Lacie Clark-Semenovich
A Father's Birth
His eyes float like eggs
fresh cracked in a bowl, glistening, wet, slipping
away from center, receding like bonds
broken. He comes to the waiting room, comes
quiet, comes with the image of blood spilling
like concrete in the street. Pray, he says. Bring a priest
to negotiate. Transubstantiate. But the women waiting
know it takes blood, bowls of blood, rooms of blood,
rivers and oceans, wombs of blood to create. She tears
like fresh paper, opens like Vesuvius, cascade of smelted
stone to destroy, to preserve. She could pull a train, peel
the earth’s crust, shatter diamond houses. She breathes
gravity. He imagines she will break from the ground,
intestines and lungs spilling to the floor like
altar offerings, her heart following the flow of after
birth. He cups like a shallow dish, steadies with his hoof
hands, roof damaged, wind scarred hands. Twisting,
he comes, a war correspondent crossing borders,
knees bent to the ashed-scent of blood, carrying news like an armful
of dead soldiers, carrying the words on his back because
his mouth is full.
fresh cracked in a bowl, glistening, wet, slipping
away from center, receding like bonds
broken. He comes to the waiting room, comes
quiet, comes with the image of blood spilling
like concrete in the street. Pray, he says. Bring a priest
to negotiate. Transubstantiate. But the women waiting
know it takes blood, bowls of blood, rooms of blood,
rivers and oceans, wombs of blood to create. She tears
like fresh paper, opens like Vesuvius, cascade of smelted
stone to destroy, to preserve. She could pull a train, peel
the earth’s crust, shatter diamond houses. She breathes
gravity. He imagines she will break from the ground,
intestines and lungs spilling to the floor like
altar offerings, her heart following the flow of after
birth. He cups like a shallow dish, steadies with his hoof
hands, roof damaged, wind scarred hands. Twisting,
he comes, a war correspondent crossing borders,
knees bent to the ashed-scent of blood, carrying news like an armful
of dead soldiers, carrying the words on his back because
his mouth is full.
A Sound Like the Earth
Beneath the willow tree, leaves
tangle her hair. She flattens
her hands to the night. The grass
grows dew between her bare feet.
She leans into the train whistle.
Selfish to wish him shot or missing
a leg, to want a piece of him home to ease
the worry that only dog tags and a flag
will bear him to the back country again.
Her brother will not be among the soldiers
coming home tonight, patched and worn thin
like daddy’s overalls at the end of summer.
She divines the night air for facts
but her great-grandmother buried all the family
magic decades ago. Standing in the fog
she holds the wind in her hands.
--
Lacie Clark-Semenacich’s poems have appeared in MOBIUS, Phantasmagoria, Coe Review, Barrelhouse, Zygote In My Coffee, Kansas City Voices, and Scissors & Spackle. Her chapbook, Legacies, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2012.
tangle her hair. She flattens
her hands to the night. The grass
grows dew between her bare feet.
She leans into the train whistle.
Selfish to wish him shot or missing
a leg, to want a piece of him home to ease
the worry that only dog tags and a flag
will bear him to the back country again.
Her brother will not be among the soldiers
coming home tonight, patched and worn thin
like daddy’s overalls at the end of summer.
She divines the night air for facts
but her great-grandmother buried all the family
magic decades ago. Standing in the fog
she holds the wind in her hands.
--
Lacie Clark-Semenacich’s poems have appeared in MOBIUS, Phantasmagoria, Coe Review, Barrelhouse, Zygote In My Coffee, Kansas City Voices, and Scissors & Spackle. Her chapbook, Legacies, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2012.