V.

Carla Galdo

In Exile, You Will Sometimes Forget

I always thought I would have relished it—

that work of clothing all creation’s newness

in words, of sending lumbering, fluttering things                                     

away with monikers as shields against

confusion, anonymity, or loss.

But when I woke, the world was brimming

with what it was supposed to be, a song

already sung. And I was young, so dazzled

by color and cacophony—and you. 

You basked on sunny stones, on riverbanks

near waters where vermilion fish thronged thick

as stars. You cupped dirt in your hands, and breathed

warm benedictions on the seeded earth,

coaxing slim sprouts from darkness into light. 

The many names I didn’t give the world                               

I gave to you: a name for when you worked,

or slept, or laughed; a name for just before

a kiss. A name for when you said good-bye

to walk the silted riverbanks alone;

a name for coming home.

                                                  It was enough—

to rest with you while flaming skies grew dim,

wrapped in the surging descant of the night,

as insects clicked and birds trilled canticles                         

of praise. One night the glade birthed fireflies,

and you spoke my name, pressing my hand against

your ringing throat as though I might hold sound

like some rare bloom just offered up by earth.

***

You tie the flap of goatskin tight, to shut

the doorway of our tent against the sand

that rages in the wind, and grits our clothes,

and salts our bread, and grinds between our teeth.

The heat consumes us both, insatiable

and stifling, oppressive as regret.

Most days, I do not speak. We left behind

slim silences—the ones like wrens, winged things

that landed light and flitted off again.

Now silences are like stone monoliths—

unchanging, rooted, still.

                                                 I will not ask

your hopes, or talk of our dead sons, or wonder

what is it that you think while slaughtering

a lamb. The blade pressed to the pulsing neck,

the coursing blood, the body swinging high,

the skin you score in cruciform, the strain

to flay the dangling beast. You cut and grip,

lean all your weight, and as the hide peels free,

you groan. Perhaps you wish to flay yourself

of shame, tear back this cloak that clings upon

our hearts—                                                                                   

                         but I won’t ask. I cannot bear

your shaded eyes—like suffocated skies,

like onyx stones, like coals that finally die                                       

half-buried in our fire’s gray remains.

***

At night, I braid our daughters’ heavy hair,

stack bowls, brush scraps into the dust outside.

At night, it's you who sleep and I who wake             

to listen as you cry out in your dreams,

chasing black birds of prey out of your mind.

You shudder, settling all your brittle bones

in sheepskins as you dream of carcasses                   

and brokenness and thirst.

                                                   I do not know

the measure of our years in this lost place, 

but as I trace the lines carved in your hands

by toil, and touch the curving moon-scar cut

along your side, I know you have forgotten

much.

              But I still have my memories curled                         

in me, and in the quiet times they swell

and kick against the tension of this life.       

The iridescent birds, the springs that surged

in verdant wilderness. The way you climbed

the trees without a thought, without a pause.

You were a nimble creature, lithe and free,

relaxed, at ease with all the world’s warm things—

and me.

                Sometimes, I sleep. I see strange sights

that I don’t understand: winged brightnesses,

vessels filled to the brim, and children crowned

with fire—but, then—you thrash, they dissipate—

and I’m awake. You’re damp with sweat as though

you’ve plunged into some frigid lake. I dry

your face with cloth, and try to settle you

again.

I’m tired. Just tired enough to dare

defiance of the mute oblivion

that suffocates us both, as I hold vigil

beside your restlessness. I think of names—

the ones we never say, my name and yours.

The litany of names you gave, the words

that pulse, and crow, and clothe the nakedness

of things. And though I am afraid they’re nothing—

wind scattering through a desiccated field,

a snapping branch, a sudden hiss of steam—

I cannot help but speak, and give them back

to you, as daylight dims the whispering stars. 

Carla Galdo