Poetry: "The Sculptor"
by Levi Kim
The Sculptor
by Levi Kim
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The Sculptor stands like a statue, bathed in gauzy winter-light
her patchwork gashes of skin, thin across frail piping,
scorning hollow bones, jutting through gossamer
through callous canvas splayed taut
she takes a thousand steps towards
an inch tall square - the reaper themself and their vengeance
she toes the line of past and panic
burning one of her 22,705,000 seconds to imagine a schrödinger's fate,
maybe if she never looks,
if she stows it full of nothing like she wants to be
if she puts the box
away...
she doesn’t care anymore
opens her eyes - shrödinger was wrong, there’s no deliberation
the cat was dead all along.
she tries to step away, but she doesn’t try very hard now does she?
she pulls out a chisel, the soft leather molded, meant-for her hand
to chip at the tatters of the soon-to-be gone
marbled veins, paper skin, poppy blood
maybe once the dust settles she’ll put the box
away...
until then
The Sculptor gets to work
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About the author:
Levi Kim is a sixteen-year-old rising junior from the Bay Area and has been crafting stories for as long as they can remember. They enjoy the process of writing as a method of expression and advocacy, often delving into topics such as queerness, racial injustice, and environmentalism. They've written numerous short stories, essays, and most recently, a poetry collection.
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