not inches,
feet.
Hinged top chest-high,
whirling with knots,
a glow imbues soft amber wood.
I’ve never used a drill before;
some screws go in angled, some not at all.
But I laugh.
Air suffused with “screw” jokes,
we can fit six of our number into the box -
strange, because we’d otherwise find ourselves trying to get out.
feet.
Hinged top chest-high,
whirling with knots,
a glow imbues soft amber wood.
I’ve never used a drill before;
some screws go in angled, some not at all.
But I laugh.
Air suffused with “screw” jokes,
we can fit six of our number into the box -
strange, because we’d otherwise find ourselves trying to get out.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.
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