In Each Family Unit There Is a Carpenter, a Maker of Coffins
The father fashions his own death. He takes his time sculpting it. Attends to the shape of the fingers. The signs of his downfall.
I'm thinking about what my father taught me. I am remembering: I didn't want to learn anything.
What I didn't want to say is: I will always be sixteen.
The father makes the son's organs in his own image. He entrusts himself to pi(e)ty.
The father makes himself within the son. Of wood. Then he burns.
The father fashions his own death. He takes his time sculpting it. Attends to the shape of the fingers. The signs of his downfall.
I'm thinking about what my father taught me. I am remembering: I didn't want to learn anything.
What I didn't want to say is: I will always be sixteen.
The father makes the son's organs in his own image. He entrusts himself to pi(e)ty.
The father makes himself within the son. Of wood. Then he burns.
1999
I.
Versions of Jocasta's story do not rely on depicting her life, which is always the same, but on imagining her death.
II.
I woke up one morning like it was 1999, and at twenty-five my mother had left her youth behind without ever trying drugs.
It's sad.
My mother's youth used up on a street named after an architect. In a city by the sea. My mother's twenty-five years, no hecatomb.
Virgins who die like men do not struggle in the moment of sacrifice.
My mother's right side exposed. My hand on her liver.
It was only thus that we could sleep.
III.
Jocasta hanged in Sophocles's Oedipus.
Neck slit over the bodies of her sons in Euripides's The Phoenician Women.
I.
Versions of Jocasta's story do not rely on depicting her life, which is always the same, but on imagining her death.
II.
I woke up one morning like it was 1999, and at twenty-five my mother had left her youth behind without ever trying drugs.
It's sad.
My mother's youth used up on a street named after an architect. In a city by the sea. My mother's twenty-five years, no hecatomb.
Virgins who die like men do not struggle in the moment of sacrifice.
My mother's right side exposed. My hand on her liver.
It was only thus that we could sleep.
III.
Jocasta hanged in Sophocles's Oedipus.
Neck slit over the bodies of her sons in Euripides's The Phoenician Women.
Only thus, in your voice, could we sleep.
Swimmers
In the morning, the children's breath fills the floats that lie scattered around the pool deck.
My sister learned to swim at the age of nine. My mother, at thirty-eight.
It's a matter of moving forward against the water, trying to perpetuate something that I can't understand. Same with children, their dance.
*
My sister looks taller when she's wet. Mom doesn't.
I wait for them, I watch how they swim. The glass fogs over with breath and effort.
Swimmers
In the morning, the children's breath fills the floats that lie scattered around the pool deck.
My sister learned to swim at the age of nine. My mother, at thirty-eight.
It's a matter of moving forward against the water, trying to perpetuate something that I can't understand. Same with children, their dance.
*
My sister looks taller when she's wet. Mom doesn't.
I wait for them, I watch how they swim. The glass fogs over with breath and effort.
My sister crosses the pool, her suit is red. Her arms coordinating with her legs, hammering at the surface, bringing up an indecent amount of water. Yelling, always on the verge of making a scene. I hate it so when we draw attention to ourselves.
Look at me, look at me.
How high the splash. A measure of happiness.
I wave from afar.
Look at me, look at me.
How high the splash. A measure of happiness.
I wave from afar.
The foot returns to its place. Hands switch. She moves forward.
Blood moves forward.
*
The wind lashes the branches of the trees that edge the park.
Inside afternoon cafés people have tea, look out the window, or smile.
The din is intolerable.
Meanwhile, I think about how deep down a tree begins.
*
In the lane nearest the window my mother swims. In the water two men struggle to move forward. Just like her. Sometimes she sinks and hits the bottom of the pool.
My mother is kin to those whose bodies have lived through war without ever going to war. They get in the water and it doesn't hurt anymore.
While I wait I walk around the grounds. It's cold and soon it will be night. A group of women looks at some wedding flowers, white, inside an open van. They speak of the past, not of beauty. I wait.
My mother gave birth to two heathy children and a wound. We imitate each other, the three of us. When they get out of the pool, my sister looks taller.
[These pieces are from Ramos's 2017 book Lumes, which is available through the publisher, Apiario]
[Ismael Ramos's blog: http://otristestephen.tumblr.com/]
Blood moves forward.
*
The wind lashes the branches of the trees that edge the park.
Inside afternoon cafés people have tea, look out the window, or smile.
The din is intolerable.
Meanwhile, I think about how deep down a tree begins.
*
In the lane nearest the window my mother swims. In the water two men struggle to move forward. Just like her. Sometimes she sinks and hits the bottom of the pool.
My mother is kin to those whose bodies have lived through war without ever going to war. They get in the water and it doesn't hurt anymore.
While I wait I walk around the grounds. It's cold and soon it will be night. A group of women looks at some wedding flowers, white, inside an open van. They speak of the past, not of beauty. I wait.
My mother gave birth to two heathy children and a wound. We imitate each other, the three of us. When they get out of the pool, my sister looks taller.
[These pieces are from Ramos's 2017 book Lumes, which is available through the publisher, Apiario]
[Ismael Ramos's blog: http://otristestephen.tumblr.com/]
