Bristol Bay: and Other Poems

In Memory of Nadia Anjuman 1980—2005

44 In Memory of Nadia Anjuman 1980—2005 “I am caged in this corner full of melancholy and sorrow... my wings are closed and I cannot fly . . . I am an Afghan woman and I must wail.” Dark red flower grown in the night. Watered by sorrow in the garden of loss. There—on the balcony above the empty tables In the hot afternoon—opening. I roll up my sleeves, taste the cold rains Coming in over the tops of the hemlock, Pick up the maul and go back to the wood I cut into rounds this summer. It’s dry Now. Time to become fire. I love this work, the huge, simple Satisfaction of opening the fresh wood With a quick stroke, the shoulders into it, The breath holding the heart like a glove. I just heard on the radio that Nadia Anjuman was killed by her husband. Another log halved then quartered. Village elders sanctioned it. There’s Sap on my hands. I’m feeling the rain More than I should. Unwarmed By the effort. Cold somewhere Blood can’t warm. One more poet Killed for understanding more than Anyone wants to know about the nature Of axmen and forests. 45 I sit on the biggest round and drink tea. The rain has cooled it enough not to burn. Think of my father and his hard hands. Getting between him and my younger brothers When the belt came out—taking their blows. Was he like a husband to me? This is not sunrise. It is sunset. Beginning of the end of time, when All things disappear, even to themselves. I set the cup down and pick up The maul—the work goes On—and both hands are needed. ...