the claustrophobia inside a freshly sealed urn

"the claustrophobia inside a freshly sealed urn" by Yinle

she climbs three stories up the block,  

hands pressed, like dried starfish, to the chilled, 

unforgiving ceramic, and she counts.

one two three four five six flights.

one two three four five steps. pivot to the left.

one two three four urns from the bottom. 

it will not break even if she begs it to — but she won’t.

not after mapping the coordinates to her new home. 

she won’t flinch at the name engraved over that tiny door,

which swings open like an axe. 

she won’t turn away from the darkness of that cavity,

that empty stomach, churning and grinning for her arrival.

instead she laughs. 

she laughs — it is an orchestra bouncing off the walls.

she laughs, and her sixty–odd neighbours peer over,

wonder who the hell has the nerve to find jest 

in this glorified bookshelf.

a lifetime of work to be stacked eternally with hundreds of others

like oversized mahjong tiles. where’s the table? if only she could

draw a pong, a winning zimo out of here and escape 

on a cloud of chittering poker chips. 

if only she could steal her body back from the furnace, 

have her crushed bones click back together in a thousand–piece,

and lie in the earth beneath some bustling, unstoppable freeway.

this island is fucking bloated with the dead and their machines.

they place her into the unit. they close the door. they twist the key.

(like a pile of dust can push open a door)

the emptiness devours her limb by limb like a bear.

it towers over her. the door sits on her chest,

the neighbours’ stares prickle her skin, and still she doesn’t flinch.

so she lets them continue. she lets them steal her air, and she thinks.

she thinks, 

she thinks, 

i want to be something immortal.