The nation protects me

Through the next door is an exhibit of the nation.

First : two columns of blood & light.

: a dead drone.

: a vault filled with crystals.

: A black hoodie.

: A series of tubes extending from the wall. Each ends in a valve that deposits a small mound of particles into your palm.

: Finally, there’s a line of blinking red lights running along the floor.

: You follow the line to a hall of mirrors. There, you find a monster with your own face. The faces regenerate, hydra-like. The great claws clink on the glass as the monster approaches you, purring & purring.

Emily Lawson is a 22-year-old writer based in Prescott, Arizona. Her poetry has been published in The Reader and The Lilith. She recently graduated from Hampshire College, where she studied creative writing and global intellectual history.

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