Mindful | Pink Paper by Kim Suttell
Amy Wang | watcher
In Beijing, the heat is self-consumptive,
swallowing the air in a tender loop of gray
smog. Last May, we learned that to be
complete is to be dreamed of
in your entirety. Now, I ask you if you ever see
me in your mind’s eye at night, and there are so many
small silences sticking to the back of your throat.
As the birds flock, the two of us settle back
into stillness. We watch couples kiss beneath the awnings
of old temples, their mouths opening
to receive the taste of river scum, green
bridges criss-crossing the lotus ponds
they once ran through as children. We admire
the blanched orchids, the way they tremble
beneath the footsteps of foreigners,
and perhaps it is too early to consider
what love might be, or perhaps it is too late.
In Beijing, it is summer and the tourists
arrive before the locals do. Their eyes slip
over the old shadows, searching for new
faces, and the two of us watch them do it.
We are always watching other people do things,
always forgetting that we can carry movement
within ourselves. In the shade, we lean on each other, wonder
if the pages are turning too quickly to be
read. Knowing that we are too heat-sick
to try, anyway. Knowing that behind us,
our shadow stretches. Soft enough to flee us
should we ever be brave enough to ask it to stay.
swallowing the air in a tender loop of gray
smog. Last May, we learned that to be
complete is to be dreamed of
in your entirety. Now, I ask you if you ever see
me in your mind’s eye at night, and there are so many
small silences sticking to the back of your throat.
As the birds flock, the two of us settle back
into stillness. We watch couples kiss beneath the awnings
of old temples, their mouths opening
to receive the taste of river scum, green
bridges criss-crossing the lotus ponds
they once ran through as children. We admire
the blanched orchids, the way they tremble
beneath the footsteps of foreigners,
and perhaps it is too early to consider
what love might be, or perhaps it is too late.
In Beijing, it is summer and the tourists
arrive before the locals do. Their eyes slip
over the old shadows, searching for new
faces, and the two of us watch them do it.
We are always watching other people do things,
always forgetting that we can carry movement
within ourselves. In the shade, we lean on each other, wonder
if the pages are turning too quickly to be
read. Knowing that we are too heat-sick
to try, anyway. Knowing that behind us,
our shadow stretches. Soft enough to flee us
should we ever be brave enough to ask it to stay.
Amy Wang is a writer from California. She is a 2020 prose alumnus of The Adroit Journal's summer mentorship under Andrew Gretes. When not crying over fanfiction, you can find her translating Chinese literature, coding, and taking long walks.
Kim Suttell is a collagist just emerging from a career in bureaucracy and spreadsheets. Paper, as her medium, speaks in torn edges, subtle curls, and tiny glimpses of previous use. The grid template references both quilts and ledgers, places where individual pieces must interact to create a new whole. It is the point to limit the format so that color, texture, and fragmentary images make their own movement and meaning.
Instagram: Page48paperart
Instagram: Page48paperart
