Thirteen Weeks
Learning the scent of death
took a dream, the smell
of a girl with long waves of hair
and a rope necklace strung from the rafters
it took her scent in bloom across
the room, pushed out against the windows
stretched deep into the emptiness
beneath her feet
a smell with a punch to the gut, a taste
distinct to those left behind
this indication that a shift has occurred
a passing vacancy of flesh
as the body tries to prepare its mind—
for that second knowing, the recognition
that comes three mornings later
when the scent is now gleaned
rising out of the bay between her legs
when the doctor is called and the would-be grandmother
drives across the desert to hold her daughter's hand
when the small truth is confirmed
the lost heartbeat and future
becoming instead an odor
a little mass of decay
to be scraped
and spooned away
before it can evolve into bad medicine—
a larger death then a body can absorb
Brooding
She’s glued to the nest again, rosette of red feathers
fluffed out like a puffer fish, round ginger dahlia
splayed out on the yellow straw.
Another Missy spinning gold out of patience.
She could sit there for eternity, one more sleeper
focused on the future. She chuffs and chortles, whimpers
a lullaby she’s been singing since the beginning of time.
In my hands she is hot. Soon I will take her
to the trough where she will stand
in the basin, coaxed quiet, belly sunk and cooling
in the calm water.
All week a rooster crows from afar and I wonder
if she dreams, imagines his presence, there at her back,
holding her down.
Or is it only the chicks she dreams of,
small gems of fire beneath her—half
dragon, half moon—this instinct towards
the holy, the prescience of a miracle, her longing
to be cracked open, her body waiting, waiting.
Having Fallen Into The Ocean of Another World
we are pregnant
the three of us
swimming upright
seahorses cresting each swell
heads and swollen breasts
lifting high out of the water
round bellies rising on each wave
the water black with stars
it will never matter
if sharks circle at our legs
if our feet ever reach solid ground
we are swimming
holding hands all night
the water cut thick with stars
the black soup of the universe
running away with everything
we race the stellar skies
who knows what life we carry
hair blotting out the heavens
our mouths opening
to the quiet of small fish, fragments of light
earth the memory of turquoise
Song of Creation
for god so loved the world
and god’s heart stirred spiraling galaxies arms splaying
across the universe like petals like starfish fingers brushing light
painting the cosmos of her Body until it became solid known kissed
held swayed waltzed beloved conceived a belly the size of Jupiter
and the world did prosper and green the world did sing
for the world god so loved
doors open and stepping forth some unnamed winged creature
revels in the light of melody and god hearing glories in the Song and
wonders if it is her own if she can recognize the notes fragments
of a verse the smallest trill rising from within ready to give birth
ready to remember to step into skin to drum the bones into
brightness body standing on its own two feet
for god the world so loved
and there came a time when grace raced the greed of the world
twins rushing the finish line scarves flapping in the wind aeon
after aeon lost in the journey the quest the becoming the yearning
to be bigger humanity with its face pressed against the porthole looking
for stars hungry for shore and all along there were seeds water a plot
of land the returning sun the red of apple wild asparagus deer in the field
for loved the world
the white cup of the hellebore the tapestry of the reef yellow flag
sunshine edging the pond god amongst the living with her hands
in the dirt head in the stars eyes on the cabbage moth the praying
mantis the last of the honeybees sunflowers with heads bowed
over the garden a field of corn a plateful of wonder a full belly
for loved the god
she said it is good she said you are the one she said this sprawled
across the continents as she lit up the cities as she whispered the names
of her favorite places what mountains what rivers what oceans places
ethereal as a dream distant as heaven she taught Blues in a flat on B
Street she cried for every tear every war aged feet swelling ankles
round as melons the concrete tsunamis
so loved the world
windows never imagined the chant of traffic phantom of what
we once were that longing that longing that knows another way the
Outro always unreachable the Chorus now cliched stuck a repetitive
fingerprint of what once was now a shackle a harness a fallacy
indifferent to the rumble crossing her path bowed to the soil
so loved the god
bowed to the fist of smoke first one thank you and then
another as if the words mattered knee deep
in ashes as if words could stream backwards like a river
flowing to its source like water lifting rising back
into the clouds words stretched back to eternity back
to the very beginning that first opening that first wide dawn
of time
About the Author:
Tara Moghadam’s is a writer currently residing in the Pacific Northwest of the U.S. Her work has appeared in The Southern Poetry Review, Driftwood, Waterstone, and elsewhere. Her chapbook, One Room Over, was the winner of The Edda Poetry Chapbook Prize for Women. In better years, she has taught creative writing in university, schools, and community programs both in the Mid-West and in the Pacific Northwest.
Image by Luminas Art from Pixabay
Isele Magazine 