Two poems by LUISA MURADYAN TANNAHILL
The Red Forest, Рыжий лес
Wolf spider teach me to be invisible
that I may pray teeth first
mouth full of flies. The forest body
overgrown with wild tomatoes
nuclear garden, electric mausoleum.
My mother in her pregnancy did not know
that I had sprouted a tail and two
extra fingers or needles that thread
golden webs. This forest full
of unclaimed scarves and sick
stories that thousands of years later
will be called fables. When Ivan exploded
his nuclear body the heroine gave birth
to the many limbs of time. Religion I return,
wolf spider let me in.
207 The Paris-American
Wolf spider teach me to be invisible
that I may pray teeth first
mouth full of flies. The forest body
overgrown with wild tomatoes
nuclear garden, electric mausoleum.
My mother in her pregnancy did not know
that I had sprouted a tail and two
extra fingers or needles that thread
golden webs. This forest full
of unclaimed scarves and sick
stories that thousands of years later
will be called fables. When Ivan exploded
his nuclear body the heroine gave birth
to the many limbs of time. Religion I return,
wolf spider let me in.
207 The Paris-American
Crane
The morning is almost too white
I look down and continue peeling plums.
My grandfather dead but not quiet.
The sound of mourning rising and falling
my grandmother calling all the birds
in Texas by their Ukrainian names
Kran, vorona, shulika, Luisa.
Our birdhouse overcrowded with
ghosts who push out the hummingbirds
and sing such strange music.
208 The Paris-American
The morning is almost too white
I look down and continue peeling plums.
My grandfather dead but not quiet.
The sound of mourning rising and falling
my grandmother calling all the birds
in Texas by their Ukrainian names
Kran, vorona, shulika, Luisa.
Our birdhouse overcrowded with
ghosts who push out the hummingbirds
and sing such strange music.
208 The Paris-American
