Scene from a Play in which I Light Myself on Fire

Curtain call. The Swan lies down on a bed of
perfumed rose petals to die. In a sky like a mouth
full of bloodied teeth, she cranes her neck to witness
as her babies are dashed against the stones.
What is my womb than a place to die?
Had I any modesty I should’ve ate my young before they
sprouted the wings that betrayed them. Haunted by the
memory of thought in which every house remains unlived in,
she beats her frail wings till the Earth is a chasm of feathers
and the moon can finally say I love you to an endless
curtain of stars. Nothing is left other than broken wings
and the agony of witnessing your dreams realized.
A soliloquy to no one: I am bones. I am bones.
I am only just my bones.
The audience erupts into laughter.

 

Self-Portrait in Black and White Ink

Never was a painter;
never could draw,
or transform endless swaths of color
into the lines of my face
and just as easily
efface those parallels
into dabs of beige splotching
tangled purple plains.
The seeds of my passions
would never thrive
on the perfect white of the canvas;
so I buried them,
in the ink-black caverns of books
with all the others who
knew what it was to dig and burrow
than to glide overhead.
From the shadows of my soul
I let my desires flower.

 

Hunter Lewinski is a recently graduated senior from Kohler High School. In the fall he intends to pursue a degree in Creative Writing and Literature at Hamilton College. Hunter has been previously published in Maudlin House, Dead Snakes, and the forthcoming issue of Yellow Chair Review.

 

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