THEORY OF EVERYTHING
by Ivi Hua
In this one, I am sipping sweetness from the mouth
of a wide-open jar. A spring breeze through the window,
a hawk quick-tailed & cutting through the air. The pond
lush with reeds & cattails, has turned into a birdbath--
evaporation so strange, so merciless. I let water run
through my fingers, my hair splitting into halves & branches.
How the ends thin & break. How I’ve begged for hands to run
through that spill, let small tendernesses rule my heart.
Months later, I will wake up in another city,
disoriented & nonsensical, weeping over the lack.
Right now, the last spring duck is dying, his head resting
against algae-bitten water. I wish I could tell him, neck gleaming
emerald, that I too know the beginnings of emptiness. That I
have a hypothesis lying in the bow of my lip,
a wish cradled in blue-speckled china: every form of love grows
an offshoot. Every pathway ends at this same sunrise, blood-tinged,
so full of softness. In that far city, I know I’ll wake
with saltwater at the lobe of my ear. I know my memory
will run iridescent, near-translucent, sweep into
augmentation—dreaming the unmaking of all beautiful things.
But listen. Out of motion, the wind is still gentle. My body,
despite this carnage, remains & remains.
of a wide-open jar. A spring breeze through the window,
a hawk quick-tailed & cutting through the air. The pond
lush with reeds & cattails, has turned into a birdbath--
evaporation so strange, so merciless. I let water run
through my fingers, my hair splitting into halves & branches.
How the ends thin & break. How I’ve begged for hands to run
through that spill, let small tendernesses rule my heart.
Months later, I will wake up in another city,
disoriented & nonsensical, weeping over the lack.
Right now, the last spring duck is dying, his head resting
against algae-bitten water. I wish I could tell him, neck gleaming
emerald, that I too know the beginnings of emptiness. That I
have a hypothesis lying in the bow of my lip,
a wish cradled in blue-speckled china: every form of love grows
an offshoot. Every pathway ends at this same sunrise, blood-tinged,
so full of softness. In that far city, I know I’ll wake
with saltwater at the lobe of my ear. I know my memory
will run iridescent, near-translucent, sweep into
augmentation—dreaming the unmaking of all beautiful things.
But listen. Out of motion, the wind is still gentle. My body,
despite this carnage, remains & remains.
Ivi Hua is an Asian-American writer, dreamer, & poet. She is the author of Body, Dissected (kith books, 2024). She co-founded Young Poets Workshops in 2022, and serves as co-director of the SUNHOUSE Mentorship. Ivi believes in the initiation of change through language & love beyond the bounds of sorrow. You can find her @livia.writes.stories on Instagram.