nightstand as self-portrait

in the lower left corner:

the neighbors’ intro to beekeeping guide

(practically unopened, teeming with magenta sticky notes in someone else’s handwriting)

rests on top of two separate children’s bibles

(one illustrating lazarus’ return, one with pages translucent and unseen as holy ghosts)

rests on top of an asl book from the nineties

(whose introduction boasts of the latest, most innovative vocabulary, like “skateboard” and “fax machine”)

directly behind the perched books:

a baby blue lamp

(its shade precariously perched on top, its dial all too difficult to twist off in the night)

resides beside a box of tissues

(often forgotten, often empty, always out of reach when sick in bed)

to the right of the lamp:

a pull-string bag

         (faux red velvet peeking through a layer of dust)

contains the rosary received after confirmation mass

(with pearls as real as the velvet, chains that threaten to snag clothing and fingernails, just the right length for a necklace when mothers aren’t looking and goth club waltzes wail)

to the side of the rosary:

a slick black glasses case

(received three months ago, already slightly broken)

holds golden, circular frames

(not broken, but cursed with perpetually smudged lenses)

sits next to the most beloved book in the room

(water damaged in the corner, spine peeling away from the pages, the results of being carried on a rainy day)

rests beside a yellow sheet of printer paper

(received in high school, titled “mental health resources,” containing the numbers of several crisis hotlines— you know, just in case the bibles and the rosary don’t work out)