Letter on the Eve of an Elopementfor S. C.How often do we need remindingMy mother's skin was smooth as eggshell once.My mother's hair was red, like mine, and long,And “I Know Where I'm Going” used to beMy mother's favorite song.With her hat knocked crooked on a summer's nightShe tiptoed up the stairs and brushed alongThe hallway to the danger of the roomWhere her father slept, cheek pressed to palm.All pity like a small girl playing mother,She murmured, turning out the light,“Forgive me if I leave you soon, old lover,But though you seldom sing, I won't assumeThat singing in itself is wrong.”Among the things she chose to pack that night:A wedding photo. There, surprised foreverA bride and groom, as if at a parade,Smiled straight ahead, but not at one another.It was winter where the startled couple stood.The bride looked cold. Her flowers were black and white.And yet she taught my mother that things couldBe more than gray, although she never madeMuch more of her geography and weather.How often do we need reminding,Not that singing in itself is wrong,But that, in our geography and weather,Speech becomes more difficult than song.CodaAlaska has six months of moonlight.It was winter when she wrote“I've seen the aurora borealis.PS Have you seen my coat?”The New Liturgya Calendar1.Love is the song,love is the note,learnt by heart,killed by rote.2.Ashen, ashen, empty day—My mother in the kitchen—monthly, female pain;My father at the window—restless thoughts again.Discontent, the world blurslike ink beneath the rain.3.Beneath my black umbrella,waiting for a train—three pansies by the platform,blinded by the rain.4.Rain among the rushes by the river,where the meat of earth has aged God knows how long,an old professor and six schoolgirls gatherlilies shaped like trumpets in their arms.5.Plum trees laden with blossoms,girls making chains out of flowers—how heavily they bear—the fragrance, the boughs.6.NettlesThirty-six hours hencewe waken in the darkto feel againat ankle and at wristthe burning weltsindistinguishablefrom the real thing.7.Althea's BabyWelcome to the world,tiny, crumpled, wrinkled wadin whose creases is spelled outthe alphabet of God.8.As wine from grapes, for ages aged,from bleeding comes the verb to bless,and all the sweetest fruit and bestis heaped at harvest by the press.The waste of life, the precious waste,that we may learn the taste of things,who in the shining cup beholdrising flames—angels’ wings!9.The bird who sings at the window isthe bird who sings at the end of the worldand the dawn of Eternity.10.Autumn and the leaves on fire—This is the Other Spring, this blaze—of embers breaking open—change!11.Into my childish ear, Beliefhissed superstitiously.Into my nursery creptthe dreaded Tooth Fairy.How cheap his bargain seemed at first—real coin, authentic to the bite,but lately he has takenmy hair, my sight, my life.12.Tell the child: honorthe father and mother.Tell the father and mother:be like the little child.Plant the tree beside the water.Nail the notice to the tree.Make the rich man think it's costly.Let the beggar know it's free.Angel VigilantesI am the one,I am the one,the night the AngelVigilantes come.I am the way,I am the light.I'm the brand-new girl at school,The one you didn't like.I am the rose,I am the thorn.I'm the one who forgothow babies are born.I'm glad if I've got more than you,’til I need more,and then I'm gladif you've got more than me.I am the meek,and my rain check is due.I'm dressed in old valuesdiscarded by you.I am the one,I am the one,the night the AngelVigilantes come.AppleHer heart is red, her seed,a wooden tear,and yet from such a onesprang this whole tree,gnarled and allaclamor with grackles,As freckled as these knuckles,shrieking to keepthe swallows at bay—And I have been an old tree,opening my dooronly a crackle,and I have been a wooden tear,and I have been an apple.
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Sep 29, 2024
Nadya Eka Rakhmadina + 2
Open Access
