Spill - Cadence Chung
I'll spill into the next moment
I’ll spill into the past
where the thrumming of cars and buzzing
of starlings were a given; now, only
the starlings sing, hesitantly, like their
cries could pierce the silence, pop our
bubbles like glass. I dream of all the museums
in Wellington, all of the art with no-one to view it.
Away from prying eyes and greasy human hands
I wonder if the past will come up with its own narrative
I wonder if the paintings come to life, the figures kissing
confiding secrets in waxy meadows
but this is simply my fancy. It has rained for the past
few days and what would have been a cosy hum
and a keen excuse to stay inside is now
a heady trap. I'll spill back
into what was always temporary; the decline of Rome
didn't show its face as such, but just spilt and spilt and spilt until-
I'll spill back, let my teeth retract, my bones curl into smaller
forms, my eyes widen with wonder. When the present becomes
a heady haze, and the only solid memory is your last meal
the past splashes its sepia tones at your eyes until you cannot help
but look at what it is showing you. I think back
to when I was young, and memorised books for fun ‒ now
whenever I skim through a page, it is already half-past-ten
at night, yet I still haven't gotten anything done. I'll spill
again, into the vivid greens and snap of leaves beneath feet, of
tauhou swimming through the air in blurs of olive, singing
like the world has never been brighter. For them, this is just
another rainy autumn, another dance in their short
lives, another chance to live before tomorrow
swoops in. Tomorrow ‒ I'll slip into
tomorrow, though I try not to, and wonder what it will
look like. People joke that this is the end of the world
but I think it is simply the end of what we thought tomorrow
might have been. Things will be different; everything
we've made has always been temporary, always changed
morphed, shrunk, crumbled into dust and scribbled poetry. We
marvel at ruins and never seem to realise that we will
become ruins someday, too. I find it strange to think
that this will be in history books, yet I'm still staring out
the window at the ocean like it's any other day, and yet
unlike any other day I've ever had. There's something about the sea
that mesmerises ‒ its eternal motion, perpetually raging. Anyway ‒ I'll
spill back into the moment, into the dull computer screen and books, and
spill into the glimmer of fireworks on the beach, spill
into the thrum of rain on the roof, into the crush of green beneath my feet, into
the next moment, and the next, and take each day one moment
at a time.
And that must be good news, right?
And I can do something other than nothing
And nothing won’t count for much out there, believe you me
And I just need to know if this art is nothing
And if this art is nothing, what am I?
Life in Quarantine - Tulip Kumar
Isolation - Millie Crowe
Everyone asking for everyone’s number,
the long wait as they try to remember it.
Random people talking to you as if you had known them forever.
Then the realisation.
Lines twisting from supermarkets,
The people carrying office chairs and copious amounts of toilet paper,
Doors closing, locking, never opening.
Crossing off the days,
the so very long days.
The tv on at every hour so not to miss anything.
The short walks.
The homemade meals.
The late night video calls.
People. Going. Crazy.