Lee Atwood

Creation Myth

a man makes a toaster
from scratch on tv, cramming
dozens of bolts and pieces
inside four iron walls. pop!
and out comes a single slice,
sizzled and half-burnt.
my father visits. we loiter
in a local cafe and speak
in one-syllables, sugar packets
scattered against the tablecloth
like tiny white flags. pigeons
bicker on the pavement outside,
trading breadcrumbs until
there is nothing left to hold.
i am trying to rebuild the two of us,
piece by piece, starting
from the very beginning.
when he flipped over the living room
table. i could feel the neurons being
severed midair—sizzling electricity—
as i stared into his wounded,
animalistic eyes, wondering
if it was all love had to offer.
now, he fills the silence
with nonsensical texts:
“sweetheart, i am heading
to the meeting room now”
and articles i will never need,
like ten tips to survive a hostage
situation and what to do if stuck
in a falling escalator. danger
remains the only language we share.
on the screen, a man builds
a toaster from scratch
and it takes him nine months.
i am five again, smudged against
my father in the wet grass,
waiting for him to turn on
his assembly line of stars.

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Lee Atwood is a poet and writer based in Beijing, China, whose work is forthcoming in West Trestle Review.