Poetry by Sivan Sarig
Sivan Sarig is a queer Israeli-American writer from California. They have been recognized by the Alliance for Young Artists and Writers and the Bay Area Creative Foundation. She writes primarily poetry and enjoys experimenting with line breaks. In their free time, you can find them exploring their local library, listening to music, and figuring out how to sew.
During the last sunset on Earth, my brother & I
play checkers. Not chess, because he took classes
while I never did, & that made it uninteresting for
the both of us. The game pieces, which I slide over
my knuckles, start look- ing the same in the dis-
appearing red light. For we are no longer
on the peeling porch,
as the Sun dearly wished
to watch us play, &
summoned us closer.
My brother with his sandal
tan, me with my burnt collarbones. Such oddities
made humanity interesting for her.
She watches us so intently —a stare of toddler curiosity,
solar flares licking our temples —that I dread the peeling
burn, the cauterized wound, I will find tomorrow. I remind
myself this is the world’s last sunset, so it does not really
matter.
Under the Sun’s gaze, I accident-
ally move my brother’s red piece
instead of my own black one. He
doesn’t particularly mind, though,
& starts rolling our cheap plastic
chips into shapes for the Sun. A heart. A star. Her
elbows rest on the divoting board—just barely reaching.
I didn’t think she’d be so young. How she must hate
watching us all. She looks up, listening. Her brows & her chin
& her feet all glow at me. A sunspot shifts near her nose. I
close my eyes; she imprints herself on my eyelids. She looks
at our melting, dripping board (if only we could throw it over
a clothesline) & my brother’s kicking feet.
What else is worth spinning for?
How we wish to stay forever. Now
she reaches out, and we pull
towards her. You will never see us,
don’t bother opening your eyes.