Little teacup
fat and round,
smile shimmering in
frozen thin handles.
Delicate spout,
tip me and hear
the echo.
Fill me up,
touch my lip, black and leaking.
I stretch a thin line
from one dimple to another
and
twist the frown
into a reflection of precise,
bright shadows.
Clasp your hands
around my base,
smooth and round,
and
tap my dented cheek,
feel the clink of my face,
peek into vast curves.
See if your fingernail
still scrapes across
painted-on skin
or
if silence shimmers,
shudders,
shatters.
Photo by δΊηε ORIENTO on Unsplash
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Published by Rachel Sandell
Rachel Sandell is a writer and editor from Washington State, where rainy days necessitate long books, hot chocolate, and plenty of magic. Though she specializes in speculative fiction and harbors a love for the dark and enchanting, she also dabbles in poetry and is the archive project coordinator for Fireweed: Poetry of Oregon. She is an MFA graduate from the Rainier Writing Workshop, and her short stories have appeared in SORTES magazine, Night Picnic Press, and Leading Edge magazine.
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Rachel Sandell 