I. Camellian
She was made in the image of Camellia. Her lips boasted
a cherry blossom, carved carmine cheeks dripped into
her yellow eyes, lean and sharp as a prowling cat. Camellia,
keen and defined by her crimson kisses, her leaves wide and
striped with emerald green drew in her own creation. This
image, fleeting and sprinkled with dew, was forgotten in the
imagined seas of Miryoung, grasping at the petals of her
sweet Camellia, swept away at the glance of an artist's brush.
She is Camellian. Her colors change with but a whim, flickering
in a cosmic sunset kaleidoscope. She licks them like candy as they
drip off her lips, staining the artist’s canvas. When she becomes the muse
she eats poets for breakfast. Her taste buds burst with the caviar of art:
imagination.
II. Drawing Camellia
White camellias are a sign of my adoration, handed to the clear
air and draped across the shoulder of the mountains breathing
in the distance. It is a curse: to be surrounded by the pollution-stained
beauty of South Korea, the trembling hills lifting into the hazy horizon.
I write love letters to the camellias as they die in droves, rotting
and falling to the sidewalks, crushed by the passerby into a nondescript
smear of brownish pink. Even in death, the camellia stands proud,
reminding every allergy sufferer that they will return to torment next
spring, their rose-like buds mixing with the gentle cherry blossoms.
In Korea, camellias are the flowers of weddings, adorning the
paths of faithfulness and piety, matching the bride’s brilliant
red hanbok and the groom's muted blue. Perhaps the artist
can breathe the fumes of loyalty as she sketches her final command,
her finality, Camellia.
III. Helper to the Priest
It draws an irony that starving children can walk along arching walkways
and donation-lined walls like those of St. Patrick’s cathedral. It has a
bitter taste and bleeds the tongue like a sword to the throat. It draws
a metaphor that camellias line the pathway to disorder. It burns the nose
with smoky desire. It brushes the skin in anointed oil and lights a candle
of devotion. It splashes the soul with moldy holy water.
It looks upon the holy trinity:
Camellian, devil, she.
IV. Camellian, Pt. 2
I am Camellia, which is to say, I breathe.
Paige Eaton (she/her) is a poet who is currently teaching English in South Korea and is originally from Rochester, New York. Her work has appeared in Dark Entries, Does it Have Pockets, Long Winded Anthology, and Unlikely Stories among others, and is forthcoming in Pink Hydra and The Bitchin’ Kitsch.
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