"Rust" by Olivier Schopfer
Flooding, an American Landscape by Fisayo Adeyeye
Sometimes I can sketch him with fever. Sleepy
and standing in the aisle, shoplifting toothbrushes.
Lipstick, apples. The blue yolk dripping through
the cracks of a large egg. He is so thirsty,
he fingers the liquid, brushes a perfect line of blue
across his mouth. His mother dips the brush back
into the paper cup. There are plenty of reds and golds
in this dish. Yet he still won’t eat. The painting
is complete. And the question remains.
What are they going to do about all this water?
On their third day in the Ark, they begin
to eat the animals. By the time the doves come,
they are starving again. All ribs and leaning.
Breaking into bones with their teeth, sucking
through the marrow. He wipes his hands on his shorts.
God be burnt meat in his mouth. Be seasoned, peppered.
Be the heavy brushing of waves coming up and—
What are they going to do about all this water?
He rests in the cabin, light clipping through narrow slits,
painting his wounds back on. A lament in pale yellow,
voids in shy green. His mother flips the curtains closed,
she doesn’t want this portrait. To know she has seen
what can’t be unseen.
and standing in the aisle, shoplifting toothbrushes.
Lipstick, apples. The blue yolk dripping through
the cracks of a large egg. He is so thirsty,
he fingers the liquid, brushes a perfect line of blue
across his mouth. His mother dips the brush back
into the paper cup. There are plenty of reds and golds
in this dish. Yet he still won’t eat. The painting
is complete. And the question remains.
What are they going to do about all this water?
On their third day in the Ark, they begin
to eat the animals. By the time the doves come,
they are starving again. All ribs and leaning.
Breaking into bones with their teeth, sucking
through the marrow. He wipes his hands on his shorts.
God be burnt meat in his mouth. Be seasoned, peppered.
Be the heavy brushing of waves coming up and—
What are they going to do about all this water?
He rests in the cabin, light clipping through narrow slits,
painting his wounds back on. A lament in pale yellow,
voids in shy green. His mother flips the curtains closed,
she doesn’t want this portrait. To know she has seen
what can’t be unseen.
Fisayo Adeyeye is the current Poetry Editor of Fourteen Hills, a Co-Curator of the VelRo Graduate Reading Series, and he has works published in Nailed Magazine, The Collapsar, and The Birds We Piled Loosely. His first full length collection Cradles is forthcoming from Nomadic Press in 2017.
Olivier Schopfer lives in Geneva, Switzerland. He likes to capture the moment in haiku and photography. His work has appeared in The Red Moon Anthology of English-Language Haiku 2014 as well as in numerous online and print journals. He also writes articles in French about etymology and everyday expressions: http://olivierschopferracontelesmots.blog.24heures.ch/
