Why do we write?
A poem by Elias Lowe

Why do we write?

is it not a persistent reaching
the asking of the only question
as infinite as it is brief?
it looks a myriad of ways:
a pile of rocks that stack and stack
an avalanche, an ambulance.
infrequently, the rose petals offer
everything. 
there is no kiss that doesn’t end.
there is only the emptied out room that stands 
two decades late, moss growing through
the cracks in the walls. a bee, peaking 
in and out of the doorway encased in 
afternoon light in June.
every thought comes from another thought
as bland and grand as the previous one:
we are a series of rube goldberg machines
sequences blubbering, angry and divine
redundant and becoming.
We are made to complete little tasks,
the tying of arbitrary yellow bows.
why do I write? to tell you how remarkable 
it is that my mother recently painted on the huge
canvass that hung in her room when my
dad was around, the little boat on an ocean
becoming a white snowy mountain
in a field. to note that a ghost leaves 
the room every time I open the door.

About the Author:

Elias Lowe is a queer poet and creative non-fiction writer from Pittsburgh, PA. Currently residing in Berlin, they spend their time studying natural medicine while exploring what it means to be alive today through writing, collective singing, and friendship. Their writing has previously been published in Litro Magazine, Oyster River Pages, Cosmonauts Avenue, After the Pause and Global Poemic.

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