I like seeing the collapsing of the
chairs into the table as though this particular cluster of space
in my dining room is an existential lapse, a place where
reality grows slack.
The plate in my hands is white like a large pearlescent button because
saying it is as reflective as the moon would be too simple, so I will call it
my papyrus, an envelope holding an ordinance,
deeming me to swallow the jet of air emerging from where
the crown molding has met the floor, where I have flattened into
unleavened dough, and all the dolls in the dollhouse
have died, with their small plastic parts flickering in and out of
rigor mortis to the rhythm of the ceiling lights.
The only time I relax is in the
collapse because in all other moments I am waiting for it—noise
and violence becoming shields and laughter a weapon I am not
allowed to wield, with my little cubist body.
But I can press my face against the hardwood stairs and count
the reverberation of steps as though they were stars,
while scanning each power outlet for the presence of
the poltergeist and gnawing on
leftover chicken bones.
-- Bryana Dawkins is a writer based in NYC. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in ANMLY, Brink Literary, Foglifter Journal, and elsewhere. She can be found at https://bryana-dawkins.carrd.co/#.