Painting, in an Old Kitchen, Thinking of the Sea

By Bree Devones Hsieh

You stand beside the window

as I catch a simple scene:

Payne’s gray countertop,

a bit of teal to wash the walls,

hot pink oil to fry the shrimp,

palette knife for collard greens.

Heavy scent of gravy roux.

The cool brown eye stare,

stack of papers piled there,

angels on a paper-clip do a quick

heart-dip: world’s viscous ink

spilled straight through gut sink,

colors swirling down the drain

after painting the scene over again.

Currents daub a curl of water

to drink in cool night-mist

set behind day’s blazing matter,

moonlight brushstroke path

for anyone without a torch.

Cliff stone face doesn’t move

but yours is charcoal warmth.

I would take your hands,

I would make them a sturdy easel,

then tip them slowly into my tidepool heart.

More Remarkable Finds

Expedition Notes to the Surface of a Heart

By Bree Devones Hsieh

The south-east patch of heart is rough, very calloused, almost scales. She tried to pluck them off. They turned to dips, then pock-mark fields.

By Ken Farrell

The custom is to sit next to another when you enter alone, to fill each empty seat as close to another as you can. It is only a custom.

By Olena Jennings

The women sit before a turkey, baked for hours, always counting the minutes, tapping feet to a tune.