Of Cleansing and Cartography
by Alice Lander
I search the rubble of this
bombed-out body,
cull clues from marks on
charcoaled walls and
choke on memory dust,
Pride purple and mottled
like a bruise.
Neck and above the neck, bibliotec.
Paperbacks with back flaps scattered,
footprints fade in the shape of a waltz,
in the shape of pursuit, a dance
in four acts:
Act I
20th century tub, limbs gone liquid
in tile-reflected I notice
anew the smile of my stomach.
Act II
Footsteps approach like heartbeats
and recede like heartbeats,
your fingers bind my arm so tight
I think I am you.
Act III
Silt hair slips soft like water,
you cleave like a fist.
The room tips, now I
slip.
I am thicker than water,
my limbs are liquid.
Act IV
On sun-moon carpet, splayed
cowered and curled, I’ve the
limbs of a dog,
my scent like a dog,
and I am a loyal companion.
I watch you recede through
lash slats, a wave.
I fade
from the animal of my body.
I forget myself,
I require maps.
I recede,
a wave.
Ribs like pillars after the blitz, in
this cathedral of a room
and still my mother on the sofa
balancing tea on one arm,
its fate uncertain as her moods.
And still floured hands roll dough
In the hearth of my navel, singing
sweets, sweets for the mothers
of sons,
but I have none.
I have swallowed the sun
and my belly burns red, hot
with the heat of its red hot head.
I have swallowed the sun,
light pours from my lips.
In these darkening rooms,
I begin to lay bricks.
About the Author
Alice Lander lives in Jersey City, New Jersey with her husband, cat and growing plant collection. Her work is forthcoming in Eunoia Review.