by Samantha Steiner

My closet has no clothes.

One side: a jewelry chest, a tub of half-used nail polish, a carved Santa presiding over a tree stump.

The other side: a feather quill, a jar of stiff paint brushes, a sewing machine.

The ceiling: a scattering of pale plastic stars.

I close myself inside, and the jewelry chest, the nail polish, the Santa, the quill, the paintbrushes, the sewing machine, and my entire body vanish. Here, I am breath with eyes.

The stars give off a cool light. They appear in the mirrors hidden on the walls, the mirror on the back of the closet door. They glow through nebulae of exhale on glass.

I gaze into my reflection. Little green specks dance under my eyelashes. I stand suspended while billions of miles away, red giants burn.

Samantha Steiner is a visual artist and Fulbright Scholar. Follow her on Twitter and Instagram @Steiner_Reads.