$80,000
Plates rimmed
with gold, wide
moons for our
food. Too-white
napkins, folded
in fleurs-de-lis. A lush
centerpiece of flowers,
an effusive fountain.
The champagne gown
with winding floral
lace, too modest.
Bridesmaids like inverted
teacups, shimmering,
heels with touches
of glitter. All this,
for a single day, and me
sitting at my table,
afraid to touch
the silverware.
——————————————————
The Panic Room
There was a piano.
I remember that.
With figurines, bags
of holiday decorations,
a sewing machine,
tattered clothes, and lots
and lots of dust.
I never questioned
the name of the room.
It was the size of
a nursery. It had blank
beige walls that spoke
of nothing, only echoing
the cluttered calamity
of the space.
Didn’t everyone’s
grandmother have
a room like this?
When I was a child,
I thought so. Everyone
must have.
She wouldn’t say
much about the room
when she was alive, only
laugh at it. I don’t know
if she feared it, or ignored
it, or just thought it was
funny, like an inside joke.
I’ve dreamt it empty before.
And in those dreams, I wander
into the bareness of the place,
resurrect everything, then leave.
Louisa Schnaithmann is a poet living in Philadelphia. Her work has appeared in E-Verse Radio, Rogue Agent, and Voicemail Poems, among others, and is forthcoming in Gargoyle. She is the Consulting Editor for ONE ART: a journal of poetry.