Many Worlds

If you looked through me
You wouldn’t see much
Except made-up characters—
An island, a carnival, New York.
You’d see a zombie apocalypse:
Me with blood on my face and a
Pitchfork, screaming through the
Dead city, my city… “Brenna, really?”


You’d see masked heroes flying
Through my veins, secret identities
Of which only I know.
(Wrapped up in chains,
Lie the great remains of
A man with a shield,
A dark phoenix,
A black widow.)