Katarina Merlini A LITANY FOR A GIRL
“Wherever the spirit would go, they went, and the wheels rose along with them; for the spirit of the living creatures was in the wheels.” Ezekiel, 1:19-21
But, still, in their horror,
I think of them—the angels,
those wheels of eyes spinning,
beings of divine light, they live
where the material begins to take shape.
Know that I am thinking of you, too.
Know that I haven’t been to a church in years.
Know that, lately, I am in need
of inspiration, of faith and justice—
could you ever forgive me?
I wouldn’t. I think of you on that hill,
nodding, sliding off the bench,
twisted in what might be, in another time,
called divine rapture. But you were dying.
And I was watching. And I couldn’t say
anything until the paramedics came,
and then all I could say was
“I don’t think she’s ok.”
And you weren’t. And I left.
So, what is material anyway,
but something to be twisted,
and I believe this as much
as I believe the Thrones compel me
because I believe I stand the best chance
for them of all, to allot me grace
for leaving you there to die.
Later, I would hear
you were airlifted to a Detroit hospital,
a place better equipped for you,
what this world had you resort to.
I haven’t been to a church in years.
But there is one,
one that I pass by every day
to remember kneeling—mouth open,
lace-gloved and accepting—for grace.
You don’t know this,
because I didn’t have the time to tell you,
but when I was younger I would cry so hard
until I vomited in the carpet in front of a crucifix
begging for it to have been me, for Him,
on a hill in Calgary. And I would beg
for that now too. For you.
On a hill in Northern Michigan.
Here are my words then, they fall
limp and heavy from my veins.
I have always been close to death and
I am trying to fall in love with myself.
I wonder if you are too.
It seems impossible
until I think of the Thrones,
the angels of humility and justice, yet
so terrible and flamboyant—
how deeply they must love.
And sometimes I imagine perhaps,
if just for a moment,
they consider something other
than the divine, perhaps,
for just one moment, they pause
in their glorias—just once!—and they turn
to consider one another,
and with so many eyes
to behold their mirrored splendor,
they love.
MIDDLE DISTANCE
You see, here, everything
muffled by the slow tinkling
of ice on snow-glass, fat flakes
falling, their bodies engorged
on sky, dragging it down with them
for you. Ice rattle. Thick layer of cloud.
No one will think to look for you here.
No one else is here yet. And isn’t this
why you come here? To stand
where other men have walked,
to see a boot crossed over, one
over another, edges frozen
upward. In this place, beholden,
to nowhere and nothing—
could you believe it?
Believe as if you, yourself, here,
with your graceless
and undeserving fingers,
could remake life—
not just your life but life—
by building along the bodylines,
simple as color by numbers.
Stand. Stand still as the reeds
stalk-straight in this frozen swamp.
Further on, see the curve
of white pine, wind-bent,
encroaching on this nowhere.
Beset on all sides with snow,
your body pumping off an anemic heat.
Further on, see the curve
of white pine, wind-bent,
encroaching on this nowhere.
A freezing wind blooms
apple blossoms on your face.
GONE FISHING
I piled the bodies
of the dead chickens
in the barn because
death is a disease
that will keep spreading—
the ground was so frozen
I couldn’t get a shovel in.
The first snowless day
in June I’d head down
to the lake, half-thawed
chicken liver in hand,
and go fishing
for all the darkness
hidden under that water.
I believe in the day
I finally hook that big catch,
by the finger, or eye socket—
I’ll pull out a dead fishermen
and he will look me in the eye,
say Woman, who are you
to call on all that darkness,
who are you to think
you can hold a piece of it.
And I will say, my God,
my God, I will say,
after all these years,
I am nobody.
Nobody at all.
Katarina Merlini was born and raised in Michigan. She resides currently in South Carolina. Find her on Twitter @KatarinaMerlini.