by Georgia San Li
a tape of stickers, a honeycomb
of Tinkerbell, sweet remnants
from a time when her pudgy
fingers posed under her chin and
laughed at the funny world, when
she called me Aurora, a sleeping
beauty, an animation popping up as
an illusion on the park bench in the greenway,
by the blue bike stands, hovering over
red courthouses etched with governing
words, after the scarring, spoken
aloud by Martin Luther King, a drape
of curtain like a heavy mural by our own
Diego Rivera drawing our gaze to a flock
of futurist air balloons, painted over
graffiti in red
in red
balloons, a bouquet of hot teardrops in
somersault, floating across concrete
chutes and wrought iron ladders,
dripping over the edge of rooflines along
greasy windowsills, crusted with dirt
and sand, eyes
blinded in red,
in red
blinded, by fear, of what might be outside,
these eyes never looking up,
never washed in the rain
Georgia San Li is at work on a novel, poetry and other writings. Her writing has been published or is forthcoming in Litro Magazine, Eclectica, California Quarterly and elsewhere. She has worked in cities including London, Tunis, Mexico City, Sao Paulo, Paris, Wilhelmshaven and Tokyo.
Emerge Literary Journal 