The Thirteenth Floor
- Mar 12, 2021
- 1 min read
by Shannon Austin
Where we gather our superstitions & play with them freely, building a ladder to walk under.
Where we step on every spine in the sidewalk, cut a splinter at the place it becomes a birthmark.
Where an umbrella is always open in the wake of a dry wedding. Where we gift yellow roses & toast
with water, our bodies. Wear red to call lightning. Where a mirror spies another looking into itself.
Where we break both. Where we hoard a thousand copper memorials, ignoring the face they house.
Where we walk backwards & investigate the steps we’ve just traveled. Where we whistle
when no one’s watching, an invitation to the owls. Where we say nothing at the start of each new year.
Where we leave ourselves open & offer everything we’ve never been given.
Shannon Austin is a writer from Baltimore, MD, with an MFA in poetry from UNLV. Her work has appeared in Drunk Monkeys, Rust + Moth, After the Pause, Nimrod Journal, and elsewhere.
