Corey Zeller

 Corey Zeller

I Spelled Whether Wrong

Your spouse coughs like someone crumpling aluminum cans in their hand while your kid watches bad sci-fi and circles words on a homework handout. A woman crawls on the ceiling on TV. She scares you because she reminds you of yourself. Clawing the rafters. Head twisting, with a bone snapping sound in her neck. You want to bring her back down like a party balloon. But all you can do is stir chicken stock in a pot. Everyone thinks it’s raining but the sky is as blue as a vein. It’s just you, perched in a corner of the ceiling, scratching away the paint. Don’t look up, you say. Everyone looks up.