Whispers for the Unclean Dead
in this phantom forest frequented
by lurking leshy and patient polevoi
one baba sits, sways, sighs
I can’t help you
she groans between the to and fro
as groans her palsied rooster legs
you can baptize your bastard baby
three hundred and thirty-three times over
but back its soul can never be bought
Have you never had a child?
begs the kneeling molodka with black holes beneath her eyes
Have you none of your own?
a rustle in the white birch leaves
a chuckle in the wayward wind
the joke passed between the common terns and loons
You misunderstand, I have one treasured child,
she spits through a spiteful smirk,
who is the father of that one there
Baba’s knobbed finger finds like some twisted twig
the empty swaddle there
which unravels to a spool of mottled atrophy
she laughs poison mushrooms
because she’d know her son’s handiwork anywhere
Where is your husband, your baby, your god, now?
the water molecules in the soil
rise to a boil, distillation
death gives way to death
there is no ceremonious prayer of welcome
no iron sglaz amulets askew
here, no one lingers on the threshold
an invitation consists of: a shrug
an over-the-shoulder glance
might as well come in, then
only one mat, so you can sleep by the fire
but watch out—around two or three
the pots and pans come to life. They mean no harm.
one grainy room ground to bits
in this earthquake of wretched frustration
you can’t answer to a god if it stops asking
All we’ve got is each other
Baba mutters through the door handle
the first of many incantations
a whisper for tears, a whisper for blood
a whisper for pins and needles and pine needles too
whispers that belong at the bottom of the river
We’ll skip the whispers for colic, for now
but you’d be surprised how long and low the night can wail
they move on to whispers for rooster crows
dig hearty, dig deep, dig down into
the damp, damp dirt
and bite that tongue—the forest is loud enough as it is
As the unclean dead rise and dance
molodka sleeps on her pillow of ashes
and dreams of nothing for the first time.
Farrell Greenwald Brenner is from the Hudson Valley and is a recent graduate of Syracuse University. Her writing has appeared in Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Lilith Magazine, Lavender Review, Hematopoiesis Press, Milkweed Poetry Journal, and more. Her inaugural book of poetry, Diatribe from the Library, was published in 2017 by Headmistress Press. She works for a nonprofit organization for the LGBTQ community by day and moonlights as a beginning roller derby skater.