Farah Marklevits

Almost Twelve

You don’t need me to comb your hair.

You wear it long and loose now, you

who I sent to sea without sailcloth.

I meant to teach you thread and needle,

knots, navigation by compass and star. I trust

you will be able to learn from what’s so far

from reach, it’s safe. I grew up land-locked.

The sea was a star. Even the land

I thought I called home, locked up.

Each tine finds a few strands

and gathers them whole. Caught without,

you make your fingers a crude comb.

You taught yourself. I didn’t do anything

but give birth to a small sea, rising.

The Distracted Mother

Once upon a disposable spoon there was a mother with daughters who would not eat unless they sat upon a moving chair made of bone stained ebony. She fed them whatever was close at hand. She fed them batting. She fed them rags. She fed them handfuls of cloud made of caramel cat fur, fingernail crisps, meteorite mineral, pollen.

They were hard to please. They were never grateful. She said if they did not find something they could eat that she could feed them, she would leave them in a burning forest. They could struggle through humid streets of wavering figures and crawl to another mother built of concrete. She was not cruel, just busy. Standing at a counter or sitting behind a wheel she had to keep turning, she told them stories. Sometimes of a world where cause and effect made an intricate dance. More often, the stories were tasks and lessons, simple.

The village called her Frayed. But she was not the only. All she (they) wanted was rest. To see what they were doing, hear what they were saying and the song underneath the saying. To be living things in the world of intricate scraps they were given.