By Christina Zhang

Noonday Nightmare

Plastic flowers in a glass jar,

never fading.

Their edges glint with a factory’s cold sheen;

stems etched with faint scratches,

like forgotten marks of time.

Sunlight filters through them,

casting rainbow bruises on the floor.

The edges of the bruises tremble faintly,

like a wound refusing to heal.

I trace the patterns on the wallpaper:

vines, repeating their thousandth coil,

suddenly snag,

leaving behind

a jagged tear.

From its depths seeps

a bead of hardened resin.

Inside, suspended,

a butterfly that never was.

The ceiling breathes—

slow and heavy.

The chandelier drifts like a jellyfish.

Dust on the lampshade

congeals into nebulae.

I reach out to touch,

but grasp only

a handful of damp air,

flecked with

tiny, glowing motes,

like fragments of shattered dreams.

The phone rings in the next room—

always the next room,

always separated by

a wall that isn’t there.

The ringing grows fur in the hallway;

fur sways gently,

like dandelion seeds,

yet never finds soil.

On the table sits a blue-and-white porcelain bowl.

A few crystals of rock sugar cling to the bottom;

their edges melting,

like miniature glaciers.

The crane on the folding screen blinks;

ink on its wings bleeding.

Feathers shed one by one,

transforming into

tiny black raindrops.

In the corner of the room,

a broken Greek column entwined with vines.

Vines bloom with

fruitless flowers;

petals inscribed with

faint Latin script.

The Roman clock on the wall—

its hands spinning backward;

the pendulum swings like a scythe,

cleaving through time.

From every fissure

oozes

golden sand.

I lie on the sofa,

waiting for the moment

when all the clocks

will halt,

and the plastic flowers

finally learn

to wilt.

Petals fall one by one,

revealing hollow stems.

From within the stems,

a distant echo—

like the heartbeat

of another world.