Samuel Akiva Pui-Ying Huang Skeist
Blind tortoise in a rabbit race flipped up side down and baking in the sun. Romantic gesture or morbid amusement to bet all my jade pebbles he’ll finish first? Spend the day on a scavenger hunt for skeleton keys or scribe chalk eulogies in the rain for melted snow angels who knew only one breath of sunshine…it’s all the same. I am child enraptured with fantasy of memorable echoes…spare me this moment, for soon it will be bedtime. My cave is wintry without her warmth and I don’t even know what she looks like. I hum lullabies to my unborn aborted older brother, who would have been a stronger version of me, and hope he’s not disappointed with what I’ve drawn on our canvas. It’s all recycled refuse but it takes away the numb. They made this skin so tight and I’m still adjusting to the seams. Stitch, pull, cut, stitch, just follow the instructions…but there’s noooo…Curse these feeble fingers! And mom and dad couldn’t even sow themselves back together… but some things don’t belong like these scars on my tongue… but most people don’t like stories if there isn’t any hero. So here I am again; writing to the rhythm of a rusty pendulum with nothing else to do but stare at my anchor. All I enjoy are crests and undertows anyways, so I may as well break the chain, throw it to the side and let it settle down. Settle down. Drift away like all these bottled up messages in whiskey bottles, floating towards strangers who may not even know my language. Perhaps they’ll read between the lines and feel where I’m coming from. I dream of daytimes spent drinking wine and breaking bread over verse. When the sunsets we’ll do the fire dance, the children can laugh and twirl and the old men will write riddles about that famous tortoise race.