Rain, and: Armenian Folk Dance, 1915, and: Ararat

Abstract

Rain, and: Armenian Folk Dance, 1915, and: Ararat Arthur Kayzakian (bio) Rain After he hugs his family goodbye he passes umbrellas and park benches. He sees the edge of a vexed flower petal and thinks, the flower is a man off to war. Without looking back, he can hear his children kicking laughter in and out of him. His wife's throat, a gleam of sandlight. Fifteen years later, rain beats out a puddle in the shape of his body. Armenian Folk Dance, 1915 A man and woman hide in their hometo dance amid lit candles. He kneels as she twirlsaround him. She raises both arms in the half-light, and the shadow of her hands— [End Page 157] a bird in flight—brushes the wall. If this were any other day, she wouldclap to the beat of the drum. She tiptoes to keep quietfrom the crows outside the window roosting upon crucifixesthat go on, row after row. Ararat After Layli Long Soldier and Czeslaw Milosz my brothers and sisters call me ara which means friend. which is also a name. which can be short forararat. the mountain behind an imaginary line in another country. it used to be in the backyard of our home. in a way it represents betrayal. in a way it looks like fog in the sky. a god with untouchable snow peaks. a long-time friend. like arak or the vodka aragh. meaning we drink and drink until the empty bottle rolls off the table. and when it rolls the soundof its rumble resembles the growl of a dog. the police say we are bad. when punched in the mouth blood runs down the lip like ice turned water. we wipe the chin. our boys learn to place their painin a grave. my heart feels like charcoal is what my cousin said. his bloody lip trembled. chest out [End Page 158] like an elevated rock. let it out i said. he wept until the watermoistened the caves around his eyes. the police say we are bad. but we are just on bad land. I threw my arm around his shoulder. it's okay. we're here now. i say itbecause his lip was on fire. because he is my ara. because the police say we are bad. the stolen lunch tickets. the bully beatdowns. the way we crossed the endless borderlands of death.because we have tried to be boys for an entire generation after the loss of our mountain. [End Page 159] Arthur Kayzakian Arthur Kayzakian is a poet, teacher, and mfa graduate from SDSU. He is a contributing editor at Poetry International. His chapbook, My Burning City, was a finalist for the Locked Horn Press Chapbook Prize and Two Sylvias Press Chapbook Prize. His poems and translations have appeared in several publications including Rufous City Review, Taos Journal of International Poetry & Art, Poetry International, and Chicago Review. Copyright © 2020 University of Nebraska Press