Nissa Lee
To a widowed mother in Mexico,
who knows the faces of Pain & Love are the same
1.
the sun is
entreating the asphalt
with impoverished arms—
heat, moisture, love
visibly rise.
2.
a man in a fluorescent hardhat
pauses to wipe sweat from his
deep-lined forehead,
pauses to contemplate
his wife & home
so that when a train pushes through,
weak bolts & beams (dangerous playthings)
collapse
& bury him in reverie.
3.
& she, across borders—
strapped to the delivery table,
drugged & spinning on the
dharmic wheel—
screams & cries, & a
boy
climbs out,
kicking in blood & placenta:
bruised body
soft skull
trainwreck eyes.
Blackout
Afghanistan, March 2008
This night is no different than
the night before
or a few nights before that.
The moths don't bother with us anymore.
Neither do the men
that used to show up in the streets
with their tools,
tugging at wires,
making notes on clipboards.
They've disappeared to discuss the
issue
over coffee
while we climb into bed,
tuck the baby in between us,
and make sure to keep still
as we sleep.
Do I dare?
Mid-lecture, my professor
stops to ask us if we’ve ever
eaten a really good peach.
She has olive skin
and short white hair.
She closes her eyes as she
buries her strong nose
into the curved palm of her hand,
conjuring for us the ripe nectar that is
unleashed when the skin breaks,
when it drips down the length of her forearm
to gather at her elbow and
fall into the sink she is standing over
in her mother’s kitchen.
She inhales.
I can see the breath
reach every part of her body.
It makes her young
and her lips part, smiling.
Then she exhales
and continues the lesson
as planned:
TS Eliot,
modernism
to post-modernism
and the sensual transcendental.
And I cannot wait to
eat a peach for myself.
The orchards nearby
sell them by the basket,
heavy and plucked from the trees,
waiting to trail ants into my home.
And when I hand the man
five dollars,
he tells me
these are the best damn peaches he’s grown
in all his long life.
So when I get home,
I handle them with care,
stroke the blonde hairs clean
underneath the running faucet,
inspecting every blemish,
every little perfect thing.
And in the privacy of my own kitchen,
when I break the skin with my teeth,
I cannot keep the insides from
dripping down my chin,
down the length of my forearm,
gathering at my elbow,
falling into the sink.
It makes my abdomen ache to think that I am
devouring the curves of my lower chakras,
the oranges and the reds
that glow at the seat of my being.
I am becoming myself, twofold,
and I can hardly bear that
the flesh is sweet
and that it grows brighter,
sweeter,
deeper down
until the pit is exposed,
tart
and rubbing against my tongue.
Nissa Lee studied literature at Rowan University in New Jersey. Her poetry has appeared in Wicked Alice and is forthcoming in Breadcrumb Scabs. She lives in the D.C. Metro area, but routinely escapes to the mountains to breathe.
