TELL THEM THEY'RE DEAD
Philomela knew when it was over: her voice was remembered only in the low,
unconsciousness of seaform, in the fear that she could speak again unable to
recognize it as her own, but as a hell that could be measured. She remembers
how terrible it was to survive among the returning azaleas and the bend of
their noise in early morning. She would tell them to bury their breath so low
and far past their bloodlines running down earth's privates. She watched them
grow: there were three girls dangerous as swans, broken into a hundred
versions of themselves depending on the day of the week. She saw Tessa
red-shoed and nervous on her first day of kindergarden, Marianne's first
break-up and how she shouted bloody and skin-tight, Maggie's morning
runs past the wooded fields of perverted grasses, dulling her muscles into
rough axes. They waited years for the phrase "don't worry, be happy" to
become lost on them, pirouetting between the toes and neck, never quite making
it to the eyebrows. They wanted a happiness greater than her past, a past not
quite yet finished. She waited for them on that street to teach them the hate of love.
PHILOMELA, WELCOME HOME
Tell her one day she would get used to it
over time? She had been left in that house
to feed the birds and let them speak for her,
waiting for the grasshopper sparrow's morning
wake. She has learned to wait. Even if it means
only one of us will come. Tell her about
the gin you drank at the party, the bodies
that could have been found behind the grocery
store dumpster. You think to call her up on
the phone to ask her out on a date, then
remember how it would be: devastated
mouth, swallowed fingertips, lamplight quiet.
Some jazz radio sings about disaster,
sounds exactly like her birds singing verse
after verse. Her name is an afterthought:
you've only heard it in passing, and never
thought to ask. You tell her she should become
a silent film star, that her eyes are
singing. Except what you really mean to
say is how scary they are, how they cause
the back of your throat to ache. When she comes
to you, all you can say: I'm sorry. Then,
you notice her eyes are in the beak of
one of those birds; it's not even breakfast
yet. Closer to her you stand listening for
breath, or any sound, any terrible sound.
Just a kiss before she goes again; you
taste nothing but see yellow, sunless yellow.
DEATH IN THE FAMILY, PART TWO
I. Birthdays became the worst days
once there was chemo on your head.
You would forget what you were looking at,
II. & say the window was blocking your view
of the backyard. You asked me to come close
so you could search my face for features.
III. In the morning after the pale of dark
moved to the side, you woke up for
breakfast. You said, it is August &
IV. you are big, big now. You are getting
to be such a beautiful lady. I'm just an old
man. I told you that you were my second
V. father. You cried & kept crying the entire
day. You prayed for another life, for a calmer
end. Our bodies together under the sun that
VI. made you sick, that made you old; our naked
heads exposed under the day. You brushed
VII. your fingers over my head, said the sandpaper
felt nice. Said you wished your head could feel
like mine. In the next life, you were sure it would.
Joanna C. Valente was born and bred in New York, where she still currently resides. She is a writer and artist who has been featured in various publications, as well as the founder and editor of the online literary publication, Yes, Poetry. In the future, she would like to live by the ocean and own too many cats. In particular, she enjoys a good cup of tea. Some other things she enjoys include film, cooking, public transportation, and jazz.
