What

has the television silenced? Mrs. Sinclair’s hair is a dissection of gray. She is tying her apron. The blue shrimp printed all over the pockets are moist. She keeps her dead grandson in there. He is always smiling & the moon cups his left shoulder like a hand. The television lives under a film of grease. In slow motion, the faucet drip stills the atmosphere. Mrs. Sinclair takes out pictures of her grandson again. Here he is now with a fishbowl sans fish. The sky fuzzes into rain & his eyes balance on sunspots. This is what

happens

when Mrs. Sinclair pulls on her plastic gloves. The dishes accumulate a cruelty of their own. Pieces of dried fruit clog the drain. Whiskey, like tears, is preserved inside the body. There’s a wishbone on the floor: proof of existence, hence longing. The television flicks its snow over her grandson. He is a door key sans door. Fact: Falling leaves have a knack for vanishing dead birds from the playground. Mrs. Sinclair watches the feeding from the window. She finds the cracks on his shaved head

next.

Bio: Arlene Ang