Poor Artist's Cupboard, by Charles Bird King
by
March 22, 2024
By Stefanie Lee
I’ll tell you about how I’ve been remembering myself in the silver crucifixes and imaginary cracks of light underneath a centuries-old door frame. About how I find smudges of my soul on everything I touch, bones, dirt, the paper-thin resolve in my hands. It’s dark, you know.
Indoors, faith's crumb turned my without force // as a red need - the language, the // locate plan.
Trees, asleep in winter, dreaming of sun and blossoms. And why shouldn’t they?