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DZVINIA ORLOWSKY The Radiologist Copyright 2006, all rights retained by the poet |
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Dobrodošli u PoetryRepairShop 06.03:030NANCY MITCHELL Grief HutsRandomly spaced by half to two miles along a stretch of winter beach, wind swept reeds and sea weed into drift wood have been gathered, shaped into small a quonset held with storm fencing wrapped with rusted wire. One must hunch low to pass through the prayer ragged door to the glowing, bird feathered room, lit by a candled pink conch shell. Black shawl for your shoulders, and a small birthing stool, where you will do what you see the others do; rock back and forth on the pelvic bone, until breathing becomes a moan, and from the shadows the women rise, lean into you, their long fingers deep within your mouth, groping for the knot, rising from your throat. Copyright 2006, all rights retained by the poet |
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DZVINIA ORLOWSKY Octave1. Wasn"t it a song that carried me from childhood to a large silver frame where I took on my grandmother"s grave face? I remember her hands, a worried knot of prayer immersed in a washbasin of ice water --- Did she believe she held an arctic ocean there, imperceptible waves that would return her missing son, absolve the orphan she insisted on me? 2. Long afternoons brought the comfort of her large breasts against a summer cotton dress, my knees tucked, gathered into her lap I watched the rainbow glint off the needle, thread appearing and swirling, her arm in sunlight, conducting. 3. Mother insisted I kiss Grandmother"s hands placed across the crucifix, fingers draped like seaweed, mute, still. Mother lifted me into the satin-lined boat, although I pushed back, turned away, the rubber soles of my shoes braced hard against the unforgiving wooden sides, I can"t remember when I finally gave in, allowed my lips to touch her air-conditioned skin. 4. Before the radiologist called on our cell phone as we drove toward the ocean, I saw a church sign that read: Remember the promise of the rainbow. The doctor advised to pull off the side of the road. Pull my children closer. one under each arm. I remember their crying, how a single thread pierced the blue sky, lifted my face. 5. Grandmother, your son did survive the years in Siberia. He did come to America. to stand at your grave. . The Bolshevik soldiers who lifted their guns to fire on him are now only this cornfield, wind-rustled, in blond uniform in late-summer Ohio. Grandmother, my own son has asked me Can I go with you? I promise you I will not take him or my daughter or my husband. I wash my face with cold water. My hair grows back like black stubble shadowed in the winter field where you and I once walked. Let it begin, now, let it begin to snow. Copyright 2006, all rights retained by the poet |
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