January 2023
Bio Note: Much like Rilke’s advice to the Young Poet, I cannot live without writing and I can no longer breathe without dirt and archeology. I have lived without both. Finally, both parts of me can be played on one string—and what glorious music there is to be made.
When I am 35
When I am 35 my grandmother will die.
She has died many times since,
She leaves me alone when I order a McDonald’ coffee—
sinking—she died again.
I sip lavender and vanilla tea—sitting on wet leaves, jagged grass.
When I squirt nose spray it shoots lilac—all those clusters of blossoms
uncontained.
I powder my chin.
The tree blossoms in winter—and then vanishes
we have died again.
I see her mouth open—escaping—know she died
with marmalade on her tongue, skin smoothed with balm.
She will have still died.
When I sit with lilacs, cradle amethyst—write in her scroll she dies—but
I resuscitate her.
She cannot escape my colored pens.
They chisel her nose into verse,
her wispy curls into my reflection—those pens
tear down secrets, rip seams in aprons.
All that work—memory—in this expanding universe—
who will etch my lips, my words—the vacuuming?
How can I explain that I have no one to dissect particles
the vacuum has tamed?
My grandmother dies when I write the word vacuum—
when others spit about the wretched chore.
After I vacuum, I smell lilac—I capture her alive—that one rapturous breath—
I marvel as the Universe expands and the galaxy turns.
I know that every one of my rapturous breaths matters.
Rilke’s Violin
There is always rain in my heart
whisper of trees far from my windows
candles snuffed and 2 am ache
drift upon me.
Death sits and holds my hand
weaves melody and wyrd
croons song
tender at midnight
dagger minute after.
And what violinist holds us in his hand?
lovers’ song,
rich shush of dark
chocolate dream and there is song
on my heart
there is no one string
there is no fiddle bow
as I curl above the covers
counting cobwebs
and how many times
Death squeezes my hand
and I know that my song
is dangerous, crosses
boundaries, far from sunlight crispness
song that fills ache with ache
love song with love song
tears cannot flow
when long songs play sweet and tender
and Death’s hand is on your hip
swaying moonlight
and your not-lover is far
but is near and warm,
clasped inside your honey voice.
That is my O’ sweetest song.
©2023 Kim Malinowski
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