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LOVE AND OTHER SMALL MIRACLES |
Elaine Liu
One afternoon when the sky is so yellow I could stick
my finger in and churn it like butter, she dreams
of burning the fence down. We wander the courtyard
and name each tree, Alfred is the lanky one, his fruitful,
stumpier buddy is John. By our fourth circuit
she is restless for escape. So I tell her about my hometown,
braised eels the length of my forearm, dragon fruits
voluptuous like lanterns and melons so ripe
they collapse willingly into grinning rinds.
She runs a tongue over her dentures
and we plan routes: out the fence, through the lilacs,
past that prickly security guard, then skyward—
a heroic duo with the largest age gap in history.
Hours bleed into us like ink in water,
her longing seeping into my own mouth
until we’re both half-convinced we’re invincible.
Even when our wings fail.
Yes, even then.
I will keep inventing windows
for her to climb through, safe exits
carved from story, soft thresholds
nobody can lock, a sky wide
enough for both of us to believe.
Elaine Liu is a homo sapien who draws inspiration from her experiences living on both sides of the Pacific, often drawing on her experiences as an EMT, hospice worker, ER scribe and aspiring physician. Her poetry has appeared in EPOCH, Tendon, Stone Poetry Quarterly, Bellingham Review and Folio. She is forever grieving the souls lost in Unit 731