Straight Lines

For Nia

is there something like a straight line?

is there something like dead weight?

 

out there is much fog, dust, screechy sound of saws

they clog the brain, nose, ears, they seem so unavoidable

the lemons are ripe, acorns keep falling, the ants keep crawling

 

they could be roasted in the pan and sprinkled on toast

not the lemons and acorns, no, the ants as condiment

after I tell this story she keeps cleaning up her crumbs

a possibility…

 

in silence we paint, could you help me draw a straight line?

I don’t know how to do them, I say, and really there might be

no straight lines, try it, perfect lines may not be necessary,

you make a line, it becomes your line to follow, to envision

your possibilities…

 

she tries this out, takes a liking to her lines freely meandering

painting with her middle finger, burnt sienna, crimson red

magnificent purple, she’d never heard that lines could be free

not imprisoned, the moment we travel new possibilities arise

 

she never met someone who does not ask for straight lines,

nervously she laughs, this possibility seems to tickle her core

you are very strange, she pronounces, maybe I am a crooked odd line

I say, all is alive, the queer line too, your line is beautiful, it is yours

 

the dead weight of straight lines, perfect straightness – clearly

waviness is a good option, spirals spiraling, curls curling, just like fog

creeps in and unexpectedly disappears, melodiously the dust settles

lemons are glad to be harvested, and ants might be roasted secretly

 

for your morning toast

– can you taste

new possibilities?

 

January 7, 2025, Karina Epperlein

 

The poem needs no explanation, and the story below can anyway only be told partially – c'est la vie! 

In 1994, twelve-year-old Nia and 41-year-old me were thrown together into an adventure. For one year, until she could reunite with her mother, I became her ersatz mom. Both of us originating from extremely different backgrounds regarding nationality, race, class, and culture. I had no idea if this could work. So, I engaged us into the deeper regions of soul and spirit by fixing a make-shift mailbox out of cardboard onto her room’s door, and one on mine. On little scraps of paper, we confessed our feelings via handwritten messages, back and forth. A deep love and bond developed. A miracle. We laughed often and learned so much from each other.

 

Before the start of the adventure, I am giving her for half a year weekly art therapy sessions in my living room. On the floor, painting with our hands on paper, discovering the mixing of colors, hardly speaking a word. Slowly I start encouraging her to include a few words into her bright paintings – now poetry and feelings are mingling with her beautifully bold expressions in colors and shapes. A few years later, I am able to get her paintings into an exhibition at UC Berkeley. Much gratitude to my late husband who came along for the adventure, and the miracle.