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BLUEBIRD SKY

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Becca Wang

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When early evening hours are drawing in, new things begin to show 

across the sky so that the sight both seems and seems not true. 

Dante Alighieri 

 

It’s good for the art, isn’t it? 

He lights a cigarette and the ashes fall in my lap, 

all life and no forgiveness. That’s what I love  

about sharp left turns on a Sunday street. 

 

He’s sitting on the porch without the radio on, 

contemplating the old nests up North. 

There, the power lines cut the skies 

into sixes. Yī’ èr sān sì wǔ liù  

 

Language is a harsh white light waiting 

for the right time to take you out. I’m 

looking for the word for schoolteacher. 

Maybe it’s time to call mother 

 

but she’s in her single bed ready for 

the next rain, the last sun. It is possible 

to have too much patience like belongings. 

 

Deer on the hill of a bluebird sky, 

I can feel it split me down the middle. 

Nǐ kěyǐ huílái, she screams. You can come back,  

she screams. Above, a cloud gathers.  

 

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Artist: Coco Thompson

Accessibility Reader: 

Edited by: Lara Madeline Rand and Ariya Say

Editors: Tia Shang and Coco Thompson
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