natahala tumult

And then the sky swallowed me whole—
placing me gently atop an alabaster column,
the top broken off like bread
and gently collecting singular dust motes
from worn bibles decorated with post-it notes.
where do you look?down, i suppose,
the proud do not evade sin. look down on them.

my lovely bones degraded and cauterized;
and below, my brother floated upstream—
his lover fought against the downward current
to pass him on opposite sides, muttering, muttering
“the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
i played gambangs and blew tiny trumpets
and stomped and stormed for zeus’s command—
but then my impatience drew forth acceptance,
for the affairs of others are entertainment issues.

i descended cloud stairs and disregarded a beanstalk,
but no such river existed—and i am both savage and samaritan,
like the brother before me from pakistan’s highlands,
like his lover right by me from china’s skyscrapers.
where my absolutism fell out of my pocket
and into an ash spill escapes me,yet the slurry bubbled up
a spoon and some baby’s shoes encased in tupperware,
my daughter’s socks still wedged in the toe.

ever so occasionally, i feel an edge poke out of what kudzu took over
and pray silently for a mix-tape or an undiscovered de Kooning,
but postcards instead surface from husbands abroad, long dead
in land mine country as their wives channel the spirit
through gradient daffodils in plastered mulch. i muddle on, however,
for there is no doubt to me that the sky will open again—
summer will crush spring and autumn will bear fruit
i will eat under a dying oak by the river.

Maria Stratienko