The Light That Shines Through

Kelsey Bryan-Zwick

onto the yellow wallpaper of my
dreamed up house, is peeling.
The wooden floorboards look nice
but they squeak at every misstep.
There is a skunk in the garden
that digs up any new flowers I
plant; ranunculus, the narcissus
bulbs, round ovals in my hands
makes a real stink if I try to chase
him away by switching the lights
on and off, banging pans, but
I am the one left alone, scared.
The attic has a noise in it that
rattles a fine coat of plaster dust
I find after the Santa Ana winds
roll through, I keep scrubbing at
the walls, scratching at the dirt
with index finger, splinters
sniff for mold, the yellow flakes
in my hand, rubbing my hands
together, they won’t clean, dots
little yellow confettied pulp
that cakes my skin, sticks to
me, covers me like paper mache
little specks of left over glue
adhering to my nervous and
sweated saltiness, until I am left
perfect: a paper doll; a new piñata
waiting to spill open handfuls
of chewing gum and candies—