Rows of cubicles under fluorescent panels,
long and narrow—less like fixtures
than pale bulbs bleaching the floor
like a tanning bed. I crawl the nylon carpet
to the boardroom, the gray table
anchored in the center like a tomb.
On the wall, the dry-erase board
a battlefield of decimals. My prize
waits in that tray: markers in every
neon hue. I yank the caps, the vinegar-
sting seizing the air. My hands tremble
to clutch a whole rainbow at once.
In the deadpan room, I hear the distant
clatter of dad’s keyboard. I lie flat
on my back, gulping neon
until the room blurs. My brain vibrates
with static, hoisting me out of my skin.
Then, the high fades. My skull suddenly
too small for my brain. I do it again
and again. Before dad’s voice pierces
the quiet, tethering me
back to my name.
