Two Solitudes
My
grandmother named me poor orphan,
the
one her daughter could no longer carry
delivered
weeks early into her arms.
Keeper
of birds with damaged wings,
of
pecked sunflowers. She made up songs
that
made her cry. Other times,
she
called me dzvinyochka, palest blue
bell-shaped
flower. But when she pressed
her
head against mine, she heard
nothing.
Yet nothing drew static winter skies
instead
of the drifting promises
of
lullabies—diamond-stars,
bands
of angels, three bags full.
I
wasn’t her son, whom she believed
still
called out for her, twenty years on,
from
a ghost-occupied Siberian labor camp.
Was
it me she loved, me she held?
Or
those absences
now closest to him.
Prayer for the Heart
As
long as bombs don’t drop on those
who’ve fled,
as
long as one spare god still hovers
above their beds.
As
long as cattle cars roll forward
and do not stop,
as
long as long as Grandmother’s large
ceramic vase
doesn’t
drop from her hands
at
the train station.
Why
did she refuse to leave it behind
holding everyone up,
splitting
the family
in two—?
Those
who boarded & those who stayed
to gather the pieces,
fit
them back together—
disappearing in clouds of steam.
What
holds us
to the colorless burn
of
family—
who wake in another skin, unhealed.
War
How many deaths must it
take to be considered a war?
— 1,000 lives, Google
But
the first 100 are only fooling.
They’ve
saved their caboodles from drama class.
Death
makeup is a breeze.
They clear their throats, step into the spotlight, center stage.
A
mother applauds.
Outside, moonlight carves its solid world.
* * *
The second 100 are children again.
They
run through fields of daisies,
fingers
interlocked, index fingers pointing.
Ra-ta-tat-tat!
We’re safe!
Migrative
imagination,
pretend
machine guns
execute a pact.
* * *
The
third 100 drag their feet, lost,
heavy
with song.
Song
is healthy for the soul.
But
who will listen?
Fearful
neighbors
slam
their doors shut.
Surely you understand, they whisper.
* * *
The fourth 100 never vacate their apartments.
They’re
still there
lying
quiet in their beds.
Prayers pack their bodies.
A
concrete city block disintegrates
between
earth and air.
* * *
The fifth 100 simply refuse to die
until
they find their daughters’
favorite
stuffed bear,
the one with the black button, blind eyes
that
keeps her safe at night.
* * *
The
sixth 100 press their ears to a hollow wall.
Who
is shouting in the dark?
Not everyone who hears voices is unwell.
* * *
A
plastic view master, a last luxury to be held
in
their son’s hands,
the seventh 100 cry a creek—a stream—a river
* * *
The eighth 100
don’t
remember first words,
don’t
hear last screams—
their mouths open like that of a
toddler
gasping for air.
* * *
A living heart!
Here!
The
ninth 100 believe they are still
warm
inside,
the
way a burning forest believes
it’s
a perfect metaphor for the spiritual world
even after it’s ash.
* * *
999
…are
missing one
who got away.
Praise be!
Pushcart Prize poet, award-winning translator, and a founding editor of Four Way Books, Dzvinia Orlowsky [photo credit: Max Hoffman] is the author of six poetry collections including Bad Harvest, a 2019 Massachusetts Book Awards “Must Read” in Poetry. She is a recipient of a Massachusetts Cultural Council Poetry Grant, a Sheila Motton Book Award, and a co-recipient of a 2016 National Endowment for the Arts Literature Translation Fellowship. Her first collection, A Handful of Bees, was reprinted as part of the Carnegie Mellon University Press Classic Contemporary Series. Her new poetry book, Those Absences Now Closest, is forthcoming from Carnegie Mellon in fall 2024.
