through the cubes

by Grady VanWright

She hovers behind the bar,

not standing but floating, her feet barely grazing

the sticky floor,

a ghost sewn together with gin and late-night cigarette smoke.

The bottles are alive--

they hum, twitching under dim lights,

necks stretching like cobras to kiss her fingers,

but she never touches them--

they pour themselves.

Her face melts and reforms,

shifts like mercury,

and sometimes there are too many eyes.

Green, black, the color of old bones,

some staring straight through you,

some watching the past swirl down the drain of her laugh.

You see a crack in her skin,

thin as a razor blade's edge,

and inside, she's not flesh but liquid--

a ripple of shadow and glitter,

her veins are filled with stars,

but not the kind you wish on.

She leans forward, and now her hair

has turned into a black river,

flowing, cascading into the glass you didn't order.

Her lips aren't lips--

they're neon signs, flashing something you can't read,

flickering on and off,

but the door never leads the same way twice.

She's a hallway of mirrors,

and every reflection shows a different woman

but you're never sure which one is real--

or if any of them are.

She tilts her head back and her neck stretches,

elongating like taffy,

her laugh spiraling into the ceiling

where the chandelier is made of eyelashes and teeth,

swaying gently in a breeze you can't feel.

You swear her hands are clocks now,

spinning backwards,

ticking away the time she's stolen from the room,

and no one notices except you.

She reaches out,

but her fingers don't stop--

they unravel like threads, winding through your drink,

curling around your throat

before you even realize you've let her in.

Her mouth speaks in languages you've never heard,

but somehow you know every word,

and it sounds like the drip of water

from a faucet in a house long abandoned.

She smiles, and there are too many teeth--

white and sharp like polished stones,

and beneath them, another face,

another woman waiting to be born.

This one is all fire and metal,

her laughter the clang of swords

and the hiss of steam in the dark.

She turns and her dress becomes liquid silver,

sliding off her skin like a second self.

You blink and now she's dressed in shadow,

a shroud of midnight,

with flickers of neon red pulsing underneath,

veins of pure electricity,

crackling with every step she takes.

She opens her mouth and you swear you see

a whole universe in there,

planets and moons spinning in orbit,

but they're moving too fast,

time collapsing in on itself

until all you can hear is the sound

of glasses breaking, over and over and over.

The room bends, sways with her--

the walls breathe in sync,

and now the ceiling is water,

rippling softly,

waiting for her to slip up and fall through.

But she won't--

she's been here before,

too many times,

and the bar, the drinks, the men--they're all just echoes.

She shifts again,

a thousand faces swimming beneath her skin,

one of them yours,

but it's smiling when you're not.

Image of Grady VanWright

BIO: Grady VanWright is a poet, author, and playwright whose work blends introspection, independence, and the surreal edges of the human condition. Based in Houston, Texas, he has been writing and reading poetry for over 25 years, drawing inspiration from a lifetime of experiences and historical fascinations. His work has been published in Washington Square Review (2025), The McNeese Review, Oddball Magazine, and numerous online literary journals. With a distinctive voice that merges stream-of-consciousness with moderate surrealism, Grady continues to craft evocative narratives that challenge perception and invite contemplation.