Alloyed or unencumbered. Blood, bitten—
And sighed relief, machines unresponsive
To make, fall, lure, cast, hook
Corner militia, side whispers, intact
In the café, identi-fi-cation
Printed, perfect bound, encapsulation.
After Argument, Abigail and Bartholomew Accept a Mission
Once lit, she was bound to watch those fires
They trekked straights, kayaked, to find messages
Mists shrouded Rentalsman, Perimeter—
Her hair should grow luxuriant, oiled
They would pull at roots: grasp, tug, twist, lift, shake—
Fall on your knees, the young boys sang outside
She bent to the mud. A single strand,
Streetside they sang: Don’t know how things will end
Night. Woman alone, seated, her mind, limbs,
Inside, Machine as hearth, they watched TV
Imagine, she said. Of those forebodings—
Who do you read, who do you dream? He asked.
Cabinets filled with, stacks of, row upon row
Inside the Detention Centre, bent low—
And then remembered that was gone, the bridge—
After the Battle of Kingsway, tumbled
Searched salal, salmonberry, poplar-lined
Rituals supplanted knowledge; berries crushed.
Factory worker from the Place of Ribbons
Twisted paper package, sugared almonds
Seagulls flying inland, Perimeter—
The importance of self-healing, they said.
That winter the wall, unsurpassed borders
In the Hall of a Thousand Mirrors:
under bruised skin, firm flesh, opened, scent of—
Keeper of all things, the ones left behind.
Olive groves, lemon trees burnt to the ground.
A thousand memories lost, a thousand found.
The Killings
At the crossroads of the four winds, driving—
East, mink farms, poultry factories: slaughter—
There, silent entreaty, bodies hung, hooked
Woman left behind. She waded sewage—
Heart of the stag, pit of the snake, arrows
Room to room, waters rising, haunted, doomed.
Outside brigands roamed, Am I the only—
How to form alliances, freed from chains
Remembering the Curses of the dead.
Her brown skin everlasting, hummingbird
Although shackled, her steps resonated.
Sparrow, field mouse, rabbit, hedgehog, huddled
Inside, hours engraved, incised acid
Outside, a row of butchers, quite placid.
After the Arrest of Bartholomew
And told no one, each silent minute stabbed
Someone, somewhere would see her, checked
stripped, booked
Cursed eye, silver bitch, bring him to me
no pleas, vows, curses, spells, chants, prayers, or—
She would kneel before screens, ration card, bent,
their faces skulking, image to image—
In Rentalsman, snow on the park fields, moon—
those trains heading east, prisoners unbound, caught
high from the bench, the Magisterial—
gestures, these formed Omens, a bitter force.
Thousands awaited the Verdict, tanks, guns
try as she might, his face, banished, brought
that river, those hills, by Court order, she—
which were long discredited, Outside and—
Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow—
To conquer, to come in from afar, he’d
mandrake-root dug, one long emitting pulse
self-healing, well within Perimeter
seclusion-distance, enemy-friend, they’d—
nightfall. A number of explosions, cries
skin, bone, his hips against, each—and pounded
a new kind of war, those border journeys.
In the lab after the Fifth, they pulled at—
he’d stood at her back, raised her leg and then—
Every café, market square, riverside—
tunes played for cover, honey smeared, knives, drawn.
In time, she’d come to understand, sharp-soft
a long line of women marched hands aloft.
His face upturned, eyes: centre, square, plaza
A meditation on incompleteness—
Underground basements, archival papers
The story of his family dispersed to—
All the questions I never asked you, she—
His voice, a sounding: river, ocean called
She remembered his slant smile, their kisses.
Midnight car, parked, door open, her knees, moss—
he gripped her arms—roaming militia, lights
They’d made love under threat of danger, then
Consortium directed their actions
Pacifica, as then were called, riots, guns—
A thousand names, the Fraser, the Shannon
Come again to me, she crooned, abandoned.
Abigail Contemplates Divine Assistance
Those gods, their terrible laughter, and watched.
Early morning trains. Mist in the valley.
Woman walking alone head uncovered.
Untuned piano, lid closed, songs captured.
The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass.
She wrote inside Rentalsman, Dear Bramah—
Durga, Kali, Ruth, Evangeline, all—
That they might bring, her worn shirt, shoulders thin
Lived, loving luxury, comfort lost, called to—
Assembled each day in the courtyard
Would wait for light: shades deepening, head raised
Fingers to parchment, Sanskrit-braille: fan-shaped—
Called the Six, the stench of them heralded
Red cottonwood boiled, sin-sweet resin grasped.
Abigail Waits Outside Bartholomew’s Prison
Star-crossed they stood; a week’s worth of glances
Centre disintegrating, margins, guns:
Alive, those long lines, a border, a wall
Perfumed wrist, ankles, cinched waist, his fingers
And travelled the whole world over, they sang
And stood frozen outside that northeastern
Trains sounded their metal-on-metal sighs
Painters, printmakers, joined their materials
Stretched, the animal skins hung, scraped, dyed, cured
Her one-year sentence and beyond, counting
Seven hundred miles, that wall, those fences
In the bar, that Guard’s knee pressed close, sirens,
Brigands, brigades, agents, spies, drones, cameras
Aerial, more than fifty thousand. Borders—
Abigail Sends Word to Bartholomew from the Wars
To keep faith, to row against the current
And knew you would and said so, before we
Robbers, outlaws, fugees, militia, they’d
Posted, your photograph, the two of us
Your breath warm on the back of my neck, when
I made things sewn, painted, handled rejects
Outside, those eight skeps set on fire, names
All the ways you’d take, and me, receptor—
Linden, locust, long rows, the river, bees
Your gaze, touch, briefest taste of—I’d never
Moments after those five explosions, glass
Shattered, dreams of a nation, war without
Endings, I am writing to you my love:
I am fated to travel these Portals——
Caravanserai: Abigail’s Quest for Bartholomew
Waiting for the snow, she called him by name
herself, woman running away from fate,
she with familiars, Seed Savers, who’d help.
Her radiance, a calling card, doors opened:
beauty, that firepower, ice melting
to bear image, she whispered his name, secrets
past midnight, before dawn, she’d lift her hair—
This were the time: Great Register, guards, scribes
fields abandoned, aprons, tattered edges.
Their gear stolen, incarcerated, marked
behind closed lids, she would see again, his—
Two combatants: muscled frailty, the Book.
She knew his arrival, heads turned, each look
Outside, a thousand tanks, guns turned east——
Abigail Searches the Secret Gardens of Paris
Those endless days, no way out, no escape.
To wake and look up on green, living things—
Parking lot to hotel, she spoke his name
Each person a magnet, attract, repel.
The Night of the Fifth Bombing, she would search
I just knew, you’d choose her, not me, she said.
That room, the three of them, hours, image—
Painters, printmakers, potters, weavers, all—
Crushed almonds. A cup of sugar, stolen.
They’d stashed her letter in the Bakers’ Guild
What a terrible time to be alive!
Those Brigades crossed rivers: Jamais, jamais—
Smuggled house to house, angled, those brushes
at midnight, sweet trills, the Song of the Thrushes.
Chained, they said, what we can build together.
Really good-looking men, seek me, she—
Years, they said, no speech between, stolen, given, found
Did I ever tell you the story of—
Damp, quivering, she shook, recalled, how he—
Eyes, glances, the power of, across space:
Paris, Square Adanson, they stood, that tree
Plant names, bees, a garden; painters, potter’s wheel
Discarded digital, her eye, dead girl—
In the Great Hall of the Palace, framed face
A thousand rubies, Perimeter clasped.
River barges towed; mills emitted smoke.
Effluent ridden, they dredged deep to find and
Those many severed hands, un coup de dés—
Abigail Risks a Meeting with the Butcher of Paris
Maple stick in hand, she knew to churn sand
X marked, dug, to call for the names, one thousand—
That bridge across the river, bodies thrown
Christmas Day, in the year of the reign—they—
The Sun rose, crowds assembled, Rue Mouffetard
silent, full force, rays golden, the unburnt
That long drape, Trouble’s cloak, when he knocked on
doors opened, shut. Would she still dance when the—
Of that necessity, no one could see
Woman running away from Fate, she bent
legs shackled, she stood in the plaza, chained
Left-Behind Mother, chair-bound, her body—
Impossible to know which hour, the last
Two candles lit, snow falling, Time’s hand cast—
In the Théâtre de la Huchette, staged
We think of you often, she wrote and trust that—
Foot ferry to the Island, rough waters,
Consortium directed those planes sent
A hundred survivors in the basement.
Out here everyone demands smooth, he said.
Un/inhabited, she went to paper
and spoke, that painting, hunters in the snow.
Up along the coast, his father once, his—
Un/couple, unbend, unlock, if only
She’d come through, he vowed, blood-rushed,
ice-stung-sharp—
And would have seen before, fur-racked, aflame
legs crossed, arms extended, a thousand names.
In Ahmedabad, Abigail Secures a Rendezvous
You put yourself out there, you will be judged.
Old friend from far away, the women sang.
His fingers splayed, that paper, imported.
Stern Warden in the Prison of Roses
sat, silence, a hundred strands of hair.
That moment when, and then, then: tied, unbound—
Constant confessional, devices employed
the heel of his hand, the crown of her head:
Lakhan, ghost rider, Railway red juncture
they’d moved on, left town; she’d remained, writing—
On this day, fifty years ago, she wrote
think on all you love and call them closer—
Heart of the stag, tears of the lion, this—
Oh little sister, fate twists and turns—
Letter-writing, reading. Conjure-connect.
When had they built their nests, those three Hav-las?
From long ago and far away: scripts, scarves.
Those Tabla players found her, night seamstress.
Called Penelope or—Scheherazade—
Creating the illusion of comfort:
Flannel scraps, one lemon, pot of honey.
Stirred ghee, to soothe a prisoner’s hands—thumbs,
concoctions heated without electric.
This woman who thrived on adoration.
Inside Perimeter, inside the Lab,
blood spun concentric; sugar cubes melted.
Those women armed, a decade of fighting,
Jaldi! Memsahib, they urged, sighting her.
Truth: she did not know how to be, this world
hunger unresolved. Caged, children hung, mute—
The Pelt Broker promised to give her news.
Alive in her body, broken, those dreams,
clay thrown, wheeled, paint, swirled; outside, men crouched low
so that one task might flow to another—
She ran the hill called Mistress Jitali.
Beggar children chanted, Abby-ji, come!
Thereafter to ease, she would cede the field.
Help her, the beggars sighed. All around them,
Stick to the plan and don’t go fey, they warned.
Young girls blossoming everywhere, soft skin
Change: enough to rip them apart, jagged—
Ice-fed, snow melted, a bucket of stars,
In the hour before sunrise, three notes.
Yes, you will find him, foretold the Mother,
garden-recreated: Generalife
Divining wheel, a thousand threads entwined
named Al-Hambra, she knew to expel shame,
hidden: Cascara girl: camas lilies, pine.
Woman, drifting Outside Perimeter—
Woman on a platform waiting, eastbound
Sometimes his absence settled upon her
Sometimes every key thrown, every gate locked
forward, backward, a thousand clues gleaned.
Badari Gate fortune teller, palms stroked—
His eyes downcast, cuffs, embossed, cut, revoked.
In Baghdad, Abigail Deepens Her Search
His touch, a firepower, a light burn.
Star-crossed, they’d not meet for months, travelling
black, white, those squares alternated, endless
through that battle hand to hand, they’d danced
/> her foot on the last loom in the city.
Outside, banned from Guilds, year one, a gift:
Borrow, beg, rob and steal, that’s our meal, they—
Her left side: ankle, knee, hip, wrist, face where—
Those curses handed down, mother to child
silk pillowcases where her cheek rested
his height, shoulder to waist, a ratio loved.
She would return, those books, saved scrolls, margins
at night, forests patrolled, Morus alba—
Various species held at Zafraniya.
Cruel cold winter moon, wolf-eye and sleek.
Each day plaited, engraved, stamped with longing.
Queen of the Night, she walked those rooms, no one—
Her quest for clues, prisoners moved, month to month:
Green Zone soldiers smuggled news, notes crumpled.
Grotto, cave, altar, woods: to search for and—
In the name of the dead heroes, she said.
She knew he would—print words raised to touch, rough,
gold pendant, heart-shaped, black silk thread, frayed.
Struck down, killed, that instant, birds rose, gliding—
How did we rise, conquered, rising again
And went for him, into that bitter wind
Who will we be, when taken and every—
Could only weep, memories sweet, sharp, savoury—
For weeks that Moon shone down.
And then cried as they ripped her garments, thrown
overboard, excess, in that age, everything
severed. And wanted for nothing: birds, seeds.
The soldier who forced her never mentioned—
This power of what they witnessed, written,
scrolled, intricate, curved, filigree, inlaid—
They said of her, She won, lost, hid her scores.
Coal-black face and limbs, forehead, that wood rubbed.
Carried, trucked, grabbed, kissed, Paris to Baghdad.
In the memory stories of the Aunties—
Money spent, to study absence, Seasons—
To then awake, snow falling, city lights,
And unspoken, his name, a thousand nights.
Bramah and the Beggar Boy Page 15