Like Water on Stone by Dana Walrath Read Free Book Online

dark hair,
    if one should grow
    on my chin or lip,
    out from the root
    by the nails
    of my thumb
    and finger.
    “To shave
    would make it
    thicken,”
    she tells me,
    though she knows
    I have no need.
    My brothers will return someday,
    standing tall like men
    with full black beards.
    They must.
    Ardziv
    I followed the soldiers
    with every fit
    Armenian man.
    Papa spared
    because his limp
    would slow him.
    They walked them
    in a line
    along the river
    for miles,
    pushing
    and poking
    with guns,
    their hands tied.
    They stopped.
    They stripped them.
    They turned them.
    They shot them.
    They threw the bodies
    into the river.
    Bodies washed up and lodged
    between stones
    on the river’s edge.
    Vultures swooped down
    to eat them.
    I’ve taken carrion
    from vultures before.
    Sometimes eagles do this.
    But that day I flew off.
    I found a goat
    away from his herd,
    tore his muscles to pieces
    with my beak and talons
    until I could eat no more.
    I flew upriver
    and left the carcass behind.
    Shahen
    My brothers are gone, taken.
    As a child, I was spared.
    The soldiers came to school that day.
    They looked at all our faces.
    They took anyone with bristles
    and left the baby-faced behind.
    They argued about some of us.
    But my case was clear.
    In their eyes,
    I was too young to fight.
    Then Father Manoog told us,
    the baby-faced,
    to hide in the cliffs
    behind the old fort
    till the sun was low,
    and like a child, I obeyed.
    Then I crossed the bridge
    to home.
    I want to fight the Turkish soldiers.
    I want to work the mill.
    “No,” Papa tells me.
    “To keep you safe
    dressed as you are
    you must do women’s work.
    I will work the mill alone,
    what little work there is,
    till harvest next comes in.
    By the end of a year,
    this trouble will pass.”
    He speaks fine,
    but he cannot look at me.
    And Mama sews like a machine.
    Mariam asks for Kevorg and Misak
    while Sosi and I chop bitter onions.
    We eat food brought out from storage.
    Cabbage leaves with black age spots,
    withered beets and carrots,
    cracked wheat retrieved
    from the mill room floor
    and the soldiers’ raking guns.
    Mama and Sosi still bake bread.
    Our hens lay eggs.
    Kaban sends one goat each week
    from Kurdish mountain herds.
    We do not roam
    the woods for greens.
    We have mint
    that grows by the stream.
    We do not go to market.
    By the end of a year, I will grow
    and I’ll show Papa
    that I’m the man he’s not.
    He lacks the courage to leave here.
    For him all life is like a song,
    with different voices blending.
    Now Mama embroiders
    more kerchiefs
    for me.
    Sosi, her lips and cheeks like berries,
    hides when soldiers come.
    One soldier pokes my skirt with his gun.
    He eyes my flat chest,
    proof to him that I’m pure.
    Proof to me that Papa’s an old hen
    hovering till the soldier is gone.
    I can act.
    Like a letter,
    I will go to America.
    Sosi
    Shahen
    Come tie with me,
    Shahen jan .
    The work is good.
    The knots’ colors
    down each row
    add up to make
    the pattern.
    Pass the weft
    with this shuttle
    to bind the edges,
    then beat it
    with the comb.
    Pack the fibers tight.
    Will you try?
    Sosig, I can’t.
    Come on, Shahen.
    Time will pass
    as we tie. First,
    a few red knots
    for the edge. Next,
    the bird’s blue belly.
    Take the end
    of the thread
    and go over
    one warp thread,
    then under the next
    and back to
    where I start,
    then snip.
    You try.
    This is your work.
    Not mine.
    Come on, Shahen.
    The loom will hide you.
    Come tie this knot.
    Here, I tied it.
    Will you cut the end?
    Don’t give me a knife.
    I’ll finish the bird.
    Anahid and I
    would race
    to the middle.
    You’ll win.
    We’re not racing.
    Just tie.
    My fingers cannot
    do such things.
    Last summer seems
    so far away.
    Anahid’s baby
    will be coming soon.
    Think of something
    else to say!
    That’s women’s talk.
    I’m not Mama
    or digin Palewan,
    about to be a
    grandmother.
    I miss the music,
    don’t you?
    Not one bit.
    We’d all have left
    if Papa wasn’t
    fooled by music.
    At