By Hannah Sullivan

The whiteness of the page is an invitation–Like how certain rooms,
in certain houses,
make me want to smash things.

A Brancusi egg,
into a baby grand.

Like how bridges and cliffs
aren’t scary because I might fall,
but because I might jump.

The relief would be staggering.

I remember playing a game on the edge of the ocean
slowly wading into the icy water until
I felt the undertow grow stronger than me
and terrified, running back to my mama.

Who on a hike,
saw a mushroom,
and told my brother to stop it.

I was horrified.

But I understood.