by Molly Andrea-Ryan

                You leave the same impression 
                Of something beautiful, but annihilating. 
                -Sylvia Plath, “The Rival”

Some days, it’s just me and the cat alone 
in this yawning apartment. Each night, 
we are surprised by the setting sun,
the long shadows climbing the walls 
like wallpaper women. 

The Kit-Cat Klock, a gift from my mother,
hangs too low. Its pendulum tail tempts
while its eyes slide back and forth, 
keeping time in nervous glances.
The cat stretches her elastic body 
and in one swipe, 
stops time. 

The sound of my own feverish keyboard  
in chorus with 100-year-old floorboards 
gasping under paws the size of silver dollars—
how easy it would be to swear off language
and bide my time 
on all fours.

I think of my mother alone in strange house 
after strange yawning house, keeping watch 
over something small and pink, packed with explosives 
and unvoiced need, each bone and cell a piece
of her.


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Molly Andrea-Ryan is a poet and prose writer living in Pittsburgh, PA. Her work often centralizes womanhood and mental health. She received her MA in Literary and Cultural Studies from Carnegie Mellon University and works as a freelance content writer.