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5poem s
BLOOD/ ARYUN Here is one more procession: a long line of our bodies going – somewhere. Shrouded with pink village dust and wild blue grape vine; tears and sentiment; aryun – Aryun. Blood. We live in such a blood fueled world. Sapling knows its sap; clock its oil. But the wounded can feel their hearts pumping out everything they need to stay alive. It is stupid to think bathing the dead a holy act. I've seen horrific wounds. I've worked clotted hair free, bathed putrid arms, washed axed-cracked skulls. My people are gone. To each wasted name I say: blood made you holy, alive. Aryun dwells solely in those who survive.
MY DARLING GIRL/ IM SIRELI AKHCHIK Go with me; akhchik, girl, im sireli akhchik, my darling girl. I long to taste the sea once more. You, daughter of gypsy moth and milkweed; glacier moon and snail-paced tide, go with me. Sea salt my lips. Akhchik, girl, im sireli akhchik, my darling girl, I lick my lips dry. Let our rhythmic laughing mock the ocean – poor, weeping waves – they dream of us out in this desert where there is no water, just endless salt. No dew. No shelter. No creature comfort. Akhchik, girl – let's leave these dunes and basalt. In my dreams we are waves that cling and curl – im sireli akhchik, my darling girl.
NEW FLOWER/ NOR TSAGHIK No sleep. New flower, nor tsaghik, has sprung. No roots, yet. Perhaps memory will creep back. A new flower, nor tsaghik, has flung out her hennaed song far from where her deep roots were laid, like new blood. That is the song I want you to hear. Do not cheer, do not think that this small tune can forget its long past. No cause for applause. Who has forgot to wake and sing? Who has forgot that small tune they were born under, that will withhold nothing? No pause. Stay awake. Wooden flute, a new flower, nor tsaghik. Now recall the notes they taught you; recall just how old they are; how far you are from the first root.
THERE IS NO EVIL WITHOUT GOOD/ CHKA CHARIQ, ARANTS BARIQ Evil. No evil. No. Chka chariq, arants bariq, There's no evil without goodness. There is a new devil. We speak about good or bad; we speak without doubt; nothing is so simple. There is vengeance in me; all shades of gray. The clouds blackout my tracks. I fly. The wind whips my silence. I will shatter the moon; take each worn-out fragment as my knife. I – a new devil crossing the dunes; blood-drunk on the romance of my vengeance and there is no evil without goodness. Chka chariq, arants bariq. Evil. No evil. A fragment of moon. The devil is new; night ancient.
LAVASH All these fingers are dirty – lick them clean. There is dough in my hair – kiss me clean. With a kiss like this. Obscene. All day you've seen me make bread. Lavash. Song of flat bread; myth of dough rolled flat slapped against Tonir walls. Simple song of flat bread; the dead's flat food. Simple smell. The smell of burning. Nightfalls and the dead still burn. The dead's bread; imbued with grief. What else? I am leaving; come kiss me clean. Clean all my fingers, clean my soul, clean my lips, my body – like this – like this. When you make bread, you make me; when you roll the bread flat you touch me. I'll be ghostly so soon. Touch me. Touch me. Touch me.