"Awake" by Michelle McElroy
Happy Together by Corine Huang
It wasn’t difficult to love the gardener.
His fingers were the perfect size for gathering, his palms
turned silver when soiled, his branches folded into simple
machines, sowed my name with so much reserve that I drowned.
No, it wasn’t difficult.
I hold this as a comfort on dim mornings, when riled skies
halt time in their skins and color my lips with the fidelity
of succulents. I lean against the window and measure my tongue
in roots; how much cold air I could trade for this muscle. I contract
my name, and then his; first empty-mouthed, and then
clouded, wet.
Outside of my apartment, there is another
aperture, another streetlamp to die on. Outside,
a husband presses coins into rubber posts. Outside, husband hopes for
more effortless dances; that this transparency
is not a symptom of death.
I can count every time
that I’ve been pressed, vended, metalized; when I felt so young
that I refused to breathe. Outside of this skin,
there is a collection of pores, spangled spit-stained dirt. I am used
to being uncouth, used to being holy with soiled lungs,
used to being held.
In the morning, the windowsill tastes like dust. In the morning, I hear his voice
for the first time.
Where the soil had hardened
into the shape of an apology. Where I will touch him
when he dies.
His fingers were the perfect size for gathering, his palms
turned silver when soiled, his branches folded into simple
machines, sowed my name with so much reserve that I drowned.
No, it wasn’t difficult.
I hold this as a comfort on dim mornings, when riled skies
halt time in their skins and color my lips with the fidelity
of succulents. I lean against the window and measure my tongue
in roots; how much cold air I could trade for this muscle. I contract
my name, and then his; first empty-mouthed, and then
clouded, wet.
Outside of my apartment, there is another
aperture, another streetlamp to die on. Outside,
a husband presses coins into rubber posts. Outside, husband hopes for
more effortless dances; that this transparency
is not a symptom of death.
I can count every time
that I’ve been pressed, vended, metalized; when I felt so young
that I refused to breathe. Outside of this skin,
there is a collection of pores, spangled spit-stained dirt. I am used
to being uncouth, used to being holy with soiled lungs,
used to being held.
In the morning, the windowsill tastes like dust. In the morning, I hear his voice
for the first time.
Where the soil had hardened
into the shape of an apology. Where I will touch him
when he dies.
Corine Huang is a writer from Hong Kong. Her work has been recognized by the National YoungArts Foundation, The New York Times, and Hollins University, among others. She is an alumna of the Adroit Journal Summer Mentorship Program.
Michelle McElroy is a native New Englander who studied painting at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago and has worked at the Museum of Fine Arts Boston, Skinner Auction House and Historic New England. Interested by how light and shadow can transform everyday scenes are constant inspiration. These are images that she may see on early morning runs, midnight snacks in the kitchen or simple observations of everyday scenes that people can connect with or create a narrative of their own. Michelle’s work has been accepted into various juried shows in galleries around the United States and actively shows at local venues, such as libraries and cafes. She is a member of the Cambridge Art Association, Edward Hopper House, and Center for the Arts in New London, New Hampshire. Michelle lives in New Hampshire with her husband and two cats. Instagram: @michellemcelroyart Website: michellemcelroy.com
