Commended: Freya Faulkner, Riddle, Without Asking

Freya Faulner

Commended, 2026 Tower Poetry Competition, 'A Riddle'

Riddle, Without Asking

The house has been practicing levitation again.

Nothing dramatic,
just a slight misplacement of weight.
Chairs hover a thought above the floor.
The teaspoons lie in their drawer
like silver fish playing dead,
waiting for a tide that forgot the address.

I wake already an inch higher than I was.
The bed does not argue.
It has learned not to claim me.

Something enormous moves
through the dark like a careful librarian,
sliding whole constellations
back into the wrong shelves.
The sky is rehearsing its redrawn face.

The windows blink only once.
Now they keep their eyes open.

Calm sits at the table
with its gloves folded neatly beside the plate.
Does not eat. Does not speak.
It watches the air thicken
until breathing feels ceremonial.

The floorboards are holding their breath.
The hallway stretches by a few quiet inches.
My shadow forgets to attach itself
and waits politely by the door.

There is a pulse here
that does not belong to anything living.
It travels through the wallpaper,
through the salt shaker,
through the soft animal of my chest.

Safety rearticulated.

The storm is not outside.
It is studying the architecture of my ribs,
learning which beam to loosen,
which window to unlatch
so the wind can enter
without ever breaking anything.

Intact. But slightly misaligned.

We are floating as
he, she, it, removing their shoes,
step carefully in.

There is an unspoken question here.

If there is an answer,
it is hovering and
patient
and almost gentle.