{"id":18905,"date":"2022-10-13T15:15:29","date_gmt":"2022-10-13T13:15:29","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/stadtsprachen.de\/en\/?post_type=stsp_text&p=18905"},"modified":"2022-10-14T12:04:33","modified_gmt":"2022-10-14T10:04:33","slug":"emet-ezell-poems","status":"publish","type":"stsp_text","link":"https:\/\/stadtsprachen.de\/en\/text\/emet-ezell-poems\/","title":{"rendered":"Poems"},"content":{"rendered":"

INHERITANCE
\n<\/strong>like all poems, this one begins without language.
\nwhat do we notice and why?
\nbluejay shimmer between leaves,
\na rabbit dead in the street:
\nthe rabbit swaddled in flies.
\nwhat was once an eyelid fills with pestilence.
\nthe vastness of death opes before me
\nlike a cradle of focussed attention.
\nwho will watch my grandmother die?
\nit has been said that trees are the ribs of childhood.[1]<\/a>
\npopulation, memory. bleak, thudding things.
\nshow me a sapling splintered with spring.
\nbrown-blotched grackles with triangled beaks.
\nat twenty six i make a deal with god;
\nit isn\u2019t the first time.
\nbargain my life for housing,
\nmy liver for love.
\ngod tells me:
\nours is an intergalactic task, common as dust.
\nunborn children instruct me in the art of becoming water.
\nwe will flood the occupiers\u2019 home.
\nit was, at one point, ours.
\nit was, at one point, dirt.
\ni fly above the north atlantic,
\ndesire blooming perpetuity.
\nwhat is passed down when there is no down?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

DILUVIAN<\/strong>
\nlungs fill with water. cat-like gurgle paired with breath.
\ni understand, says the doctor, but that is physiologically impossible.
\neither way, water moves.
\nbeyond possible and impossible, there is a river.
\nlight-ruffled leaves, wriggling ferns, sorbet sky.
\nnot once, but twice, i was baptized there.
\nfloundering flesh licked green by promised wet and august heat.
\nlike all gods, the river has secrets to tell.
\nsplashes me with thundered brothers and great-grandmothers.
\na swarm of dragonflies: ticking, rattling wings.
\nhow i prayed to be thrust below the current,
\nhow i longed to be transformed.
\nit happens like this:
\nman hands plunge my head into the water,
\nhold me down, pronounce a name.
\nis this incarnation or transfiguration?
\nmurmuring sun.
\nbut the river, curling between my legs like a snake,
\nsubmerges me again.
\nit roars to me a new gender, a new name.
\ndeposits them in my mouth, gentle and new, a wet bird.
\nwhen i\u2019m underwater, eyes-closed and not looking,
\nthe river coughs up a flood.
\ni emerge leaking, hands turned to silt.
\nit is not simple, being intermundane:
\nmy bloodline a vessel for water and dust.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

[1]<\/a> \u201cA place is not only a geographical area; it\u2019s also a state of mind. And trees are not just trees, they are the ribs of childhood,\u201d Mahmoud Darwish, Journal of an
\nOrdinary Grief.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

INHERITANCE like all poems, this one begins without language. what do we notice and why? bluejay shimmer between leaves, a rabbit dead in the street: the rabbit swaddled in flies. what was once an eyelid fills with pestilence. the vastness of death opes before me like a cradle of focussed attention. who will watch my […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"featured_media":18820,"template":"","categories":[51,11],"class_list":["post-18905","stsp_text","type-stsp_text","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-issue-23","category-lyrik"],"yoast_head":"\nPoems - stadtsprachen<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/stadtsprachen.de\/de\/text\/emet-ezell-poems\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale:alternate\" content=\"de_DE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Poems - 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