Vanishing Act

by Elizabeth Harrington

Overhead, the sound of kitchen chairs
..........scrape against a wooden floor.
It's heaven: they're making room for the newly dead.

No, it's thunder and I'm safe; awake
..........in my bedroom beneath
a gray and patient sky. Last week I climbed sideways

down icy steps as if I were not the 18-year-old
.........who struts in my head
with tight skin and the hum of a heart sturdy as a factory.

Was it really me who clicked into the Fondalite Club
.........in spiked heels and a French twist
older than my 16 years, dancing under mock stars and a sparkling

silver ball, and craving age? Where is the girl I was?
.........The one who sat at the kitchen table
in sticky July and loved the dark chocolate cake, the tiny sprigs

of flame wavering before a cupped palm. The held breath
.........readying itself
to extinguish the fires, until not a single light was left.