Translucent sinews strung up in the dark corners
of a child-mind’s tomb. Grain-filtered light festoons
negative space and casts dancing, never-written shadows on the
When I touch a string hung above my head
The feather-soft threads pull apart and wind
loosely around my fingers in silver uncertain rivulets.
The limp strands hold faint glimmers of what once was.
They let out hoarse whispers of what-ifs and how-cans
but I can’t hear them.
my fingers down, and the sinewy strings
rag-doll and loosen and
With them, black what-nows tumble down
and tiny writing-spiders hit the ground.
Megan Snedeker is a Midwestern pre-service educator and writer. She is in her final year of an English Education degree and has spent a couple of years as a freelance writer.