn’t. When you can feel it crawl closer, closer to your circle, breathing on your neck. While you press the anxiety down for the sake of a
D LARISSA PETERS
grew up in Indonesia and has been somewhat of a nomad. After meandering around the East Coast for more than 10 years, she moved to California—in the middle of a pandemic. Her most recent poems have appeared in Makarelle, Flora Fiction, Samjoko Magazine and has a few forthcoming pieces.