Like Water on Stone by Dana Walrath Read Free Book Online Page B

and the knife.
    Summer is here, but words
    from springtime last year
    come out from deep inside me.
    “Let’s see who can get to the sheep first.
    Misak and Kevorg
    said we have new lambs.”
    Sosi looks back at Mama and Papa,
    then at me.
    “We’ll be back!” she says.
    She grabs the black pot from Mama
    and starts to run.
    I run.
    Sosi runs.
    Mariam whimpers
    as I squeeze her too tight,
    her ear pressed to my chest,
    her legs around my waist.
    Behind us we hear the squeal
    of the butchering of a goat,
    followed by the death quiet.
    I hear Mama
    running toward the river screaming.
    “My girls, my beloved girls,
    how could you kill them?
    You should have killed me instead.”
    We hear more screams
    and sounds of guns from far away.
    We hear soldiers near Mama.
    We hear Mama’s sounds
    like an animal.
    We hear Papa, near Mama.
    “No! You beasts! No!”
    We hear soldiers and screams,
    such screams.
    We hear the sounds of our own breathing,
    the sounds of our steps.
    We run harder,
    the noise of our hearts pounding,
    blocking the sounds of home.
    Footsteps, heart, and breath
    fill our ears like rush of mill water at first thaw,
    pushing up the mountain path,
    our chests burning from the push,
    in and out
    legs up and down
    our legs and hearts pounding
    pounding
    not stopping
    till the top of the highest field.
    Our ears fill with emptiness.
    We drop to the ground.
    I pull my sisters close together
    behind the giant stone.
    I find branches,
    lean them against rock
    to hide my sisters.
    I crawl in
    under branches
    beside them.
    They’re both wet
    from sweat
    and urine
    that poured from them
    while they ran
    and ran.
    We are safe.
    Ardziv
    In the sky I circled,
    head turning on neck,
    eyes on young ones
    running
    soldiers
    village
    mountain
    Mama
    Papa
    Anahid, big with child,
    Palewan,
    her mate’s mother,
    pushing her
    toward a chest
    in front of the house,
    all of it
    in my sight
    as I circled,
    talons ready to swoop
    and attack
    for the young one’s sake.
    Palewan said to Anahid,
    “Snakes in this village
    will tell them who you are.
    But if soldiers come
    they will not find you.
    I promise.”
    She kissed the top of her head.
    She kissed her belly, filled with child.
    She covered her with blankets.
    She closed the lid.
    Children
    running,
    shots,
    screams,
    Mama,
    Papa.
    The peal of bells stopped.
    The smoke and smell of burning meat
    filled the air.
    On the hilltop,
    behind the big rock,
    Shahen covered his sisters
    with branches.
    He stepped out
    to hilltop’s edge
    to see the valley
    spread below him,
    standing still as stone.
    I circled.
    Circled.
    Shahen
    I had to see.
    From here
    Papa always showed us the whole valley,
    both sides:
    the bridge
    with its eight arches,
    the green Euphrates
    winding through the middle.
    Smoke rises from our house.
    Also from the Kacherians’
    the Manuelians’
    the Bagramians’
    the Atamians’
    the Garjians’
    the Papazians’
    the Evazians’
    the Takoushjians’
    the church
    everything
    Armenian
    in smoke.
    A new smoke plume curls toward the sky,
    down the river.
    The Garabedians’.
    The soldiers are moving to the east.
    I climb onto Papa’s stone,
    the one he lay on after a meal
    every time we came here.
    I feel him in the stone.
    I make every part of my back body touch the stone.
    Inside my head I hear Papa telling me
    again,
    Palu will be safe.
    I curl and crush my bones
    into the stone.
    Palu was not safe.
    Another plume of smoke
    farther up stream:
    the Ishkanians’
    this time.
    On the path I see them
    bathed in bright white light.
    Papa, Mama,
    carefree,
    carrying two baskets,
    the mats,
    Papa’s oud .
    They sit right in front of the stone
    where we ate together,
    always
    singing,
    laughing.
    Papa plucks his oud
    with an eagle’s quill.
    Mama spreads a feast on the ground in front of me.
    Lahmajoon ,
    dolma ,
    madzoon .
    Mama peels a peach,
    then says,
    “Shahen will be a good keri
    to his sisters’ children.”
    Our eyes meet.
    She becomes a new smoke