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[sunwrit]

to know something is to kill what it isn’t by e. sunwrit

[Text ID: I don’t miss feeling small, / but I do long for the way everything felt bigger in childhood. / An alleyway, an open field, a parking lot, my own bedroom: / all of it endless, all of it doorways to uncharted land. / Every rain puddle was a small ocean. / How could dandelions grow from cement? I didn’t know. / I didn’t know anything. It was freeing. It was mystical. / Inside my closet was the trap door to the attic; I never knew / what was on the other side of the ceiling above my bed, / and because of that absence of knowledge, everything lived there. Everything. / If grass could grow from the sidewalk, who was to say there wasn’t / a luxuriant forest in the space right above my bed, sprouting from the floorboards? / Magic dwelt in the unknown. Possibility was abundant as air. / Now a puddle is just a puddle.]

[sunwrit]

WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW by e. sunwrit

[Text ID: WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW / So I wrote about the sea. / The sun, too, the shade of cork trees over / yellow fields, the plush greenness of moss, / and loneliness, often. / Leaves, rivers, black tea, harvest, the hole in my chest, / even ghosts, even love, though I know of those only in theory, / and not a word of you. Being my father’s child / is only a title on a page. / The rest is blank.]

[sunwrit]

AFTER THE STORM by e. sunwrit

[Text ID: I picture my body washing up on the shore / like a large tangle of kelp, or a dead blue jellyfish, / just unusual enough to make a fisherman pause in his stride. / If I’m lucky, maybe even striking enough to make him think something like: / Look what the sea brought in. / I picture the seabirds and the stray dogs filling their bellies with the / water-clogged flesh of me, made savory from the sea salt. / Then the flies, nature’s very own busboys, clearing out the rest until / there is only the seashells of my bones. / In this dream, I am kissed by waves and bleached by sunlight, I am loved / so thoroughly I unmake into sand, / where I too become another’s deathbed. / It is astonishing how many ways there are to say: / I want to be consumed.]

[sunwrit]

POTAGE AUX POIREAUX BY e. sunwrit

[Text ID: I Make soup on a banal Friday afternoon. / My friend the chopping board, my favourite knife, / Rough, chunky pieces of leek with rings like tree stumps, / Onions, celery, potatoes, pears, / The reliable bay leaf and a twig of thyme, no, three— / The quiet of my kitchen is not unlike the quiet of church. / I make too much for my pot, too much for one, my generosity overspilling, / And no one to sit at my table. / It should be crowded, I think, though I do not like crowds, but / This sort of thing is made to be shared. / So I pour ladles of love into Tupperwares to be sealed and frozen, / And I eat alone. / I always make too much.]