I’ve been so terrible

lately and so ugly too,

yet this has all so conveniently

provided reason

for my vanishing.

I start first with my left

hand, watch ash turn

into air, dispensable thing,

you were never as useful

as my right hand, which,

when it disappears, will be

much stranger and much

wiser than my left hand.

I do not yet know how this

will show itself, perhaps

as tiny miniature hands

straining their wrist-necks out

of my fingertips. Alternatively,

my right hand could be

more pruned, soaked

by the river. At this point,

the moon has only mostly

disappeared, and with it,

my left arm, up to my

shoulder. I am a miracle

of physics, balancing

effortlessly despite my

body’s fascination

with naught. It will

only cross my mind

when only my mind is left

that there must be something holier

than all this becoming

of a ghost. If this is a death,

I still have so much to be

thankful for, all of my atoms

harmonious in their surrendering.

For instance, my brother seems wholly

intact. Unable to see what is happening

beneath the surface of the water,

he sees only my floating head,

foolishly assuming there is more

to me than this. Across the bank

where we are swimming, I watch,

voicelessly, a bird leap,

then evaporate.

Bailey Cohen is a queer, Ecuadorian-American poet studying at NYU. He is the editor of Alegrarse Journal, a contributing writer for Frontier Poetry, and a Best of the Net nominee. Bailey’s work is forthcoming in publications such as Boulevard, Boiler Journal, and The Penn Review, and has appeared in Raleigh Review, The Shallow Ends, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, and more. He loves everyone Latinx.