on paper, this reads like a haunting

Sydney Vance

you wake at four AM
throat tight like
losing consciousness or
armor—both
of the lights in the
hallway turned off because no one—noth-
ing—really
turns them on these
nights—anyway, you’re
looking for the kitchen
sink. in the dark-
ness, you do not ask for
a disruption, though
it would be a brave thing for you to do. in the dark-
ness, moon is the opposite of face is the opposite of moon
is shag carpet is let’s shag, baby—
remember?—is dirt in baby succulent’s pot is dirty dishes: but where is the sink?
quiet sounds like stale
bath—the echo—
smells like roach’s

underside—you try
to maintain it, but your
family likes to remind
you you have a knack for
slamming doors.
baby succulent wants
a disruption, but
you are too small
for that—too thirsty—
think of your
unmade bed, the mood
it sometimes imitates—what will you say to her in the
morning? what will the
faucet think of her
thirst?
this is not doubt, not
anger—no—this is
something more insidious. maybe when you wake
into the light, your throat will not be quite as dry
as it is
on this night—and the thing
is, girl,
we know you are wise
beyond your loss.

Sydney Vance resides just outside of Oklahoma City and serves as an editor for the literary journal petrichor. In the fall of 2019, she began to pursue a Creative Writing M.A. at The University of Central Oklahoma, where she also completed her undergraduate degree. Her work has previously appeared in Puerto Del Sol, Redivider, and Rogue Agent, among others.