Leveler Poetry Journal
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Apt. 7F


“It’s a numbered door behind which I lay rigid, in utter darkness, for ten days and ten nights—days and nights that in memory are a single moment.”
– Jorge Luis Borges



November slipped behind

the white of my eye. I laid


on my back to greet it. You

held my lid open, added drops,


and saw all that I could not see:

the eye beyond bloodshot,


the thin stitches like pubic hair,

my deadening yellow sclera.


November was a bright month,

you said. It was


the brightest month for us,

the brightest month.

Jessica Dyer