Maiko Kikuchi, Bonsai Bow, 2013 (Artist Website)
Paper and acrylic paint on paper
The first thing I ever stole
was a blue scarf from a department store
named after a man who rose from the dead.
I was fifteen,
had ridden across the river
with Amy in her Mustang.
We saw the local news anchor
riding the escalator from lingerie to housewares
wearing a hat—of all things—
with her face tilted back soaking up some
private stock of imaginary sun,
an inch or two of netting
pulled down over her eyes.
I took the scarf, thinking I could tie it
into the shape of her or something
that would elevate me.
My fingers snagged threads
as I tied it like a sailor
around my neck, knotted it at my waist.
Roommates borrowed it. I lost it or
gave it away, cannot account for it
like so many things—gold hoop earrings,
braided leather belt, the Coach bag
that put me in debt—out there
in someone else’s closet
or the bottom of a landfill. All of it—
Amy’s Mustang, the freedom it gave us, Amy,
me—part earth, part memory.