Poetry by Benedicta Foo
quasar
i relived the last lunar landing
on our bakelite couch. built the cushions
with reds, painted solitude
on it. tried to make this home.
but loneliness does not have a color.
it is not that of key lime pie
or fillings of a turkey
gone cold on thanksgiving
or the wallpaper of a palm springs
resort room, or its eventual destruction.
building a home takes time.
but here i am, and here, the waters
are in my hands and i am ready to paint blue
paint aquatic minds onto an eames chair
paint quixotic on sputnik
and hope these tides
match our hang-it-all
even if Aegean isn’t the most tender
of colors. i don’t know why this home
is called sputnik – i just know how
to draw tides.
i relived the last lunar landing
on our bakelite couch. built the cushions
with reds, painted solitude
on it. tried to make this home.
but loneliness does not have a color.
it is not that of key lime pie
or fillings of a turkey
gone cold on thanksgiving
or the wallpaper of a palm springs
resort room, or its eventual destruction.
building a home takes time.
but here i am, and here, the waters
are in my hands and i am ready to paint blue
paint aquatic minds onto an eames chair
paint quixotic on sputnik
and hope these tides
match our hang-it-all
even if Aegean isn’t the most tender
of colors. i don’t know why this home
is called sputnik – i just know how
to draw tides.
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Benedicta Foo writes about lonely people and/in lonely spaces. Her work has been published in a number of journals worldwide, and has won the National Poetry Competition in Singapore.
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