Poetry by Stella Xia
Art by Paula Mohar
truthfully i am barely out the cradle myself
i have no authority to speak on such things
cleaving of spirit from flesh
reclaiming of fire from man
singularity to which everything eventually returns, damned by the sagging gravity of time
instead i will tell you about the cat in my kitchen
he who knows only sweet wine of tongue clicks and dull rattle of Temptations beef snacks
stalking across the table to disdainfully sniff my breakfast
or the girl at the piano who has never loved anyone like she loves that cat
not even the boy who kissed her twenty minutes into Forrest Gump,
whose laptop-staticky laughter bubbles through the walls
or my boy
my insistent second pulse
there really is no one else
in the Church’s Chicken on Main two kids debone wings over fantasies of forever
truthfully we are here only as long as the words take to string themselves together
but there is magic if we will it
call it art call it God call it Eren and Jena and you and me
hold rage close and watch it bloom
defiantly, quietly against the scythe –
beautiful burden of body, we say
if you must take us take us slowly
let us stare down the yawning maw and pretend we have one
more radiant minute
and another one after that