An Evening in October by Katherine O'Connor (17, New Jersey)

The dried white roses that planted their seeds in your stomach nally begin to bloom. They rise up and through your liver, leaving you blinded by the orange light, 

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but you continue to slice the pig and cow’s snacks and spread them across a white charcuterie board.
I watch as you move to the songs
of your unborn child in the kitchen,
the refrigerator light illuminating the viridian tile stomped on by your pink feet,
and occasionally mine too.
You take me to your living room with all its copper foil and locks of my hair,
painting a landscape of elm trees in the shadows of your walls.
You begin to prepare for a night of deep sleep, but “The evening tea party has hardly begun!”
the other guests understand as your mother takes you
to the sleeping room, tucks you in, and kisses your marmalade lips goodnight while you drift o to sleep.
I don’t understand.
I would prefer to stay but there is no chair for me to sit upon. The tea cups have all been claimed, leaving only a Red Solo Cup that they oer (if I’d like), but I realize
they must hold o on their game until I excuse myself.
I walk out of the room, taking the copper of the foil with me, turning it to lace that tangles itself and all your dying plants into a spider web of green and white string,
falling to the oor and taking the guests down with them,
1
choking their thin, fragile necks.
They all fall asleep and I wave goodbye, crowning myself as Queen of the Tea Party, jumping on your bed until I fall beneath the blankets, holding you, and
I need to rest my eyes.
Goodnight!