Carolyn Krieg   © 2013 All Rights Reserved

Pressure Points in Vilnius


1.

If Soraya publishes her novel,
she cannot go back to Tehran.
___

In the poet’s suicide note:
            “the incident dissolved”
                    ___

A kid points a stick gun at me
in Kalnų Park. Women provoke
the husbands. I want the dark
work in the museum, browse
until the violence comes through
the canvas like a miscarriage.

Somewhere under that paint is
Mayakovsky.
                    ___

This verse will break. What is
there to write up against.

2.

Put a rock where you want
to remember.

To the right is the pit.

And the women
with their arms up. Is a gun?—

—no. Is the right,
is it? Where the rock goes.

In beautiful forests,
in dark pits,

the rock.
Moths and bats

lose their wings there.
Grow arms, fall

to the pit.

3.

And will Soraya finish her novel
and will she say everything.
            Will she include the details—
            the milk spilling and the woman
            who kisses the woman
            in the supermarket and
            after the supermarket
            and how they both like it.

And will the husbands discover
and then what.

Sakowicz buried the book
with the names of the Jews.
___

            Will the right is the pit. Will I write
everything I want about you.
            (put a rock here)

There wasn’t terror around us
to make risk in writing this.
Just a couch and you becoming it.
            Is that where the rock goes.
 

***


Eastern Line to Pictou Landing


When the trains come to Nova Scotia,
there will be new ways to die.

Like getting hit by trains. Like hating
metal so bad you jump through

the ice. Like whisky and the music
it dampens. The frozen river grass

cracks, and you hear it in your sleep.
___

Your mother’s hair
grows long now in her coffin—black

ribbons, they fill up all the space.
Will the men unearth her?—

hammer spikes through her grave?
___

You drink fish scales in your tea,

but soon the porcelain will crumble—
the cups rattle,

rattle off the table from the trains.
Soon your wife will slam doors

and the birds will leave.
Don’t bring babies into this.

 


Jada Ach
Copyright © 2013  

Jada teaches English at a college in Wilmington, NC, and her poetry appears in the Adirondack Review, Summerset Review, Southern Humanities Review, Southwestern American Literature, and elsewhere. She was awarded a 2012 North Carolina Arts Council Regional Artist Project Grant to help fund a writing program in Lithuania.


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