Bramah and the Beggar Boy
Page 16
On the battlefield called Forever, they—
His hair, the women sang, the colour of—
From that moment on, she asked, What happened?
A series of interrogations. Night.
They rode those waves: riptide, reef, breakers.
His hands, both sides of her waist, where bees danced.
Fourteen sequins, sixteen threads counted, called—
At the corner of, within pistol range
after he—she thought of—and wondered if—
Beyond the fortified wall, that city
Designated, set apart, who was, and—
Confiscated: thin, narrow, flat, his tools.
Safranine, dyed wool, silk, their stories, spooled.
Her intent, destruction, those two girls, kept—
Days, from that moment on she lived, snowbound.
Voyages, overland treks, trails, tears, ships—
That Register, inventory, famine,
O for the sun, those far plains extended.
And wasn’t she always on the outside.
Look in, said Abigail, and jump, eyes closed.
At the gates of the city, blistering—
Beleaguered, that North Wind: rubies, emeralds.
His mouth, his eyes, hand to grasp—paint, brushes,
Hologram soldier, riverbank scrub, dug—
Balut, her nickname, a grove of Tamarix.
For these she would, and did, the most to risk.
Those war heroes, damaged, who called to her—
Women standing, faces raised, their cameras
an endless series, posed she would name them.
When days later, they found the girl, Number—
If a mother, I’d teach children to dance.
Each inscription, skin injected, black ink
prepared surfaces as indicated.
Outside Rentalsman, a man screamed: voice, raw—
She would worship rain, coolness before ice
each girl stood, feet encased, newspapers torn.
Abandoned, the lab where once traces found
they would wake, dreams hollow, filled with others
un/birthed, un/sought, nevertheless, longing—
His first year served, a thousand days remained.
Abigail Indentured in the Bee Palace of Baghdad
Tissue gampi & the Scimitar, sang
those slave girls, as they taught Abigail too.
This off-white, neutral pH, machine-made
strongest, that plant fibre, searched for, and grown
thin, lightweight, shiny-translucent. Banned, loved:
Torn surfaces, mended. Bee upon bee—
Over a hundred million years, his lance
to cut, clawed or straight-bladed, honeyed steel.
She would hand-cut stamps onto sheets, the bees—
Together, they would make-unmake, he said:
Lost, those words, having been held, divine lips
Under that cross-hatched, armed citadel, stormed.
A hundred straw skeps burned, those armies, black
Persephone, Thanatos, although unverified
Printed sheets, demi-silk, tactile and pinned—
Hand to hand, mouth to mouth, each night a tale.
This the slave girls warned Abigail to do:
to begin, begin timbre, velvet voice
to begin, begin texture, soft supple
to begin, build: slender ankles, arched heel,
don’t forget about your intellect—
to build, build muscles, taut calf, pliable strings.
She conjured in between someone, no one
that rise, full, swollen strong below, waist, hips,
and above circumference, point seven, small
Barbie from Before: now, Kali, warrior
Triceps cut, shoulder bones showing, long neck.
Outfits assembled: clasp, hook, match, made-in-
the Bee Palace, Resistance women, kept.
Mistress silver, golden chains encircling,
story night by story, remarkable—
Scheherazade.
Escape from the Bee Palace
She lamented not keeping one strand, of hair.
Haunted forever by his deep laughter.
rumbling migrations, Old Quarter tiles stroked.
Gunshots, cash registers, a fisher-woman’s chant
spliced into, and inside, those squares, that hall.
She would run to him, despite, and unseeing
ghost towns, those lines and borders, towers built
jangled, jagged, that Paradise forgotten.
The sheen of her hair when taken, head bent
his shoulders, his jacket, dark-blue wool, found
wood rationed, every stick burnt, they would hunt
those children with words ink spattered, plangent
heard faint, dusty corners, blind alleyways—
You know you’re in trouble when this, written,
warned, a threat; renewal prohibited.
Lips, eyes, her scent, waist to hips, a ratio—
ever after on the twentieth and—
faded, a softer shade, worn, washed, women,
again and again she applied colour—
She knew she’d be punished—a matter of—
O sun who shines, just, unjust, bone-breaker
outside Perimeter, head bowed, eyes down,
raised curious, she got up again and,
her grief in each home; outside, children, played.
She knew never to; street corners, guards roamed.
In the city, after—woman, alone.
Battles and Deprivations
Hedonistic rituals to forget, else—
They did not speak much, ephemera-glad,
he, a bad man, rising, walls, borders—
This madness surrounds, they whispered, sighing
Yes, we want what we can’t have, they murmured.
Stories: lost, embroidered, stolen, bartered.
Monarchs to land, her arms bare, glistening.
He’d hold her hair, while she would, forbidden
arid the months without music, dancing
clenched, pummelled, grabbed, gripped, his into and she—
Outside Perimeter, wounded prisoners.
Her cheekbones, lips, breasts, hips, rosewater, dabbed.
Each scrap, paper passed, hand to hand, long lines
dust, scorched fields; ice, the city, those far chimes—
Dear Bartholomew, Abigail recites
although I’ve been unfaithful, I still search
for you.
Abigail Secures Bartholomew’s Release from Prison
Squandered, the camps, a blacksmith found her name
imprinted, those spurs, hunt, rowel, straightened
teeth cut; rims parallel: the word went out.
They would bring fireside, evergreen leaves
etched in blood, sandpapered, still legible
Daphne laureola: he painted, brushed
stroke-upon-stroke, blended, smudged, eyes downcast,
winnowing fork, tuned, he bade her stand, stared.
Shoved out by the Guards, she ran to him, kneeled.
His golden cuffs were magic, he told her.
Papers folded, a potter’s wheel, clay, ink—
Midnight, on a train heading east, cold rails
The way their eyes looked up, locked in, held fast.
Their fire unquenchable, his hand, hers.
Songs, secret gardens, hidden names, fresh snow
metals, silver-golden-topaz molten
his hair, that colour, long over shoulders.
Her full lips parted, to take in, nectar
dead bees, Apis mellifera L., skepped
condo to condo, Tower Juniper.
From there, she was led to a prison cell.
Barrios, that un/named girl, guns, a flute
those trees, honey locust, branches breaking.
Labyrinth entry, he’d found her, they would—
Her name, his voice, asking—every border
Perimeter checkpoints, disguises, covert
in the park, a table, bodies opened:
Cut, mend, snip, sew; that kiss, a thousand sighs—
Abigail and Bartholomew Rejoin the Resistance
Guadeloupe to Pacifica, stored
dismembered, reassembled, Toronto
Paris, Théâtre de la Huchette: shrine.
Such a long journey, Ahmedabad, circle
inside Perimeter, Baghdad: bound, kept
her limbs mahogany-painted, rubbed, oiled
those eyes to see, veiled, a thousand lips, touched,
opened, those throats parched still quenched singing, come.
They counted sixty-four explosions: night;
descended: powder, rags, crowds gassed, dispersed.
Inside that walled compound, he painted, lines
fragrant, her presence everywhere, he said.
Although never kept, unheeded, she wept.
They would interconnect, across space, time—
Abigail Disputes the Findings of a Stray Oracle
Something from nothing: they built those houses;
Three-ply, no chlorine used, bleached, bio-de-
Shift workers, factories—girl gangs and after—
Sent east to a youth camp, Seed Savers banned.
Living through new wars melded to old wars.
Last seen walking with those two informers.
All your letters to him will be waylaid.
El-Khemi: spinning wheels, machines, his face.
You may think you can avoid joining but—
One envelope, two photographs, your child
from this journey, quite by chance, you will drown.
Composition, the frame of the picture,
the father of the child killed in battle
those lowland woods, hidden amid cattle——
Guards and Informers Track Down Abigail and Bartholomew
In those times some would write, some, never—
And lifted that calf overhead, until
The Tale of the Last Matchstick, she—
Not there, in the ground empty, stone cold, not there
Morning: small tasks, to light a fire, cook food
Images of their faces, circulated
sectors, districts, Kingdoms: Perimeter
by the light of two candles, her fingers
as she sat by the woman’s bedside and—
Let, how, so, that, this, then: within each, once
He trudged along train tracks, whistling those tunes
Although cut, immobile, still should, could, count
the names of the months, what once they called years.
Laughter resounded, no warnings, no seers.
At the March of a Million Women
Abigail and Bartholomew gave slip to the Guards.
And Time, their great enemy, looked away—
Abigail and Bartholomew Arrange a Secret Meeting
Platform, our parting glance, emanations
thigh against table, folded newspaper
red, white, that cloth, plaid; my face upturned, you—
locked gates, city on fire, we fled, turning——
Outside Perimeter, park’s edge: checkmate
that potter’s wheel, white buckets, secret codes.
Bramah, bring your lock and key, those boys called.
From Tower Juniper, the seer said. Run—
In the library, a thousand copies.
Dark, coming in early, they marched, shackled
and recalled Before-Time movies, threads—
nail-studded, shack-door, and could not believe.
Speak, speak, speak her names, black-haired, full-lipped.
We would stand in the shadows, smoke drifting—
All that winter she kept herself in wait
Fleeting moments held a long time, he wrote
not the Good-Bye River, not the town of—
smokestacks, that room, polished where Time measured.
They would lie undetected, closer to—
he sat, circle’s edge, sound permeated
his compositions: music, paint: notes, strokes
she walked Perimeter, counting bees, birds.
That Night Militia rounded up dozens
snow muffled, the trains, east to west, shunting
try as she might, they would, nonetheless, come—
Buckthorn, beeswax, rose, lavender: fingers
They would carve his name, he would fold, revive
That centre within, he made her alive.
Abigail Conceives Her Child
And our great enemy the Sun, a star:
heartbreak, a way, paths of tribulation.
Winter Letters: Dear Bartholomew, you—are
the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
Our wayward ways, our loving ways, come back!
I love the sound of your pencil on cream paper.
In the Room called All-Spice, lemon peel steps.
Two moons foretold that night, dull knives, chilblains—
We had found charms once, on Tamboline Road,
Girls, if from Tower Juniper, were to—
We knew nutmeg, if mouldy, were poison,
means to light a fire, boil water, soft rags—
My cervix dilated, we held hands, breathing
that cherry-red coat, that open field, meeting.
Abigail at the Lake
Nine months in, no mirror: just this deep lake
Spring Equinox, where once Sakura——
blossoms, each petal a foretelling, if——
only these black strands were soft enough to
unwind around my fingers each moment
that time we lay under a fat pink moon:
Oh, you will return to me while stars turn
I am stepping over that threshold and then——
Now, there is no one to sing of battles
barricades thrown open, Perimeter:
vast encampments on this spinning sphere, torn
atmosphere burning, radars tuned northwest.
We were asked to find our people, to stay
indoors, an unquiet rest, endless days——
To That Which Is to Come
10:30 a.m. and a Saturday
Love’s sudden arrival or disaster
Bam! Outside Perimeter, inside, his—
Rentalsman, where the two of them, lying
His voice, the strength of his, foundations shook
Cadmium red, ultramarine blue, pulsed
Those Girl Gangs, longed for, belonging-laughter
Things quickly got out of control, she said
All-the-Times-Gone: resisted, imprisoned
Those desires came upon them: colours, songs,
Five-fingered those options, they ran out, robbed
What did she want most in this world? he asked.
Broken those rules, to be remade, singing
words repeated: acorn, agate, healing—
They knew their fate and yet chose otherwise.
Guards of the Fifth made sure they could not kiss.
Brought to the Portal of the Misshapen Season
Each blossom petal stunted on each branch
forerunner: war without end.
Roaming deserted streets,
girls sang letters
spin, rotate, tilt and orbital, our Sun—
Find us Sakura, bitter pink, rough bark.
Come ye, Aunty Pandy, sweep and cough.
Our spring is our autumn, falling leaves fall.
Indoors to outdoors, gathering us all.
Spin, rotate, tilt and orbital, our Sun—
Green is our golden, acid our rain, falling
who do we long for, her keys large and small.
Outside, drupels and red berries———burnt flowers,
Inside, in prison, Abigail counts———hours.
The Letters of Abigail and Her Lover, Bartholomew
As surrendered to the Investigator:
Migrant Camp #3
Dear Bartholomew,
I am writing to you against the night—
really, we are part of everything Before and After
Tilt and Spin.
I found this on Cy-Board #6:
Harsh tilt they couldn’t steady it, hot and cold
The women at Patch ’n Mend just laughed—coughing,
Find us a packet, oh find us a packet of soap
I am writing to you, night phobia increasing
waxed, waning, each hour reduction, grey
fog waters moonlight, my words reach—
their ultimate destination: by turn, solstice,
equinox, each threshold a portal
Long ago, you and I in——
That was the time of times
and then, and then—
Love, Abigail
As confiscated by the Guards of Fifth:
Migrant Camp #8
Dear Abigail,
Where are you this month,
this day of the month, this year?
Everything was once horizontal:
a car park, double garage, acreage, a hobby farm—