I think my neighbor can
hear me, when I knock my head
on the wall.
I can hear her hear me;
she fries two eggs—maybe
she lives in the flakes
between. My mother hears
me too; 291 miles away, she’s
finishing a thousand piece
puzzle (one hundred plastic santas,
all with glaring lips) leaving one
piece out, a creamy
porcelain cheekbone pillowing
his boiled black eye;
she hears me hearing her
hearing me.
Header photograph © Icy Blu Daniel.
Virginia Werba is a MFA candidate at Sarah Lawrence College. Her work has appeared in Hermeneutic Chaos Literary Journal.