You could bind the canon in skin, or parchment.
But the truth was on pottery shards. The inconsequential.
We are most honest when unprepared. Struck truthful
in a moment of terror, without pen or paper. Write faster.
Terror is always forthcoming. Like pressure on a specific point,
which trickles outwards to reveal our honest faults. Splinter here.
My people invent kintsugi. Less a technique and more a faith.
Faith: that form erupts magnificent from the broken thing. Scar paint.
We are helpless in the face of confession. In her upturned chin,
begging, "Admit. Admit you need me. Admit you need love." I split.
In the way the broken vessel is helpless to pour. No matter
how much it tries to hold itself to a standard of function. Spill out.
Gather up your dreams. Gather up the things you have named "dreams,"
which are just the chipped plates of your dropped stars. Don't cry.
Did you know tears are sieved blood? Spit, too. We are just
one leaky vessel trying to keep everything in. Keep trying.
ABOUT THE POET
Nora Hikari is an Asian American transgender poet and artist based in
Philadelphia. She is a 2022 Lambda Literary fellow, and her work is published
or forthcoming in Ploughshares, Washington Square Review, Palette Poetry,
Foglifter, The Journal, and others. Her chapbook, GIRL 2.0, was a Robin Becker
Series winner and is available at Seven Kitchens Press. She was a finalist for the
Red Hen Press Benjamin Saltman Award, and can be found at NorahiKari.com.
ABOUT SUGAR HOUSE REVIEW
No comments:
Post a Comment