Emptiness Ripped curtain with one leaning shoulder. The house has been empty for days. The mirror is flat in its denial to reflect emptiness, or the yellow blanket, or the memory of that body enlarged in the moonlight of that August, touch after touching the flesh, nails, teeth, lust, the red. The flat of the mirror, nothing. Only the nails in the wall, from fallen-off pictures, still gloriously, insist on being a little golden from the last reflection of the twilight, to appear in a second depth, always expecting to hang an umbrella, a hat, a wreath or two carton wings you had put on that busy night among the crowds, and you were raised towards the balcony of the tower, where they lit the colourful fireworks over the metal coffin.
History’s Omission Oen he went down to the basement or climbed up to the attic, ordinary things, of course, but he had different opinion and he was always regretful, until the doctor gave him an old pyjama, gesture that remained, alas, in the shadow of history because he never wore it but he held it so tightly on him and as it occasionally occurs, suddenly, at night in the small garden.
Ari found a special friendship in Grey Wolf, once Grey Wolf learned from Ari that he had been avenged for the loss of his ear. Grey Wolf and Leaping Water expected their first child before the end of the next summer. Throughout the winter, Rordan and Ula created a deep special connection with Running Deer and the other camp children, teaching them simple songs in the Celtic of his own childhood. They called Ula, Aira, meaning Of The Wind, because she could run like the wind and beat almost anybody in a race. She was expert at throwing a knife and could hit a target at twenty paces. Ula didn’t mind the new name because both names sounded so similar and she loved the acknowledgment of her prowess and strength. The Natives gave Brother Rordan the name Mountain Thrush for his pleasing voice and happy laugh, though many of the elders referred to him as Ominotago, Beautiful Voice. The children were also fascinated with his blonde hair, almost the colour of the cotton traders brought from the Lands of Winter Sun. For the first time in many years, Brother Rordan had found his niche as a singer and teacher of song among the Natives. Finten regarded the transformation from surly boy to happy Brother as a miracle and didn’t object that Rordan and Ula seemed to spend all their time together. Perhaps this was God’s country after all. He often thought that if singing were praying twice, the singing of the children would surely bring conversions. Music contains a power stronger than many medicines and Brother Rordan’s chanting was healing Ula’s sadness but she still remained wary, especially toward Father Finten and Bjorn, both so much older than she or the Brothers. It took a period of fever, when Ula had to be nursed by Chochmingwu Corn Mother, Brown Bear’s wife, for Rordan to reach a new closeness with Ula. It was then that he saw her vulnerability, as she revealed her childhood suffering through fevered ravings and as he witnessed her tears. Since her daughter’s murder by Illska, Corn Mother had dedicated herself to healing the village children and young people. It was a testament to her loving heart that she nursed one of the white strangers. She also appreciated Rordan’s commitment to the children and so she reached out to his constant companion. Corn Mother’s herbs worked their magic. Ula began to speak to Rordan of her past as she recovered from the fever that had racked her for two weeks, and as she saw the relief and warmth in Rordan’s eyes. “How did I come to be a slave? No, I wasn’t taken by Vikings. My parents weren’t killed in an awful raid. I didn’t crawl out of the flames. My pigshit mother thought I’d make a good nun and sold me to a convent. A good nun, ha! Could you see me in a convent? “My father? I had three fathers. All of them were my father. None of those assholes was. I was traded to the convent for six chickens and a pig. A pig! My mother got the better of the deal: She got the pig; they got me. “I was there a whole bloody year. Thought they’d rescued me from a life of shame following my mother’s trade. I was their prisoner, more like it. Stale straw and kitchen slops and prayers, prayers, prayers, morning, noon and night. So I ran off dressed as a boy. Then they were going to hang me up for a loaf of stale bloody bread. The sheriff sold me to a Norseman instead.
Relinquishing The willow shatters glassy myth of lake and naked hemlocks etch the crest of sky in turquoise leaves diving in handling roots of your wounded heart just once How deep the knife dove when they took your left breast? Your eyes stare silent between two of his mumbled words you balance the dry stick in hand before throwing it amidst the water’s despair How long he waited by your bed until you opened your eyes? Your wounded voice gnaws your smile describes the loss willows weep above you carry your song flattened on the glassy lake mastectomy: describer mastectomy: your breast given away
Manolis Aligizakis 