Markers on Paper, 45″ x 25″ (2020)
Leaning
could feel like equilibrium
if we got used to the bank.
The crosses couldn’t ward off the sucking air,
short-armed candelabras
masqueraded as menorahs,
buddhas receded into easy poses
beneath pediments of powers
past their prime.
Perhaps there was no one
who could convince the boy
his steed couldn’t float.
He lashes a balloon to its flank
as though it would hold him aloft
once he was over the cliff.
He put a flag in the saddle
to soften the landing.
Over the haunches,
bells tinkled an approach
until concluding in collision
like jangled change.
By then, everything that could fly
was in flight.
Those who remained
held vigils for the crucified coif,
their writers contrived encomiums
for their free-will freefaller,
the dumb Bastet.
A poem by Cedric Tillman
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Dandan Luo 