I strip my head of its graying fruit, And weave a pen of dead strands. I pool the ink from the Thick tar of a midnight breeze, And scrawl a message on your back. Your breath escapes from the tunnel Of your parted pink lips. I know you lay shackled in a Jailhouse of dreams, and yet I whisper Into your slumbering ear before I Etch the truth onto your figure. Can you keep a secret?
The whites of my flesh Are yellowed and crumbling, Aged pictures fresh, Reflected in the pits of my Irises.
The oceans of blue, Gold flicked and brown, Are speckled with dew. Silver tears fall, freezing on Gray grass.
The living corpses, skeletons Dance behind My eyelids; children with guns Held to their quaking Temples.
Death has entered through My aching pores, spilling Through my veins to sew Itself onto My heart.
The horizon is red, a newborn sun of spilled wine and blood, cicadas chirping, thick air stirring. It was a hazy sort of day. A red sky, they say, is cursed, Though I was born under crimson heavens, And still named Dhan'ya; blessed.
Once every lunar year, the clouds tint a cinnamon shade. Mothers lock their doors and paint the knobs with turmeric, fabled to ward of Manda. Evil spirits. We dress in robes of watery blue to combat the flames of red and adorn ourselves with strings of opal and topaz.
My brother, Akoya, was named for the pearls that hang from my ears. He tugs at my embroidered sleeves and I crumple my dreamy muses, plucking them from the depths of my mind and tossing them away our way out the door. Mother gathers her silk garments in her gloved hands and slings flowy fabrics over her shoulders. The air is hot and sticky but she endures it without complaint. Someone will die today and it won't be one of her children. She'll pray till the brink of new dawn.
Houses are decorated with flowers and strings of fragrant spices; fumes of cumin and rosemary waft through the crowded streets, mixed with the shouts of vendor propaganda. This herb will protect your soul! This stew will revive your ill! The superstitious and foolish line up by their carts.
My youngest sister Camellia, named for her rosy complexion, beckons a coin from Mother's purse and buys a freshly baked apple, dreamy nutmeg and cinnamon making my mouth water. She shares a bite with me, and four with Aphra, her favorite sister. When Aphra was born it was prophesized that she would grow to be haughty and spoiled, so she was given a name of insignificance; Aphra means dust.
The five of us traverse through crowded roads until the streets narrow and thicken with trees. We turn our heads eastwards when passing the Bend- a scarred piece of flesh on mother earth's grassy body, where the air ripples like an upright ocean; the deepest part is planted on our land amongst tall oaks, and the waters thin out in the clouds. Somewhere in the heavens lies the shore. Mother prays as we pass the expanse, its sour smell tinting my eyes red. Manda live inside the Bend, and on the eve of each red day it takes a child into its home.
Soon we reach a tall stone building, cold, dark, and clammy. No candles are to be lit on red days.
We wait in line to kneel before old spirits, asking them to protect us from their evil brother. My turn arrives when the first hints of dusk lick the warm day. I crouch on the floor, littered with flowers, and add a marigold to the scattered bouquet. The plant of my birth month. I say my prayers and return to my family. Akoya looks up with me, pearly eyes washed with fear. "There is no reason to worry, Akoya dear." I assure him. "You said your prayers?" He nods. "You gifted your flower?" He bobs his little head again. "See? That is all you must do. Now come sit."
The red sun dips below the blood tinged horizon. Howls echo off of the stone walls, and We pray.
The clocktower chimes. The door flies open, sending a gust of summer wind. A shadow crawls into the room. A long, spidery thing. Manda's claw. As it washes over the crowds, people hunch over and tighten their eyes, releasing no breath until the black figure has moved on. Soon it approaches me; mother is whispering violently, and Camellia is bolted to Aphra's side. My heart pounds as the shadow creeps over my head, sending a chill through the air. I sigh with relief when the warmth returns, though something feels different- a shift in weight. My lap is light.
I look down and see- Nothing. Akoya, sitting on my lap moments before, is cocooned in black fabric. The claw retreats, making its way back towards the Bend.
I run Along with it, Trees scrape my cheeks. It retracts, the Hand returns to Its body, Akoya in its arms, and I return with it. I hold my breath and jump into the depths of the Bend.
Them. Do they have no compassion? Collecting my bitter tears to cash in At the bank, They pocket my pain.
Them. My jaw rots with unspoken words. Anger is green, glowing and stirred As we protest, garmented in Balls and chains.
Them. We make the front pages, the radium girls, Behind velvet curtains the story unfurls, People buy popcorn and Watch us drop.
Them. Do they have no compassion? What will our hungry children do when we turn to ash and Wither away in the folds of Your history book?
June 1945 The little girl's blissful innocence colored in the gray landscape with excitement. She swung from her Momma and Papa's hands, marveling at the way her giggles ricocheted off the ribbed tunnel. "Look, look!" She laughed. "See how tall my shadow is? One day, I'll be as tall as that, Momma. Taller than Papa!" The girl's silhouette stretched against the bent iron walls. Peering up at her mother's face, she felt a pang of worry seeing that a sad smile was the only response she could muster. It scared the girl when her Momma and Papa were frightened. If they were too scared of the monsters, who would save her when they slumbered under her little bed, waiting to pounce? Her small legs tired quickly and her Papa was quick to scoop her onto his shoulders, carrying her for the rest of the journey. They sang old songs together while Momma kept her beautiful eyes concentrated on the dirt ground. "Oh, don't be sad, Momma! The tunnel will end soon. Look Momma! I can see the end!" What could Momma do but smile and thank her daughter? The girl's words rang true; soon the family emerged into an empty field. They took a series of strange twists and turns until they reached an abandoned estate. "A castle! Papa, that's where I'm gonna live when I'm big like you!" The three snuck into the crumbling manor's backyard. There waited a man inside an old car, smoking his pipe thoughtfully. Why was Momma crying? Why would she not let go of the little girl's hands? Why was Papa taking her away? Why were Momma and Papa leaving her? Didn't they love her?
Fifteen years later, the girl, not so little anymore, walked down an ivory aisle accompanied by strangers she now called parents. Her dad pulled out a pipe and smoked thoughtfully.
The little girl's Momma and Papa never did get to see their daughter grow tall, tall as her warped shadow against the gray tunnel walls, tall as Papa. The little girl grew up in America, hardly remembering the life she left behind in war-torn Germany. She would not remember the things her parents did to save her from Nazi reign. She would never know that they would become victims of the very monsters they saved her from, just weeks after they wrestled her from her arms and into the hands of a pipe smoking man. The man who got to walk her down the aisle on her wedding day. The man she now calls dad.
The Child
The first thing I noticed were the bricks. They were... nauseating. No two were the same shade of pink, varying from blinding fucsias to cloudy pastels, making the house look like it fell through a car wash of paint. The lady who opened the door to greet me approached the same way. Happy, optimistic, endlessly vibrant. Her hair was dyed white blonde, her lipstick glittery rose, and her clothes... otherworldly, to put it nicely. "My name," she said with an exaggerated flair, "is Dolores... though I find it quite boring, so I implore you call me Darling, darling." "Oh. Ok. Um, where might I find the bathroom, Darling Darling?" "Not Darling Darling, darling, just Darling, dear." "I-right. Ok." She opens the door and leads me inside. “Welcome to the wonderful home of Darling, darling! The bathroom is the third door to the left. Straight down this hallway." She takes my luggage in an elegantly gloved hand and shows me the way. There is absolutely no way this woman was related to my mother in any way, shape, or form. "I suppose you've observed that your mother and I differ in many areas." Says Darling Darling Dear.... Darling? "But that is only because you never really knew your mother. Oh, she was a spirited one! Predictable, much like you... and your thoughts, for that matter.... but wild indeed!" My mother. Wild. Ha. I take a short trip to the flamingo themed bathroom, and ponder whether it’s possible to feel motion sickness from an abundance of color. Mother kept her house gray. Darling Darling and her… interesting… home are sure going to take me a bit to get used to. “It may take time to accustom yourself to all the glorious hues of my estate, being as your dear mother preferred an uneventful colored home.” Darling Darling wasn’t kidding when she claimed my thoughts were predictable.
Soon after, Darling Darling’s chef, Ms. Phillips (who has personal chefs now, anyways?) prepared a warm home cooked meal of barley soup. Mine was steaming and beige; Darling’s was lukewarm and pink. I practically scorched my tongue devouring the meal, a perfect rich concoction with just the right amount of everything. When my bowl is clean, I feel suddenly drowsy. “Ah yes, see, this is why I always have my soups cooled, dear. Warmth tires the mind!” I try to tell her that I think I might go to bed early, but my words merge and slur. I stand up to leave the table, and collapse onto the floor.
Darling
Upon her arrival, I sent a quick word to the Child’s senders to notify them. I received a response hastily. She will never need to know that I am indeed not the sister of her oh so boring yawn of a mother. She will never need to know that that woman is dead. Her blood on my hands. And soon I will do the same to her daughter.
Magic is what happens when the sun rises, Dawn breathing golden dust onto rooftops.
In the morning, the bottles stay up on the shelf, Locked away in a cupboard Where they belong.
Magic is what happens when the sun blazes, Bathing trees in a honey yellow glow.
At midday, a bottle or two's in the trash, The rest in the cupboard Where they belong.
Magic is what happens when the sun sinks, The moon beckons at ocean waves, drowning your sobriety.
In the night, the bottles are empty on the floor, Drunkenness swims in your bloodstream, and I am Locked away in the cupboard Where I belong.
The garden grew
Carnations in
Hues of desire,
Roses reeking sin.
In the midst stood
The man, holding red
Freedom, hissing
Noises in his head.
He bites its flesh,
Crisp with ripe power,
A bend in the wind,
Wilting the flowers.
Lost in the fog
Alone in the deep
Bound by a promise
That he couldn’t keep.
