by Safia Elhillo
Startling pink of the jacarandas in bloom against the white sky, dense green of the hills scattered with houses. This particular affectation of southern California, the outdoor waiting area, the land touched as it is so sparsely by cold or moisture. Red vinyl chair, neither comfortable nor uncomfortable, & beneath it, on the ground, its silver barely noticeable at first against the concrete, a single earring, landed as if fallen from someone seated exactly as I am now. For a moment I feel outside myself, every moment of this moment unlike my other life, bohemia of the apartment on its boulevard, associations tightly knotted in my mind: artist as the child. Cross-legged on the dark wood floors & being read to, a novel in progress, new poem, silvery bits of unfinished song. Children when we first came to love what we could make, children when we first gathered. Odd & giddy children, lonely & clasping endlessly at each other’s hands. In some ways children still & always. Departing like tourists from our cobbled lives, the paintings hung slightly askew, to visit our alternate adulthoods, cool white of doctor’s offices, appointments, dark blood rising in the vial. Fallen earring silver & beckoning on the ground below, my instinct to touch it. To lift it to my face, waiting meat of my own ear.
Poem copyright 2024 by Safia Elhillo. All rights reserved.
See two more poems from Safia Elhillo debuted on The Fight & The Fiddle: “Psychogeography,” and “Portrait of Christopher.”
Read more in this issue: Interview | Critical Essay | Writing Prompt