There are two white flowers
in my mother’s hair
as she bends down to lay
other white flowers
(chrysanthemums, maybe)
into the ravine. But it is no longer
a ravine — it is a mass grave
where birds land, and foxes
chase them. It is Babi Yar
and a massacre, and grass
that grows regardless.
Chicken bones and children’s bones
intermingle; are there wolf bones,
hound bones, or snake skins?
There are Roma bones, Polish bones,
howling after excavation, howling
after incineration, howling their flute
silence while being scattered
over prairie and farm land.
Shoah bones dig themselves
out of the dirt, sand themselves down
into claws, mold themselves into
a present-day Pandora. Even the Greeks
did not plan for this.
My father by my mother’s side.
His right arm intertwined with her left,
back bending at the same angle,
his hand over hers, clutching the bouquet,
it is their wedding day. In the photo
my mother’s wedding dress brushes
the ground, sinks. They both look down.
They do not smile. There are gulls
where there shouldn’t be —
on their spines, rearranging cords
into triptych patterns.
They are young. They are looking
at their future grave. At their past
grave. Already with two feet
in the grave, who will cut flowers down
for them?
Falling out of my mother's tundra
scalp it pauses. Funny thing is,
her hair has been gone for years — or
never even grew in from birth — or
boredom embodied in ligature, lampshade.
In this recast, the sky is milkblack, tiled
by fingernails from skeletons walking hand
in hand, snow in their toes, typhus in their lungs.
In this recast, the earth is milkskinned, stitched
from embers of anything that burns quickly
and screams quietly from the womb, the wrist.
In this recast, animals are milkteeth, falling
from mouth and blade, vertebrae and tusk
adorning our heels, our hands.
The words a life, is a life, is a life
if said often and quickly become a musical
refrain, a note that can be strung on clotheslines
to dry. If still damp, put it in a voice box, hiccup.
If limp, then transplant a baby chimp’s heart.
If sad, then buy ivory and fur.
The words a death, is a death, is a death
if said often and quickly become an arpeggio
used as bed skirts and pillow cases.
These must be ironed. They must match. Cotton
comes with a history of blistered hands
and back welts, while silk has its own neat
files of women with tiny fingers.
Then there is glue. Connective tissue
disconnected, boiled, spread, cured
all to reconnect objects that never intended
to bond. Sometimes it is better to let go of shed
skins. When eyelashes fall out
just put them on the tip
of your thumb, make a wish,
and blow.
after Yusef Komunyakaa’s “Charmed”
He has seventy or eighty pounds on me
and satisfaction that can only
come from a man.
Upturned mouth corners
as he lightly holds both my wrists.
In his sinewy fingers there is no need for voice.
Men have touched me
when closed — & I touched them —
the same. This ink
on the brow,
a discount on the damaged.
He stands in unison
with the branches.
In the air around his silhouette
whispers of dust change
into sad faces and heavy curtains.
Vines in the blood
and in the breath, I cast roots
into sand and wait. Days ahead
I lie between a wall & the river
both feet tied to a crow,
riding on the edge of its beak.
I frown at his angry hands & they whither
into the small of my back.
There is nothing left to say.
I sigh out the cold,
I put on my coat and my mother’s gloves,
I return the years.
Lana Rakhman is currently completing her MFA at Northwestern university. She has taught creative writing courses at Roosevelt University as an assistant, guest lectured in poetry workshops, and worked in an assistant edit position for the literary journal TriQuarterly.
ISSUE:
S P R I N G
2011
THE NEW
RULES OF
W R I T I N G
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