six p.m. and the light snakes its way to open
spaces. rust. sediment in grasses that do not
grow. moths humming on loose window panes
where the night creeps in. in here, they say,
in here. darkness is chewed beneath the
hardwood floors, splinters. like the a e i o u
are slightly off on furniture marks. discontent
is worn like pendants by porcelain dolls with
black holes for eyes. six and i am counting
three cracked plates in the pantry and three
syllables unfurling from my mouth. all the
commotion gathered along the bones of
bruised bedspreads. it is there. every sink is
rinsed clean with immaculate black oil.
outside, the streetlamps are flickering.
silence among the soundless petrified blooms.
words: Cecilia Austin, Philippines (clearcandy daily)
photo: Steve Wing, Florida (sand shadow)