The Final Seam

The screen is the only light in the kitchen,

casting a flat, blue wash over the unwashed plates.

The volume is low, but the microphone caught it—

that dry, industrial bite of metal on plastic.

A jagged, silver scar being pulled

across a heavy bag of dark synthetic.

It’s the sound of a room being finished,

a door being locked from the outside.

I sit with my lukewarm tea and listen

to the static that follows.

It’s 2:00 AM, and the teeth of the world

are clicking shut for the night.