The week God spares me

my immune system works as hard as it should;
nothing less, nothing more; the sole victim

my sense of smell. The mouse behind the stove
does not chew a hole in the gas pipe,

or the electrical wires, or make a souvenir
of my skin. The glass shard in my foot is not

teeming with tetanus. A fire on the A-Line
pushes the 3 ahead of schedule

and I am not on the platform when
a deranged man decides who next

is destined for the tracks. I am shopping
for garbage bags at Home Depot.

When I brush past a man on my way out
he shouts, “watch it, bitch!”

follows me to the parking lot,
but does not gun me down.

Three blocks from the fashion district,
a woman spills a stranger open

on the sidewalk. His blood curdles,
frosts over in the cracks.

I am watching re-runs of Frasier,
100-degree fever just beginning to sate.

ZOE ANTOINE-PAUL was born on the island of Saint Lucia, but now calls Brooklyn home. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in F(r)iction Magazine, Scapegoat Review, Funicular Magazine, New Note Poetry, Red Ogre Review, West Trade Review, where she volunteers as a reader, and other publications. Zoe writes about the city, the beauty in the mundane, and everyday internal turmoil. She can be found on Instagram @space.junkie13.