I can only finish a book if I find a symbol.
Not arrows of birds for omen or action, or rain
for dread or catharsis. Give me eggs, poached
or scrambled or theoretical, or the old pearl brooch
in a jewelry box or a casket. Give me a tattered jacket,
so I can pinch my thread through the holes
and patch them up with home or guardedness.
Give me something indecipherable. All I wanted
was a secret to translate into string, a sentence
to spell with mismatched beads. I want an end
to tie to the next, a spine to untangle, a line
to curl into a circle. Map of the mountains. Culprit
of the crime. No one will tell me the date when I ask.
Cupped palms, loose syllables, and then scattering
wings. Last year, I stayed up all night waiting
for stones that never showered down. Now I pretend
to understand string theory. Shadowed homelands
and destinations. How much I cannot and will never see.
Still I sit on the terrace and wait for the sun to sputter
green. Speak in calculus and revive dead words. Fan out
tarot decks and braid my fate into friendship
bracelets. I am nothing if not patient. I am waiting
to become anything but nothing. In the meteoric
dim, words blur in my lap: once upon a time / moons
upon a tide. Attics blanch into the Arctic; rainfall rises
to starfall. The city smokes them hollow, but a hand thrums
warm in mine. Tonight I entangle our fingers and shut
the screen door on the answer. Encrypt it all again. I know
I have already heard it.
Eva Skelding is a young writer from the Boston area. An avid poet, she loves exploring quiet and beautiful emotions through imagery and symbolism. She has previously been recognized by the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers and has attended several creative writing programs, including the Iowa and Kenyon workshops for young writers. When she’s not writing or reading, you can find her practicing calligraphy or curating Spotify playlists.