The evening slushes around in wine glasses,
a joyous company to sparkling pink wine.
Reminder. Feet are to be tethered to the ground
at all times. Lest you find yourself lifting to the
dusty beige ceiling. People are flesh made
balloons tonight. I have been tying loose strings,
around my fingers for hours now; the knots come
undone at every jolty, snarky, nostril flare from
one of the aunts. The next morning, I am eating
leftover cheese. I am rubbing out the smell of
celery salad from the dining table cloth. I am
remaking the yellow china plates, to look dull again.
Shringarika Pandey (she/her) is a 20-year-old poet with an upstanding admiration for all houseplants, cats and the occasional evening rainfalls. On good days you can find her listening to Phoebe Bridgers and writing at instagram.com/boot.theory