Midnight Sun
A baby sat alone in the nursery
beside a shrinking patch of sunlight.
Turning, she saw the bright floor
and bent down to lick the shining wood,
taking the light on her tongue,
the way a perfect salmon
is placed in a shallow hole along the
Yukon River
and covered with leaves, then canvas.
It lies in the long summer days,
rotting, baking, its tissues softening,
one eye turned up, waiting for the light,
the other looking deep into permafrost.After three
weeks the fisherman digs up
the decayed salmon, saving the best
parts.
Tepuuq, the head, is shared at
fish camp,
a delicacy to eat remembering dryfish
months.
The eyes of the reeking fish,
given to the youngest children, stare
at the late high sun before they are
eaten.
The
baby looked out the window a moment after
the last edge of sun set under the
horizon.
She crawled from the nursery, looking for
something else.
—Angela Lehman-Rios is a writer
living in Richmond, Virginia.
The
Origin of Milk
When Emily nurses, her eyes
drift shut and her hand strays
to my other breast, urgent, pulling or
twisting my nipple
as if adjusting a television set; I
imagine
she’s trying for the best flow of
milk.
Downstairs, our tv reaches into the
airwaves
to bring us unintelligible broadcasts.
This morning I clicked the silver knob
through the secret codes of the
“U” channels
and Big Bird appeared in sickly
yellow-gray
from a far-off Sesame Street, not the
usual station.
I crouched in front of the tv, my hand
paused on the switch,
waiting for the static to clear, but it
didn’t.
Emily
draws milk from my body, dreaming of
things I’ve forgotten.
The clustered sacs deep in my breasts
produce her supply
as I fold shirts and read headlines,
even as I nurse her, brushing hair from
her eyes,
wondering where the milk comes from.
—Angela
Lehman-Rios
|
