The Length of You Narrow
Those eighth grade afternoons on our backs
in the potato field by Malva’s house, remember?
There were days, silenced by your parents’ latest smash-up—
your mother’s dull thud against your shared wall, the red
ring-width welt on your father’s cheek, the shattered glass
you’d eventually sweep up—you’d twist your black hair
around your index finger, the length of you narrow
in the field’s furrow, the dirt’s heat your mantle.
To bring you back, I’d say things like, when we grow up
wedding bands may come made-to-order from human bone.
I’ll wear a piece of my love on my ring finger
and if he hurts me, I’ll crush him under my shoe.
Once, you answered, Imagine the day a letter
is injected into each sperm: every ejaculation, a poem.
All year, until you moved, we’d hang out in the field
as the normal kids played soccer and practiced ballet.
When the sun crawled below birch-tops, we’d brush off the dirt
and pick up as many of the little potatoes as we could carry,
those escapees from the harvesting machine’s teeth.
We’d pray to stay this kind of safe, never ending up
on a dinner plate in front of a boy like Sammy, his falcon eyes
unblinking, fork and knife poised to flay us after grace.
Rebecca
The week before marrying your husband
I wake up thinking about you. About the time
a year and a half ago, two days after you died,
I heard you say you freed him, and I replied
that you tied him to you forever. But the dead
know better, possessed of a longer view.
We don’t live across the street from each other anymore,
moved as soon as we could sell our apartments.
I still choose other streets, sure that the stain
from your head on the sidewalk
is there with your wedding photo, lilies, and candles.
Why didn’t you leave him a note, save him
a year of waiting, hoping to find one in a jacket, a book?
My doorman said your body’s impact woke
the first three floors. Why did you wear
those high heels? What did you think
as you climbed out in them and let go?
Rebecca, meaning bound, I never knew
what a popular name it is, Rebeccas serving us
at cafés, teaching yoga, sitting next to me
in class, catering a wedding, singing. A trail
of skinny women resembling you, Rebecca,
hair wound in tight knots, hands outstretched.
Marie-Elizabeth Mali is the author of Steady, My Gaze (Tebot Bach), forthcoming in 2011. She serves as a co-curator of louderARTS: the Reading Series and the Page Meets Stage reading series, both in New York City. Her work has appeared in Calyx, MiPOesias, and RATTLE, among others. |
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