The Under
I remember crawling under the dining room table
after Sunday lunch. Sitting cross-legged in a forest
of feet. Jagged bones. Painted nails. Subtle scents
vinegar and cheese. The ends of bodies stacked or
rubbing carpet or yanked back when I touched…
I liked the solitary space. The singularity of my small
thoughts wrapping the under like a sock. Not having
to talk with the grown-ups above. Waiting for the
Tim Horton’s donuts to arrive when I’d emerge from
the depths, anxious for a chance at seconds.
VANESSA SHIELDS 