The tablecloth trick Andy Breckenridge

Andy Breckenridge

The Tablecloth Trick

So the tablecloth is yanked from under the set table of you. Your head cartwheels around the room. Once it was a solid rampart on a goat’s brow. Not now.

Glass crunches underfoot. A snapped stem, and a base minus a half moon wait to slit tidying fingers. Water from the slain vase edges over, dribbles on floorboards, finds gaps.

The bouquet has scattered its damp confetti. A spoon rocks to stillness and reflects your inverse portrait. Each audience member waits for an audience member to make

the first move. Every night the clatter reminds you she left. Under the duvet, you vanish.