A Fly Like a Lily & Soarrow

 A Fly Like a Lily

 

Like, how they’re the same thing if you look slowly

Like, look at the way they move

Like, I’m looking at the way they move

 

But-

It doesn’t matter because it’s like one of those days where

The god you said you don’t believe in is crying

Like, ashes falling.

They burn, you think

They’re not supposed to burn, you think

 

How the water descends like a symphony

How the notes are higher and stronger and create these shapes that

Vibrate against your body

 

And the water falls and looks so beautiful as it envelops a fly

Until it stops

Squirming

And lies defeated on the

Wet rock

It was born on

 

Asthe droplets compose themselves against the wind and move up and against the sky

The insect that was once so many things

Is not anymore.

 

 

In the distance I see moist soil

And when I see moist soil I see my potential

And how the rain, it’s my life, and how with all its movements it creates something that is gone by sunlight

And

Can’t I just collect some of the rain as it dances, so, maybe

I could show it to you sometime?

 

And

I hope the lilies won’t grow too fast so that they outshine me

Their

Soft petals are softer than I am and

Their

Color is more vibrant than I could ever even try to be

 

And

The water is beauty and it never stops running and I think that maybe if

I could finish first

I could be as lovely as something that is

Translucent.

 

——————————————————————————-

 

The sun is gasping its colors

As it crouches up and around the horizon

 

Your movement is Beethoven’s symphony.

 

Moving so graciously throughout the air-

Moving the air

Moving it so there is room for what you hold within you

And may come out anytime,

Please, come out anytime.

 

Make it come out like lava and burn me in it and make me so burned and unattractive that my modesty makes me beautiful.

 

Send me letters- send me letters with the words carved in rose petals

And

I’ll kiss the tips of your toes

And put the grime I find under your foot in my

Pocket so,

For ever and ever and ever I’ll have what once made you less radiant

 So, maybe the thing inside it will leave with it.

 

I want each and every memory to be folded up like a letter

And let me put all the letters in a folder that will sit on the mantle in my

Future living room

 

Thick black weeds combed back, revealing hair plugs, is you in thirty years

But it’s okay because by then I, too, will have broken bones and saggy skin and together

We can bask in the inevitable conquering of time and how it

Will grip you like the moon does when you see it bright and lit and so proud

In the night sky

Shining, like its spite makes it more human

Like, something can be more human,

Like, maybe we’re not human,

 

I love you so simply.

                                                                        Sparrow

 

A car that’s getting rained on so hard it looks like its crying

It isn’t new enough to drive on auto-pilot

You need to press the pedal down, the old fashioned way

Me, the car that you argue isn’t really a car because it has no engine

Gin. It has a lot of gin stored in the back-seat, I say

 

But you, you, the lump in my throat that doesn’t leave

Even when I swallow

Swallow

You were once a swallow and I was once your nest and you built me out of

Scraps that you found along an alley- nestled yourself into them

Them- you nestled yourself into the orange peel, not realizing it was an orange peel

 

I remember when I told you, “the sun is drowning- don’t you see?”

And I remember you saying (speaking to the candy-wrappers that are my eyes), “why don’t you go save it?”

Save- save- savings

You said you wanted to combine both of your nests- the one in New York City and the One in LA

Merge your savings

You are nothing without saving

I am so much without saving

 

Your hair- it’s not blonde anymore

And me- I’ve never known a sparrow for this long

And you- you’ve known nests for so much longer but I don’t care because the scraps you made me out of are no longer scraps, now they’re art, and I’m hanging from a string in the MoMa Museum

In the entrance hall, right in front of the

Picasso prints. 

Tatiana Dubin
Age 16, Grade 10,
Hewitt School
Silver Key

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