Hesitation
The water has gone still enough,
its glass could hold the view of the window.
A thin skin of dust floats across its surface,
visible only when the sun leans through the blinds.
The room has become too small for a throat.
The tongue keeps on returning,
to the same dry place behind the teeth.
Each swallow travels slowly,
like trying to move against the wind,
like trying to force stone through paper.
Another swallow.
Another.
Nothing goes down.
The curtain shifts once, then hangs—
reconsidering its next move.
Leaves turn their pale undersides towards the sun.
The ceiling fan circles without lowering the heat.
A thumb worries across the table,
the frayed edge of a paper napkin
dirty white fibers bloom beneath the nail.
The silence stretches thin—
pulled tight enough
that silence hitches its breath.
Outside, a truck shifts gears,
birds startle from the telephone wire.
The window trembles—then settles.
Scrambled letters lean against the dam
floodwater learns its shape,
of its first crack.
Sally Lee is a student at an international school in Seoul, South Korea. Immersed in a multicultural environment, she draws inspiration from the diverse cultures and experiences around her. She is currently developing her writing portfolio.