“Snow, An Emptied Platter.”
By Sophia Lee
Snow, An Emptied Platter.
your wrist is flipped open–
palm sunny side up, and i can’t help noticing
how the light bangles the skin with a tenebrosity
resembling snowmelt more than a pulse.
the worst part is that it becomes you more with each day:
white glistening over radio-heat like a duvet. i don’t take care of you enough,
do i–? i cannot help thinking this even when
the beat is splintered, sputtering too close for stitches.
i can see it in your face. god, you don’t have to
tell me twice. you eat too much sorrow for a living.
the fact makes me flail—trace the cobalt
clotting near the valve of your knuckles,
bones bitten to raw from connecting with
the windpipes of all the people you’ve sucked dry from.
my tongue holds beads of ruptured pollen, crawling for sun
i can’t catch. i ask /can i do anything for you?/.
in the minutes i wait for an answer
the night outlives a stillborn infant drifting out a womb.
somewhere an orchid is blooming in the arctic, and
a thick-leathered chrysalis erupts too soon
(the wing is nothing more than chocolate weave).
there is too much suffering—i count fissures in your maw to pass the time.
ticks in the bone where your mother shattered the teeth with
porcelain petals, your friend’s body cleaving
under the engine, a wishbone nearly spasmed at its split:
tragedy after tragedy, features icing over and
thumb ripping off chemical peels: the way you loved me.
this silence is an accordion. it’s your teeth that crushes
the hinges into bitter powder and does nothing about it. all this grief–
and you chose existence at its most organic,
the deepest of its lyrical rot. suddenly
i am twelve again—handing you a lemonade glass,
making your eyes light up, making you laugh. i remember
what it is like to be loved/your hands/your voice/
when you ate from the platter instead of black spaces,
leaped between the crucified and the stars. i would stuff my jaw
as well but i know by now that it wouldn’t help.
so look at me, man of rain, how could i possibly save you—
for i am a bleeding baby and premature blossom
and a caterpillar’s body draped over gauze.
i am meant to be touched, not seen:
(but) there is not enough warmth in my hands
for the both of us.
Sophia is a high schooler and emerging writer. She hopes to pursue law, philosophy, or international relations in college. In the meantime, she’s simply another girl who loves her dog and the humanities. She can be found relieving her stress on a cello or typing furiously on her Notes app.
