08-30-2011
Daniel Khalastchi
The Maturation Of Man:
Because rain. Because hard. Because
pain in my ribs, because buckle and
wait. Because cramping. Because
kneeling low. Because pause. Because
fact. Because wings unreel the flat
spread of my stomach. Because feathers. Because
damp. Because red, white,
because loose the skin falls to all- pile my
shoes. Because shirt. Because torn. Because
buttons un- done, because chest a pale
fire. Because calm. Because thinking
through. Because steady. Because focused. Because
bones straighten, retract in a
fold. Because movement. Because pushing
out. Because stretch, because reach, because weak
the growth spreads like sick sheets on a line. Because
quiet. Because broken down. Because phone
calls, mothers, because children scream
softly they still want to touch me. Because
sirens. Because cameras and tanks. Because there
is no choice but to head for the hills. Because
terror. Because running scared. Because breathe, because
breathe, because spasms, beats. Because from a bench I
step to the air— watch as my city
folds down to a circle.
Audible Retraction:
In the hayloft of a neighbor’s
barn, I am just a
torso. Propped up against the
bailing doors, I stare at four
limbs laid out before me: a
child’s arm, the leg of a
rabbit, two twitching fins in
varying stages of
decay. Although I’m unsure,
a letter I find indicates they’ll
work if I can somehow get
them attached. Leaning
forward, I throw back my
weight in an attempt to lessen
the blow. Using only my
pectorals and chin, I rock my
way across the plywood
floor. Splinters in my chest
sledge to keep me
awake. Throughout the day,
I hear horses below nicker
while they’re watered and
fed. By nightfall, I’ve
covered what I assume is
eleven yards. This close, I
see now the limbs are fitted
with color-coded thread
bolts. I’ll sleep here. In the
morning I’ll call for help and
when no one answers I’ll
hold with my mouth stale
flesh in my teeth and screw in
whatever’s in reach.
Went We. Inside. My Colon A Tree: (Diagnosis)
Went we. Inside. My colon a tree. Broom heavy with light. With heavy cut leaves left. Standing the spill of. My levee. My leaving. My find young ulcers. Tall kicking in. Skirts. Legs white. High stockings stored. Up low were my. Enzymes. And you. Curtained the. Colon. Red salad your. Shoulder. So long. So roll. So still we waited I. Was dis- eased clean. Under my sternum. Here was the. Mandarin. Orange deep water breath here. Was the steady fed. Crate where they saw through the inside of this. Hot future to get it. Out. Get it out. Get. It. Out.
Manoleria:
My left wrist is tied to a
bumper. My right, to a horse
drinking water. The car and
the animal face opposite
directions. There are two
women with flags raised high
in the night. The engine revs
and the horse is mounted by a
jockey. Counting down from
ten, the girls heavy their
breath. The moon is hidden
by lights from a city. When
we start to pull away, even I
am excited.
-from Manoleria
BIO: Daniel Khalastchi is the author of Manoleria (Tupelo Press, 2011), and his poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in a variety of journals including MAKE Magazine; 1913: A Journal of Forms; jubilat; Forklift, Ohio; Court Green; Denver Quarterly; and iO: A Journal of New American Poetry. Daniel is a co-founder/editor of Rescue Press, and he currently lives in Iowa City where he is the Assistant Director of the University of Iowa’s Undergraduate Certificate in Writing Program.