what we have done

the world is a collection of scenes. violent

teals. a prophet formed

of sea foam. this morning I watched a gull 

butcher a pigeon on the roof of a van,

churning under eighty degree heat. and I thought,

I have seen this before— 

tendons that attach wing to wing, laid bare and red

by a sharp stretching mouth.

elastic of tissue, somehow void of blood. where purple folds ripe

over blue. men, the square reflection 

of a goat’s eye. I am happy here

with my gorged stomach and daily tasks.

the earth is rolling itself up a hill

and in it, a spider drips

at its own creation.

long hair clutches a lily blanket,

and in it,

a body replaces a life.

beside all goodness is more of the same—dark hues

of repetition. engines bring clouds to the concrete.

yet I am standing here

wanting more

Lake Michigan, 2025

the boys and girls are making violence 

under the brush, 

where the current works itself at the shore.

I fear I see meaning in every act,

the squirrel watching devilishly on its hind legs. I split

my life in three ways: talking to you

chewing my fingernails

and thinking about being young.

I also concern myself 

with adult woman topics:

the joy of the steamer

a new lint brush, and men, wondering, why! did the man

when? will the man?

then, it doesn’t matter. what the man.  

I waste time    

at the park,   searching for delight.

many friends are marrying now. and I fear

I am falling behind. the other day

I sought to glimpse a bird 

which chimed from low, round tree

and was interrupted by a woman 

gagging heinously at two pm 

as a kind man rubbed her back. 

when I was nineteen, and when I was younger,

and when I was also older, 

I learned many wrong lessons. 

I’m sorry if you already know this,

but Lake Michigan is so vast

it has its own current? and when it is cold,

and the lake freezes over, so do the waves?

and under that, still movement, 

biting against the surface.

I want to see that very badly. 

the steam made by motion. pain by numbness.

stung fingers bare in the impossible cold. sometimes

the wind is so strong 

it is a hand to the sternum. pressed wholly, 

entering the mouth, and choking.

each time, this makes me feel less alive.

the body not gasping,    but enduring until release.

Mina Khan is a Korean-Pakistani American poet from NYC, based currently out of Chicago. Her writing spans across nations, generations, to discuss cyclicality, violence, tenderness, ecology, and the everyday. She is the author of MON-monuments, monarchs & monsters (Sputnik & Fizzle, 2020) and Night Shift in Perfect English (Gasher Press, 2026). Her work has appeared in AAWW’s The Margins, Tupelo Quarterly, Epiphany Magazine, and more. Khan holds a BA from Wesleyan University, MFA from Columbia University, and is a Tin House alum.