"Atelier" by RowanArtC
My Nine-Year Cake is Pink by Cassandra Watterson
Once,
fires consumed
the entire county. All that brown California ground
turned over with a plow
of fire. I’d drink vodka
after work. No dinner. Only drinks
going up like an airship.
And outside? Fire clapping hands,
and pushing closer and closer. A lover
turned up. More than one, blurry weeks
after weeks of them. While fires
planted black seeds, I celebrated
by being we with whomever
would bring me booze.
On my last day in the house,
a moment became a window
and through it, I saw smoke curling,
how a vine might curl before it chokes
a tree’s foliage in bright green fists.
In the end, I fled like anyone else.
Later, dark fruit sprouted. I ate it.
Of course! Ate as much of it as I could.
My appetite, a stone,
cold and heavy and liable to break
my jaw if I let it.
I wanted to turn inside out
and step through myself
into another field. I wanted
to be a Tulip, or the long stem
of a field flower, something
to drink up the light.
But instead, I became
glass through which I see
those who have also tasted ash,
who understand waking up
to fires, fires all around.
fires consumed
the entire county. All that brown California ground
turned over with a plow
of fire. I’d drink vodka
after work. No dinner. Only drinks
going up like an airship.
And outside? Fire clapping hands,
and pushing closer and closer. A lover
turned up. More than one, blurry weeks
after weeks of them. While fires
planted black seeds, I celebrated
by being we with whomever
would bring me booze.
On my last day in the house,
a moment became a window
and through it, I saw smoke curling,
how a vine might curl before it chokes
a tree’s foliage in bright green fists.
In the end, I fled like anyone else.
Later, dark fruit sprouted. I ate it.
Of course! Ate as much of it as I could.
My appetite, a stone,
cold and heavy and liable to break
my jaw if I let it.
I wanted to turn inside out
and step through myself
into another field. I wanted
to be a Tulip, or the long stem
of a field flower, something
to drink up the light.
But instead, I became
glass through which I see
those who have also tasted ash,
who understand waking up
to fires, fires all around.
Cassandra Watterson writes from the rural south where they are a caretaker and educator. Their work appears in The Tishman Review and other journals.
RowanArtC feels that the work should speak for itself and invites the viewers to go wild with their imagination. The world within us (random thoughts and emotions) is a rich spring of inspiration for her work.
