Judith Leserman
Judith's basket
My sister arrived in a dream.
I was Judith coming home after conquering Holofernes
and there was some cheese left in my basket,
only a little blood speckled the cloth.
I reclined on my couch after a long few nights and took a bite
before a knock on the door.
I waited. I waited at the door like a child waiting for God.
The air tasted like acetone.
She wanted Holofernes' head back.
I was Judith coming home after conquering Holofernes
and there was some cheese left in my basket,
only a little blood speckled the cloth.
I reclined on my couch after a long few nights and took a bite
before a knock on the door.
I waited. I waited at the door like a child waiting for God.
The air tasted like acetone.
She wanted Holofernes' head back.
In the morning, I called to remind her that we're sisters,
bottom lips like our mother.
She says she's nothing like her,
only born from her,
inheriting nothing,
so we can't be anything alike.
Not our wide fingernails,
not how our hair bleaches in the sun,
and not our bottom lips.
I apologize. It had been so long that I forgot how to apologize.
If only I could hold this long enough to name it,
pull the straw woven with reality,
build a house on wet silt.
bottom lips like our mother.
She says she's nothing like her,
only born from her,
inheriting nothing,
so we can't be anything alike.
Not our wide fingernails,
not how our hair bleaches in the sun,
and not our bottom lips.
I apologize. It had been so long that I forgot how to apologize.
If only I could hold this long enough to name it,
pull the straw woven with reality,
build a house on wet silt.
Sugar water
yellow spores dust petals,
fly wings, the hum
of an air purifier—
mercy holds violence
I think
fly wings, the hum
of an air purifier—
mercy holds violence
I think
feathers being the requisite of flight
and there being so much life in Spring
a body must belong somewhere
and there being so much life in Spring
a body must belong somewhere
delicate veins pulse over the pavement
a chirp begs and begs
if only I’d known its name
I would have said it over and over
fed it sugar water
so little of its beak remains
I do as I was told
I step on its neck
I sneeze for all the pollen drift
count the value of each breath
I am reborn in Spring
a chirp begs and begs
if only I’d known its name
I would have said it over and over
fed it sugar water
so little of its beak remains
I do as I was told
I step on its neck
I sneeze for all the pollen drift
count the value of each breath
I am reborn in Spring
Origin
I.
How many authors does it take to write a story?
I sit in the sand, thighs gritty in a crosshatched dress.
Sticky fingers cup around my ear and hot breath whispers.
The breath bounces from throat to throat, changing in each body.
As children play, we didn’t choose to fail and fail again,
we joyfully traced the thread of inaccuracy like clay on the shore.
How many authors does it take to write a story?
I sit in the sand, thighs gritty in a crosshatched dress.
Sticky fingers cup around my ear and hot breath whispers.
The breath bounces from throat to throat, changing in each body.
As children play, we didn’t choose to fail and fail again,
we joyfully traced the thread of inaccuracy like clay on the shore.
II.
Eve holds Prometheus, his head on her breast. He listens to her heart beat,
taps the forearm that she wraps around his waist, bu-bum, bu-bum.
In turn, Eve places her thumb over the soft of his wrist,
circling four neat veins, rivers bleeding out of Eden.
Eve holds Prometheus, his head on her breast. He listens to her heart beat,
taps the forearm that she wraps around his waist, bu-bum, bu-bum.
In turn, Eve places her thumb over the soft of his wrist,
circling four neat veins, rivers bleeding out of Eden.
Tonight is the night that Prometheus' liver will heal. Like every night,
Eve will apologize, but this story doesn't belong to her anymore.
Wouldn't it be clever to steal from God, she coos.
Watch him roll his eyes. Watch him hold two worlds in his hands:
One where birds picked through his ribs all day,
another where birds will pick through his ribs all tomorrow because
God hangs so heavy, punishes
the body that only wanted to be a little divine.
Eve will apologize, but this story doesn't belong to her anymore.
Wouldn't it be clever to steal from God, she coos.
Watch him roll his eyes. Watch him hold two worlds in his hands:
One where birds picked through his ribs all day,
another where birds will pick through his ribs all tomorrow because
God hangs so heavy, punishes
the body that only wanted to be a little divine.
Prometheus rolls on top of her and grabs at one hip,
grabs as if her bones were once his, as if she chained him to a cliff.
Eve was told she’d be delighted and she is, as if this is her penance,
as if the rocks called her name. She'd sigh if she had any regret.
She’d leave a thumbprint on the rock where his ribs bow in prayer.
grabs as if her bones were once his, as if she chained him to a cliff.
Eve was told she’d be delighted and she is, as if this is her penance,
as if the rocks called her name. She'd sigh if she had any regret.
She’d leave a thumbprint on the rock where his ribs bow in prayer.
III.
I spin the globe towards Baghdad. No, that's not right. I place my finger on Ahwar instead,
that has to be where the Garden was.
My index rocks onto its nail, shaking the earth with it.
My middle finger steps forward, then my index again.
Two fingers in Iraq, one in Syria, another in Turkey, a skip over the Aegean.
These are real places and I will codify this myth,
I'll stack it so neatly that nothing will push over my perfect faith.
I spin the globe towards Baghdad. No, that's not right. I place my finger on Ahwar instead,
that has to be where the Garden was.
My index rocks onto its nail, shaking the earth with it.
My middle finger steps forward, then my index again.
Two fingers in Iraq, one in Syria, another in Turkey, a skip over the Aegean.
These are real places and I will codify this myth,
I'll stack it so neatly that nothing will push over my perfect faith.
IV.
Pandora is out with a picnic basket filled with sandwiches and fruit.
She'll cry a bit, but it's just another thing to open, that's all.
She'll promise to run into the world with her whole self this time,
forget that she is punishment. She'll wear a gingham dress,
but saves the rose lipstick. She knows what's left in the basket, why
waste the gloss on today? She bites into the peach and it drips like sin,
sucks the pit and laughs and laughs, a little wiser now.
The picnic blanket floats on a marsh. Pandora sinks in Eden.
Pandora is out with a picnic basket filled with sandwiches and fruit.
She'll cry a bit, but it's just another thing to open, that's all.
She'll promise to run into the world with her whole self this time,
forget that she is punishment. She'll wear a gingham dress,
but saves the rose lipstick. She knows what's left in the basket, why
waste the gloss on today? She bites into the peach and it drips like sin,
sucks the pit and laughs and laughs, a little wiser now.
The picnic blanket floats on a marsh. Pandora sinks in Eden.
Inheritance
In a brown hour in a rust cog city at the edge of a park
life persists on an auburn wind carrying
the last mosquito of the season.
It lands on a gingko leaf, flies to the flesh
between my thumb and index finger.
The mosquito bites me. I let it. Under my skin,
my blood appears blue or green, I can't decide.
In this lighting, I believe it could only be burgundy
once it drips out of my body.
I remember the mosquitos that bit my summer ankles
were more onyx. I remember that prices were lower
and children were safer. This poor, final mosquito is all that's left
or was born too late. I feel the prick and remember myself,
I slap the mosquito. I remember that flesh blood is bright red. I get what I deserve.
life persists on an auburn wind carrying
the last mosquito of the season.
It lands on a gingko leaf, flies to the flesh
between my thumb and index finger.
The mosquito bites me. I let it. Under my skin,
my blood appears blue or green, I can't decide.
In this lighting, I believe it could only be burgundy
once it drips out of my body.
I remember the mosquitos that bit my summer ankles
were more onyx. I remember that prices were lower
and children were safer. This poor, final mosquito is all that's left
or was born too late. I feel the prick and remember myself,
I slap the mosquito. I remember that flesh blood is bright red. I get what I deserve.
