By Trae Stewart
I see you,
Positioned on the dusty rose window seat,
hidden among kawaii pillows and frilly curtains
You stare, my neighbor’s stuffed elephant
Without movement, pulse, breath
Eyes fixed, a never-changing mass,
Ears fanned, stitching like wrinkles,
Stagnant, you serve little purpose
Not without purpose, a basic aesthetic
One glances, appreciates, and moves on
The interaction doesn’t last
deep but lifeless, your eyes,
Half-inch obsidian circles, glaring
With my own less distinct reflection
My eyes meet, in contemplation
My dark circles, unwavering in my window seat
Emulsifying my soul into the strokes of ink,
To enliven paper like blood to tissues
Do my words sway? Fill the reader, as porridge in children’s bellies?
Is there life, beats not of meter, but of the heart with my imagery and imagination?
Is there pause for the tears to reach the smile?
Your trunk points, a middle finger or exclamation,
judging, reminding
Waiting, for electricity, magic, or my simple letters
To blink, boogie, and exhale,
in a poem
About Trae Stewart:
Stewart is an emerging queer poet and psychiatric-mental health nurse practitioner. He writes poetry to center and ground himself so that he may best help others. Trae is a widely published academic researcher and seasoned educator.