"The Green Cap" by Julie Epp
Ophelia Wen | Not Yet
Atlanta, Georgia
The prettiest sunset I’ve seen in a while.
Isn’t this a miracle? I saw my life like a train
rearing back into its tunnel a full moon and a half ago.
God, am I that simple. There are shades of orange that make me
think the world is worth living for.
By this time tomorrow, we will know where we’ll call home.
Tomorrow I might think differently. I might regret refusing
the cigarette offered to me. But tonight, the moon is
glowing so white as if to tell us we were meant
to be here, meant to be something. Your hair bathed
in moonlight, three footsteps ahead of me. I learned
three new words from you the other day and I feel
smarter already. Ha. I’ll probably never see you again. Probably.
But I’ll think about you and the color orange and the moon
the entire plane ride home. Think about how this thing called future
is a hummingbird trapped between two trees. How the Medical Center will
shut down, how the Memorial Park will keep being shot up. The moon is
so motherly, so merciful I should believe that God made it. I don’t,
not yet. A sunset is a softening of colors, a lesson in painting. Your hands are
two wings beating in anticipation. One day I promise I’ll tell you
everything I meant to. One day I’ll know what I was made to do.
The prettiest sunset I’ve seen in a while.
Isn’t this a miracle? I saw my life like a train
rearing back into its tunnel a full moon and a half ago.
God, am I that simple. There are shades of orange that make me
think the world is worth living for.
By this time tomorrow, we will know where we’ll call home.
Tomorrow I might think differently. I might regret refusing
the cigarette offered to me. But tonight, the moon is
glowing so white as if to tell us we were meant
to be here, meant to be something. Your hair bathed
in moonlight, three footsteps ahead of me. I learned
three new words from you the other day and I feel
smarter already. Ha. I’ll probably never see you again. Probably.
But I’ll think about you and the color orange and the moon
the entire plane ride home. Think about how this thing called future
is a hummingbird trapped between two trees. How the Medical Center will
shut down, how the Memorial Park will keep being shot up. The moon is
so motherly, so merciful I should believe that God made it. I don’t,
not yet. A sunset is a softening of colors, a lesson in painting. Your hands are
two wings beating in anticipation. One day I promise I’ll tell you
everything I meant to. One day I’ll know what I was made to do.
Ophelia Wen is a writer and filmmaker. Her work has appeared in Frontier Poetry, Puerto del Sol, AAWW: The Margins, Muzzle, DIALOGIST, and elsewhere.
Julie Epp is a watercolour artist based in Metro Vancouver whose intimate, dreamlike paintings explore hidden emotions and the shifting layers of identity. Through delicate, surreal imagery, she reflects on what is lost, buried, or unspoken within us. Her work invites stillness and self-examination, offering viewers a quiet space to reconnect with their inner world. http://www.julilyart.com/
