POEM NO. 2

ANA WANG Verified independent store

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Stasis was an illusion, a flaccid confrontation luring you towards the ease of stillness. Marketed it as something beautiful and dangerous, something on the precipice of unattainab le, just the way your brain likes it. But something inside you is overripe, a horse with no mind for seams only edges. When they ask you how you want it, this time you know, get it with pulp. Each burst of orange on your tongue, each sunset a stand-in for the rises you miss because you stayed up too late looking for yourself in the dark. It doesn’t matter if it’s going up or down when you look out far enough. The way you asked for friction five birthdays ago, didn’t know what to call it other than a dream. Now because you started, the ball bounces, the poached egg breaks and bleeds, delicate matters make grief and you march forward with stains on your tshirt and juice on your fingers. Echoes of a frantic simulation in the other room, soldiers chanting “go go go”. But this is not a test. This time you see, you want them to see. Traffic cones laid out, the smell of gas lingering in the parking spot. To the hardware store, back in five with paints and a mask because nothing fits into your goal-tracking apps and productivity hacks anymore. There is no time, only change; the extinction of coins. No elevator to take you to a promised land. Only a step, and then another, and then there was light and dark and wonder and life. Show more