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After the Static
She smelled like ozone
and old commercials—
the kind with jingles
you didn’t know you remembered
until your mouth sang along.
Plop, plop, fizz, fizz,
oh what a weird thing she is.
She stepped from the screen
once the static gave out,
a figure shaped
from tone bars and
missing episodes
and sort of resembled
Barbara Stanwyck.
Maybe she used to be
a transmission and
maybe she still is.
When she moved,
I heard weather reports
from cities I’ve never seen—
her breath a forecast
for forgotten places.
Whatever she was,
she sat on the floor
in front of the TV
watching a test pattern
while eating invisible cereal
from a real bowl
and giggling.
Was she supposed to be a Muse
daring me to write
a silly poem
about test patterns?
She rolls her eyes
in black-and-white bars
and shakes her spoon at me.
She flickers and fades
around the edges first—
like the corners of a dream
already forgetting itself.
The bowl remains.
The test pattern hums.
Somewhere, a jingle
begins to unravel
and I pick up my paper and pen.
Copyright ©
Roxanne Andorfer
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