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. ____
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.