Corridor
By Alice Xu
QuailBellMagazine.com
QuailBellMagazine.com
I pinch my wrist and watch
its palette flick like a light switch,
peach-white rotation. Mother
closes her eyes, dreams of a morning
with no sun. Whispers a nightmare:
crash, crashing, crashed. Splinter.
its palette flick like a light switch,
peach-white rotation. Mother
closes her eyes, dreams of a morning
with no sun. Whispers a nightmare:
crash, crashing, crashed. Splinter.
Monday boy cracks his cigarette
against the corner of a wall,
its smoke bones spilled
like a body leaning, reclining.
He looks my way. I don’t return it.
A janitor leaves Father’s room
with stained sheets and shit.
He stopped wearing a mouth mask,
and I wonder if he is used
to the smell of falling apart.
Mother continues to believe,
so she tells me. Fingernails teethed, I tear
them off like sunburned skin flakes.
against the corner of a wall,
its smoke bones spilled
like a body leaning, reclining.
He looks my way. I don’t return it.
A janitor leaves Father’s room
with stained sheets and shit.
He stopped wearing a mouth mask,
and I wonder if he is used
to the smell of falling apart.
Mother continues to believe,
so she tells me. Fingernails teethed, I tear
them off like sunburned skin flakes.
#Unreal #Poem #MouthMask #Fingernails #Bones #FallingApart
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