On Connecting

Apples to Apples is an alienating party
game, and it was Andy’s turn. He drew
a prompt––What do you find relaxing?

He collected our guesses; we waited,
clinging to a prayer: elect this card.
Call me your own, the chosen one

who scaled the great valley between.
He chose a little green card, the words
washing dishes printed in little black.

Who cast this ballot? Andy floated on
a half-step and sunk in silence. Tight air
running thinner, we watched the deflation:

damp yellow walls, our tender pieced shell,
peeled away and dropped. A frantic whoosh
devoured one tiny, apprehensive giggle.

We were teacups, bouncing bubble to
bubble in an encapsulated sea, waltzing
past sailboats anchored by sudsy dawn.

Each lonely hiccup would vacillate then fall,
spiraling through nomadic fish schools
and nesting beneath some shadowy coral.

Should’ve built a castle with all that foam.
But we didn’t, we slipped through—a flurry
of clanking teacups dogpiling over the drain.

 

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