by Beth Hahn

Waiting for the kettle to boil, she can no longer find her reflection in the microwave above the stove. She mourns her hands, last seen walking like dinosaurs across the patterned carpet. She rolls around on a wrinkled sheet, searching. How to survive when she can’t smell the forest, her nose left floating in the uncorked bath. The doctor suggests a breathing technique that requires concentration, but the skill is folded in a drawer that no longer opens. Release the jaw, he instructs, while her tongue, alone in the kitchen, skims an empty sugar bowl.

Beth Hahn is the author of the novels The Singing Bone (Regan Arts, 2016) and The City Beneath Her (Regal House, 2025). Her poetry has been published by The Night Heron Barks, DMQ Review, Ran Off with the Star Bassoon, and Small Orange Journal. Her short fiction appears in The Common, RUBY Lit, Milk Candy Review, HAD, CRAFT, and elsewhere. She is the co-editor and illustrator of -ette review. Find her at bybethhahn.com.