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The power went out at eight

and the silence dropped

like a wet towel.

I haven’t felt this small

since I was twelve,

the first night the house

belonged only to me.

I sat on the kitchen counter,

the tile cold against my thighs.

I ate a slice of American cheese

without taking the plastic off

because the drawer full of knives

looked like a row of teeth.

Outside, the neighbors still had light.

The blue, static glow of their television

reflected in my window pane,

a cold and flickering bruise

on the side of the night.