Joanna S. Lee

J o a n n a  S.  L e e 

lost

He sleeps

like a Snow White post-

poison, never sure

of the next sun's rising.

His skin is the color of

smoke-filtered mornings;

behind lined lids the eyes

are red-etched

with regret and unnamed monsters.

Evening grows and with

it the shadows on his thin arms

and i think, i think he might be

broken,

or maybe just

trying to break.