Two Poems

Poetry
Jiawen P.


72:365 – In Our Hands
Photo Credit: charamelody

atlas

there, he said, lifting the orb—
green giants turning under
sheets of cerulean, sleep
existing only in spilt milk
swirling; spiraling like its
astronomical namesake.

please let me remember
that night my friends and i stood
alone in the dust of the silence,
putting names to the night—
pretending everything could be
ours

in that moment

a blue hand swept across the pale
shores, carrying little crabs and coral
home; then we were back under our duvets
without milk, dreaming of green grass,

and with a howl, everything was the same again.

 

the man who sold the world

the man who sold the world
started out auction-style on eBay
“limited edition, don’t miss out”
he promised the world in mint condition—
cardboard box and bubble wrap all on him
i found it tucked in “toys and hobbies”
between retired melamine toys
and last Christmas’s Hot Wheels box sets.
the man who sold the world
kept it cheap—four dollars for a fast deal.
boys with trucker hats who thought they had the whole world in their hands,
middle class workers who promised the world to their kids as heirlooms,
old men who worked all their lives for the world
sniped it with hate, with rage, with a vengeance,
trash-talking each other about who deserved what.
the man who sold the world
met the lucky buyer on first avenue
out of necessity, without interest, she asked
why did you sell the world?
i am tired, the man replied,
and my back is straining
and my arms are aching
and my knees are giving way
from bearing the world on my shoulders.
shrugging as he collected the four dollars,
the man who sold the world
doesn’t know what he’ll sell next
but at least he’s made some profit,
this time from outlasting responsibility.
four dollars can get him his coffee.

pencil

Jiawen P. is a 16-year-old photographer, student, and occasional writer currently based in Singapore. Email: chickenbolus[at]gmail.com