Syria
by A. M. Ringwalt
Syria like a museum piece
Something watched from afar
To say I know it is to say I know
Haiti, which is false
I sort of know the D.R.
I know the warmth and feels
But to say I know Haiti
Is like saying I’m fluent in French
Which is sort-of false
Syria unlike a penthouse misunderstood
A beauty passed out in a dressing room
Or savagely killed salad, red onions hanging
From windows like experience and regret
An instrument praying for hands to pluck it
Ash, water hyacinth, paddleboat
An infant in the arms of a self-professed ill
Mother with the coffee soaked tongue
And crossed legs draping over
just-washed sheets
Like a steadfast sickening
The parlor fills again at night
And gathered around a TV
People try to know despair
In algebra class boys
Fix their eyes on girls’ crotches
As if to say Are they bleeding yet
Syria I am a photo looked at in passing
So sort-of ignored I’m a Gmail hacked
Or rolled ankle nursed and safe once again
I am something recoverable, not you
I can summon things like
A blown glass blue colored frock
With embroidered chickens
Bought by a father
On a surf trip to Baja
I can will memories back
But that won’t strengthen
Send for the caretakers the moms
The aching acknowledgement
Of affirmatives the nurturing
Of acknowledgement I could say
In a poorly scripted love-letter
Things that may reign true
And yet you hurt
I’ll wrap wounds in that frock
And when I kiss my lover it’s you
When I bathe at night it’s you
When I hold a child it’s you,
July, progression, nervous blushing
An organist’s introit, wintergreen leaf,
The water and the shaven leg
Writing by A. M. Ringwalt has appeared or is forthcoming in NOTHING TO SAY by 79 Rat Press/eight cuts, DUM DUM Zine: Punks and Scholars, BROWN GOD, OF ZOOS, Cargoes and Hanging Loose.
