Braided hands study
pock-marked skin rub it silent
my tongue, muddy and swollen
fingers
unthread her daughter’s eyes
measure
the curve of each spine
our
conversation cobbled between bowls
of porridge, loads of laundry
upturned shells
lay rind to flesh hollowed
of life
close-fisted shadows
slide across
linoleum
I turn in the opposite
direction escape the shifting
light she gathers
Roman numerals stows them
like stones in her apron pocket
their weight
like rationed oranges
or coal for [...]
On 32nd Street, in Korea Town, alone
on the fifth floor, thinking of you
on a bed, unmade. Delivery
trucks below inventing idle love
call to men standing
in doorways smoking cigarettes. I call back.
A musician plays his saxophone beneath
a bridge made of stone. Slow notes tumbling
down my back as I walk
a path tucked neatly into a ridge.
A lover’s hand [...]
It is likely that she kisses
the papery skin of her child’s fontanelle,
stretches her fingertips above
his belly, begs his ribcage
and thin arms, where inky flesh greys.
There is a slow tearing, an acceptance
of parting. An unbearable surrender
she does not resist.
She may ask her child’s forgiveness;
she understands the burden
of motherhood.
This is the curve of her story.
There is a [...]
Born of the soil
bred to work from daylight to dark
and to never expect
anything more
Loaded into boxcars heading east
to improve their lot, packed with livestock
they travelled on dirty floors of hay covered
where animals slept, ate and shat
farmers of heavy stock, invited
to liberty
their stupid courage stepped off
railway cars filled with promise
to sidewalks steeped
in the memory of Stalin’s [...]
I have a black and white photograph
of my great-grandparents.
Their daughter gave it to me.
“He looks normal.” I say. He smiled
for the picture. “She looks
tired,” the daughter responds, knowing
the reasons.
The woman in a petite, patterned dress sewn
by hands too old for his eyes; remnants
of vows tying hands to secrets. An English
garden, the heart of her homeland.
Rose [...]
Time is not a line, but a series of now-points.
— Taisen Deshimaru
We draw
imaginary lines from
one burning stone
to another, create
a constellation, something
we can almost touch
something we can believe
because
if it can be held
it can be held close.
From “Brushing Back History” a chapbook of poetry by Valerie Poulin.
fingers unloop the length of him