Untitled, Lauren Harris

 

I

First, Stalin burned the forests.
Next, planted hemlocks in

mathematical rows so no one
could hide in the woods,

sap running down the legs
of the evergreens.

II

I melt gooseberries into jam,
mosquitoes swarming at my eyes.

The pond is lukewarm, pollen-coated.
A rain of insects and woodsmoke

buries us as you take the spoon from my hands,
already too sugared and dark.

III

In the near Arctic, the moon
rises late— we don’t sleep.

I catch you crying:
the constellations
are different from home—

where is your Carina,
keel of a ship?

IV

We collect milk
from the woman uphill.
Deaf, she hums

at the sink of her cement house.
Her cat births, skin weathers.

We bring her raw honey
from bees in boxes.

V

We never separate,
not even to launder our sheets.

Together,
take our shoes off,

fill tubs in the pond, add
clothing & soap, stomp,

churning suds
barefoot;

water blackens
around our ankles—