Hobble Creek Review
| Cristina Baptista |
Going Away (Torres Novas)
I want to go away, and write about the dead
birds prodded by children who throw stones
down the canal. They are strange
birds, with bead-black eyes and white rings
around, and alongside—striped.
A scent emanates from slick feathers,
bruise-blue in the aftermath of a wet death.
They bob thickly, like a skim on broth,
children in tatters scooping with their hands,
drawing the drowned creatures toward them.
They are up to their knees in foam.
I’ll wonder if this is the dinner duck
in these places, if children will come in
to houses tonight, hauling wet wings
and a slack piece of spine. Mothers
will dry their hands on aprons
and turn from hearths, drawing
breaths in slight sheets of air.
“Oh,” they say sleepily, their white lips
curved into the shape of cracked eggs. “Oh,
put it on the table.”
The Icharian story has been
domesticated by limp down.
The next day, dingy soup
with that odd, wet smell again,
all but hidden beneath sprigs
of paltry parsley and the bay leaf;
disused feathers sweeping about
hard-packed floors. They are up
to their knees in dust. “Oh,”
say the women. “Oh, come in,”
to the husbands, and the tattered children
blowing about the streets. “Come in.”
Slim white fingers scratch brows,
pour out soup in bowls. Mothers
sit by orange fires
and rock in chairs that don’t rock.
“Oh,” they croon, falling asleep. “Oh. Oh.”
As their lips dry with the fire,
their faces harsh orange masks,
they dream of flying away.
The Flight Overseas
I had forgotten about the flying fish;
So when they came, I didn’t know what to think
Or do with them. They lowered
To the Tropics, like Icharus,
Felt heat at their backs. I thought of Dante,
Of flying bats of fish, faces like babies,
Molten bodies, limbs,
Crawling backwards along dark walls.
In Fátima, there is a wax museum
That props bodies
In likenesses of popes, bishops,
And holy children against backgrounds, familiar
Not because I’ve been there,
But because others with my blood have.
On October 13, 1917, in Cova da Iria,
My great-grandmother was there
When the Miracle of the Sun fell
Upon the sea of black
Umbrellas. The air became a garden, rose trellises
Climbing their way into nostrils.
But in the wax museum, there is an exhibit
Of Hell, in its blue flame of fluorescent lighting,
The jumbled, disembodied limbs twisted
Like knots on a sailor’s rope,
The rubber-band ball of flesh that is like wax,
Or wax that is like flesh.
No faces. No lips, no mouths. No one.
There are feet that kick the Nothing,
And arms that reach around,
Hands that grope Emptiness.
You dare not touch—
Por favor, não toca.
The sign makes it easy.
There are always signs,
Everywhere.
This is what I think of in the city,
On the subway, all the warm bodies
Pressed, the nerves screaming out get away,
Subduing the appetite to be alone.
Por favor, não toca.
I mount and dismount the train,
Rumbling along with the rest,
Flying up and down the platforms,
Smelling the coming rain.
The Cabin
In this house without bone
there is a rattling soul
that refuses to yield
to mere mortar and brick.
There is a rattling soul
with pink pearls for eyes, prying
into the mortar and brick
for a crevice to crawl and curl into.
With pink pearls for eyes prying
deeply into the beams and boards
for a crevice to crawl and curl into,
is the spirit of the Unwanted.
Deeply into the beams and boards
is etched the wrinkles of old flames’ names.
The spirit of the Unwanted
shrivels in an old hand with knobby knuckles.
Etched, the wrinkles of old flames’ names
make crows feet and varicose veins, like those
shriveling in an old hand with knobby knuckles.
There is a voice sprung from the groaning baseboard
with crows feet and varicose veins. Like those
despairing moans from cemetery plots,
there is a voice sprung from the groaning baseboard.
In every corner and corner, squatting shadows
despair, moaning like cemetery plots,
refusing to yield.
In every corner, squatting shadows,
in this house without bone
I want to go away, and write about the dead
birds prodded by children who throw stones
down the canal. They are strange
birds, with bead-black eyes and white rings
around, and alongside—striped.
A scent emanates from slick feathers,
bruise-blue in the aftermath of a wet death.
They bob thickly, like a skim on broth,
children in tatters scooping with their hands,
drawing the drowned creatures toward them.
They are up to their knees in foam.
I’ll wonder if this is the dinner duck
in these places, if children will come in
to houses tonight, hauling wet wings
and a slack piece of spine. Mothers
will dry their hands on aprons
and turn from hearths, drawing
breaths in slight sheets of air.
“Oh,” they say sleepily, their white lips
curved into the shape of cracked eggs. “Oh,
put it on the table.”
The Icharian story has been
domesticated by limp down.
The next day, dingy soup
with that odd, wet smell again,
all but hidden beneath sprigs
of paltry parsley and the bay leaf;
disused feathers sweeping about
hard-packed floors. They are up
to their knees in dust. “Oh,”
say the women. “Oh, come in,”
to the husbands, and the tattered children
blowing about the streets. “Come in.”
Slim white fingers scratch brows,
pour out soup in bowls. Mothers
sit by orange fires
and rock in chairs that don’t rock.
“Oh,” they croon, falling asleep. “Oh. Oh.”
As their lips dry with the fire,
their faces harsh orange masks,
they dream of flying away.
The Flight Overseas
I had forgotten about the flying fish;
So when they came, I didn’t know what to think
Or do with them. They lowered
To the Tropics, like Icharus,
Felt heat at their backs. I thought of Dante,
Of flying bats of fish, faces like babies,
Molten bodies, limbs,
Crawling backwards along dark walls.
In Fátima, there is a wax museum
That props bodies
In likenesses of popes, bishops,
And holy children against backgrounds, familiar
Not because I’ve been there,
But because others with my blood have.
On October 13, 1917, in Cova da Iria,
My great-grandmother was there
When the Miracle of the Sun fell
Upon the sea of black
Umbrellas. The air became a garden, rose trellises
Climbing their way into nostrils.
But in the wax museum, there is an exhibit
Of Hell, in its blue flame of fluorescent lighting,
The jumbled, disembodied limbs twisted
Like knots on a sailor’s rope,
The rubber-band ball of flesh that is like wax,
Or wax that is like flesh.
No faces. No lips, no mouths. No one.
There are feet that kick the Nothing,
And arms that reach around,
Hands that grope Emptiness.
You dare not touch—
Por favor, não toca.
The sign makes it easy.
There are always signs,
Everywhere.
This is what I think of in the city,
On the subway, all the warm bodies
Pressed, the nerves screaming out get away,
Subduing the appetite to be alone.
Por favor, não toca.
I mount and dismount the train,
Rumbling along with the rest,
Flying up and down the platforms,
Smelling the coming rain.
The Cabin
In this house without bone
there is a rattling soul
that refuses to yield
to mere mortar and brick.
There is a rattling soul
with pink pearls for eyes, prying
into the mortar and brick
for a crevice to crawl and curl into.
With pink pearls for eyes prying
deeply into the beams and boards
for a crevice to crawl and curl into,
is the spirit of the Unwanted.
Deeply into the beams and boards
is etched the wrinkles of old flames’ names.
The spirit of the Unwanted
shrivels in an old hand with knobby knuckles.
Etched, the wrinkles of old flames’ names
make crows feet and varicose veins, like those
shriveling in an old hand with knobby knuckles.
There is a voice sprung from the groaning baseboard
with crows feet and varicose veins. Like those
despairing moans from cemetery plots,
there is a voice sprung from the groaning baseboard.
In every corner and corner, squatting shadows
despair, moaning like cemetery plots,
refusing to yield.
In every corner, squatting shadows,
in this house without bone
Cristina Baptista was raised in a small Connecticut town and now lives in
New York City , where she is pursuing a Ph.D. in English Literature at Fordham
University. Her fiction and poetry have appeared in Horizons Interdisciplinary
Journal and The Hartford Courant. She has poetry forthcoming in No, Dear
Magazine and Mannequin Envy.
New York City , where she is pursuing a Ph.D. in English Literature at Fordham
University. Her fiction and poetry have appeared in Horizons Interdisciplinary
Journal and The Hartford Courant. She has poetry forthcoming in No, Dear
Magazine and Mannequin Envy.
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