in the corner of my eye. First the cabinets
are unlatching like petunias, sending
silverware, your underwear, the Midwest t-shirt we
embroidered I Wanna Be A Cowboy, Baby all aspiring
to the whitespace beyond the door frame.
The oven, galloping off the wall, barely misses the dog
and three cats on its way out. But don’t worry:
by the next blink Fido is gone, too.
Fumbling sexts lift off like hummingbirds
from my phone. Baby names like Emmeline
and Percy burn. Your car backed out the driveway—
impressive, since you refused to spring
for the self-driving package. At last, empty,
the cabin compresses like Tinker Toys in a child’s fist,
joints unbuckling like cartilage, logs folding
like wings into my ribs, until all that’s left
is this quiet feeling in my bones.
Byron Xu is a Chinese-American writer from Austin. A Best of the Net nominee, his works are placed in The Florida Review, Gordon Square Review, Ghost City Review, The Hunger, and elsewhere. He is Managing Editor of Apricity at the University of Texas.