Jungle Rope, by Renee Bailey

When the chandelier breaks from the ceiling, you don’t think twice about your next step, which is an immediate clutch of the heart or a jolt from the seat, and if the fixture is entirely separated from the drywall and on the floor, a move for the broom to sweep the brass and glass into a dust pan over and over again. The shards, fine as an icy lake, roll over and under the bristle and you pray for not a one to pierce his foot when he will wander through the room shoeless and sockless because he kicked them off by the sofa. It’s a catch here and there, you know, because on one hand, why did the chandelier launch from its hole, and on the other, ever so briefly it was joy the moment you swung from one chair to the next relishing the freedom granted when you were not tethered to the same floor he was.