The Other

if there wasn’t a 10% after the 90%
if there was a code
if the belly drank more fluid
when justice sat and discussed at a round table
if obliteration meant just this one time
if radiation were laying out in the sun
if Paris wasn’t so far
if it cost less
if everybody cheated
if a person didn’t compress into just one photo
if the wind had been nicer in that photo
if the jacket hadn’t been green
if her eyes were open
I would remember
if notes didn’t flatten over the years
if the vocal chords moved after death
if a poem was an alarm clock
when memory rots
if memory didn’t
if home is more than a large box
if places weren’t recycled
if varnish opqaued
if windows broke in
if the mind knew flexibility
when a bathroom stall wasn’t knowing the knees
if that moment was just watching yourself
Imagine: a gulf that didn’t expand infinitely
a seatbelt becoming nothing
ten sandstorms without choking
every terrorist attack with a broken pin
a billion presidential votes
a class of unlearning
a rivet that becomes alive

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Pazia Miller is a queer poet and public school teacher living in Brooklyn. She is currently working on two different poetry collections, one of which is a long form confessional poem in blank verse. Her poetry lives in small corners of the internet and can be found on The Bridge.