by MAE
I am simply a drawing.
My skin is etched in ink pastel—
lips, hair and charcoal to complete
the shadows beneath my eyes.
I am never still.
I am used to dancing
across sketchbook pages
with a smile on my face
and a lyric in my head.
I’m used to inconsistency,
swinging between boundaries
of my comfort zone,
used to wondering,
used to searching for my artist.
It is my mother, my father, god,
or the giant tortoise shell
in which my universe once existed.
Who knows, maybe it’s not for me
to find out. My thoughts are hidden
within the fabric of this paper,
in simple questions like,
Why don’t more Americans use chopsticks?
and more complex ones like,
What’s so intimate about eye contact?
& What happens after I die?
Lately I’ve been trying to erase
myself. And by lately, I mean, September.
I would like to be recreated
on a fresh sheet of paper.
Maybe on a green one, like my mother’s eyes
when she first looked into mine and told me,
I think I’ll name her Mae.
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