Open Eyes!

Open Eyes!

By Isabella Chiang

A curly-haired boy slips off his dress shoes 

and pretends to read a leather-bound novel. 

Virginia Woolf. 

It’s something stupid, 

for the blonde, who lays lengths away, 

unimpressed, running a hand through her hair.

(Noted: They will be good for each other.) 

I can only dip my pen in my mouth and wonder 

if perhaps I was made for something more. 

Something greater than 

smoking cigarettes in Vienna 

than tracing the lines of his back 

upon the freshwater linen. 

Or perhaps it is nothing. 

Or perhaps it is creaky staircases 

and patiently awaiting death. 

Pregnancy and taxes and the eventual path to martyrdom. 

(Noted: Sacrifice is inherent to womanhood.) 

So when I tell you I saw God 

fiddling with his quarters 

in the corner of the laundromat 

believe it to be true. 

When I tell you 

he got on one knee 

for the box of dish soap 

on the counter. 

Married to mundanity; 

it’s forever. It’s inhumane. 

(Noted: It’s all I’ve ever known, and all I’m capable of wanting.)