Fraud. You pull up a chair, hang your
heavy brown shoes over the edge.
There's a rattle inside your head, a
clanging & clunking thump-rustle that
drowns out what I've said.
Bits of ceiling hang from my lashes,
tiny styrofoam teeth knocked loose by my
upstairs neighbor's boots. You never ask about my
evening. You say "let me tell you what I did tonight."
I spend my nights in the closet,
biting my lip, rearranging. For you. I
move this part of me left and that part right. For you. I
bang and drum those dangling parts of me back in,
those parts that curl my lips down when no one is around.
--Sandra Ketcham currently lives in Orlando, where she works as a full-time freelance writer and editor. She is pursuing her degree in psychology and spends her free time working with autistic children and their families. Her poetry is recently published or forthcoming in Yes, Poetry, Psychic Meatloaf, Cherry Blossom Review, and others. Sandra has a strong aversion to llamas.