little shreds of hope

Eden Liu

// yes, I am a starving artist, but I am left bloated.

It was like the crest of the Fourth Degree had finally fell out, and a starving artist studied the patterns of the holy ground, painted their faces a bright bold shade of blue, held balloons, big old shoes too. The clown role was surprising; it’s all surprising.

I set out to sea, object of the beasts’ desire, short breed matched as starving artist. I search for a painter’s brush; the wind catches under the smoke billowing from a bloke, tunes of howling as I pluck the bow of the other artist who is quite fed, such an unsullied harpist. The back of the neck crawls under while the brain is left floating. Yes, I am a starving artist, but I am left bloated.

// this is what I was trying to explain.

Driving this thin layer of forgotten nothing, placed softly out of the world. I haven’t a clue how it got there. My brain is sore, trying to explain this.

How this gentle fabrication pulls my poetic hands into the air; This summit of narrow minds coming together with the grasp of a mighty fist.

Candles lit by the hair of their matches, the night, easily breathing down our necks, compels these dreams, as if I slept in the way you slurred my name.

This twig of Indifference is ruthless; it’s all ruthless. Twiddling my thumbs on the bottom of my pink lips, every beat of nature’s forest Conducting me, all of this trying to explain how poets write.

// it’s all ironic.

Bedsores coat my body; I’ve lain in this casket for so long, but it’s Monday, and the garbage truck will soon collect me. Just enough time to put on my knee socks and relax, until, hunched over, I feel the dirt rumble over me. Time passes. January, February, skip a few. August, year-round, I tear up only to return to that spot like a holiday. Deep in the ground, I feel like potting soil. Grow a tree over me and breathe the fresh air of life. How ironic. It’s all ironic.

// redressing: it’s all intent.

Woven halos appeal to me. I grew up on the truth and struck it with an invitation. If only I’d seen, long ago, how you stripped me of all my leaves.

But trust grows. Rust upon metal. Dirt beneath nails. Magic among children.

Everything floods back; I fall into a blank stare, as the rain starts, and I continue to dig into myself, searching for ancestry, with intent; it’s all intent.