Heartache by Kim Suttell
Cindy Tran | Fluid Dynamics
I. Blood Circulation
Let’s begin with ordinary failures.
Once, I heard my father call me stupid.
The first time became many times. I believed
him, until the estrangement dismissed the stupid.
He blamed the stucco walls for his cold feet,
so each morning, he threw shovel to the grass
till all of it was gone.
Did I dream
him shearing through the kitchen like a dry wind,
taking down the gods of mercy and protection
that were carved on four lacquer wood panels?
The calendar, also gone. The old school portraits
II. Weather Patterns
of my siblings and me vanished somewhere.
The titan sun beat down the dust the day
American soldiers arrived
to set my father’s neighborhood in flames.
He walked miles until he found a temple.
The day folded his body on the ground.
In the backyard, he checks the rusted sky,
leaning against the Santa Ana wind,
fingers folded around a cigarette.
His memory opens the broken door
of my childhood bedroom
III. Ocean Currents
to see if the embers have brought me back.
Last night, I dreamed I was a moon
jellyfish, a silent bell with no brain,
no heart, no bones, no eyes.
My entire body, a mouth,
catching fish eggs and troupes of shrimp.
Every night, the moon
tucks in the ocean, and the currents carry
me through the years. I fly through the silence,
all my roots following me-
I make my own light
IV. Plate Tectonics
as I go.
When I woke up the ground moved back and forth
like this poem, asking
Is this forgiveness?
A rock shakes like a river
V. Evolution of Stars
to remember it was once fire or dust.
I used to ask the first night star I saw
for a wish. Ten years passed,
and I learned some stars collapse
against the universe
like my mother after she is done
making dinner. Ten years here,
ten years there,
and I see her rise from the sofa
like a plume of dusty horseshoes
riding above my father’s cigarette.
These years carried
my wishes,
fatherless,
scattered in the dark
of my mouth.
Let’s begin with ordinary failures.
Once, I heard my father call me stupid.
The first time became many times. I believed
him, until the estrangement dismissed the stupid.
He blamed the stucco walls for his cold feet,
so each morning, he threw shovel to the grass
till all of it was gone.
Did I dream
him shearing through the kitchen like a dry wind,
taking down the gods of mercy and protection
that were carved on four lacquer wood panels?
The calendar, also gone. The old school portraits
II. Weather Patterns
of my siblings and me vanished somewhere.
The titan sun beat down the dust the day
American soldiers arrived
to set my father’s neighborhood in flames.
He walked miles until he found a temple.
The day folded his body on the ground.
In the backyard, he checks the rusted sky,
leaning against the Santa Ana wind,
fingers folded around a cigarette.
His memory opens the broken door
of my childhood bedroom
III. Ocean Currents
to see if the embers have brought me back.
Last night, I dreamed I was a moon
jellyfish, a silent bell with no brain,
no heart, no bones, no eyes.
My entire body, a mouth,
catching fish eggs and troupes of shrimp.
Every night, the moon
tucks in the ocean, and the currents carry
me through the years. I fly through the silence,
all my roots following me-
I make my own light
IV. Plate Tectonics
as I go.
When I woke up the ground moved back and forth
like this poem, asking
Is this forgiveness?
A rock shakes like a river
V. Evolution of Stars
to remember it was once fire or dust.
I used to ask the first night star I saw
for a wish. Ten years passed,
and I learned some stars collapse
against the universe
like my mother after she is done
making dinner. Ten years here,
ten years there,
and I see her rise from the sofa
like a plume of dusty horseshoes
riding above my father’s cigarette.
These years carried
my wishes,
fatherless,
scattered in the dark
of my mouth.
Cindy Tran is the author of the poetry collection Sonnet Crown for NYC (2021), winner of the Thornwillow Patrons’ Prize. A recipient of fellowships from NYSCA/NYFA, The Poetry Project, The Loft Literary Center, and Brooklyn Poets, her work has been presented at The Shed, Lincoln Center, and the BBC. Cindy’s poems are published in SLICE Magazine, The Margins, Copper Nickel, and elsewhere.
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
