"Northern Star" by Alexey Adonin
Two poems by Gaia Rajan
Poem In Which I Do Not Become A Bird
I like how the internet unfurls when you consider dying--
how every website breaks open to offer
phone numbers, statistics, names, how you look out
into the streetlights and imagine everyone clutching their breath,
same as you. How all your pockets are weighed
with sea, how when the hotline is yours
finally a bodiless voice whispers it gets better,
which is what people say when they do not know
what to do with their hands. Your thoughts ache
a bestiary of wings and teeth and how
your friend died on a river. Then the dream
where he is alone with an armful of birds,
and they are leading him closer to the water--
never mind. I don’t want to think about the birds who died
of blunt force trauma, the birds who disappeared
during his last rites, the birds reminding me I am
wingless. Have you ever seen
an armful of birds? I like metaphors because they unflight
humanity, turn it to godhood. I know
the truth. His death was his death, his life his life, the birds
just birds, I surrender
my weapons. I forfeit my mouths. The road
is strewn with rain and cars, and I am not a metaphor,
I'm just a girl kneeling small enough to live
for a moment, the city's breath feathered
as I bury my pleas in the dark.
how every website breaks open to offer
phone numbers, statistics, names, how you look out
into the streetlights and imagine everyone clutching their breath,
same as you. How all your pockets are weighed
with sea, how when the hotline is yours
finally a bodiless voice whispers it gets better,
which is what people say when they do not know
what to do with their hands. Your thoughts ache
a bestiary of wings and teeth and how
your friend died on a river. Then the dream
where he is alone with an armful of birds,
and they are leading him closer to the water--
never mind. I don’t want to think about the birds who died
of blunt force trauma, the birds who disappeared
during his last rites, the birds reminding me I am
wingless. Have you ever seen
an armful of birds? I like metaphors because they unflight
humanity, turn it to godhood. I know
the truth. His death was his death, his life his life, the birds
just birds, I surrender
my weapons. I forfeit my mouths. The road
is strewn with rain and cars, and I am not a metaphor,
I'm just a girl kneeling small enough to live
for a moment, the city's breath feathered
as I bury my pleas in the dark.
When I Dream I Dream of Diamonds
The daughters of Indian women follow their shadows
into the empty museum. Our footsteps loud as a hand
clapping over a mouth. We slip our fingers
behind the glass, slide every painting of our people
from the exhibit, hide them under our shirts, in our backpacks,
between our teeth, rush forward into room after silent room,
our moccasins clopping against the tile. Then the gems,
the ones seized from our treasuries and basements, imprisoned here
to remind us. Diamonds glowing guiltless in our palms,
our pockets, our shoes, every glass cage yielding
to our palms. We tremble outside to the rain
and it washes us clean as if we could be anything,
as if without memory we could be
real, as if gems and pictures could be enough. For a moment
we are silent and running and there is no country
to belong to. Sprinting and we trip
over puddles that shine
like coins. We clutch the diamond to our chests,
test our shouts against the wind. Promise me--
our bodies will always remember
what was taken. We will steal it back
forever, reaching behind the glass,
ours & ours & ours:
into the empty museum. Our footsteps loud as a hand
clapping over a mouth. We slip our fingers
behind the glass, slide every painting of our people
from the exhibit, hide them under our shirts, in our backpacks,
between our teeth, rush forward into room after silent room,
our moccasins clopping against the tile. Then the gems,
the ones seized from our treasuries and basements, imprisoned here
to remind us. Diamonds glowing guiltless in our palms,
our pockets, our shoes, every glass cage yielding
to our palms. We tremble outside to the rain
and it washes us clean as if we could be anything,
as if without memory we could be
real, as if gems and pictures could be enough. For a moment
we are silent and running and there is no country
to belong to. Sprinting and we trip
over puddles that shine
like coins. We clutch the diamond to our chests,
test our shouts against the wind. Promise me--
our bodies will always remember
what was taken. We will steal it back
forever, reaching behind the glass,
ours & ours & ours:
Gaia Rajan lives in Andover, MA. She's the Managing Editor of The Courant. Her work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in Rust+Moth, Hobart, Kissing Dynamite, Glass Poetry, Mineral Lit, and elsewhere. Her chapbook was shortlisted by Glass Poetry Press.
Alexey Adonin is a Jerusalem based abstract-surrealist artist. His works have been showcased locally and internationally and are held in private collections around the world. Alexey uses a unique and beautiful technique in which he layers oil paints solely on top of one another to create a mystical, transparent look. His philosophy stems from the idea that one's reality is made up of what they believe it to be. Alexey uses his art as a platform to express his profound ideas about reality, humanity, and their intertwined behaviors. You can view more at www.alexeyadoninart.com.
