Zelda, I understand

(for Zafer)

 

Geese migrating south,

I think of this while

washing

the broad V of his back

soap slipping

south,

down the bend

to stanchion thighs

 

Zelda Fitzgerald once said

of F. Scott that she wanted

him to wear her,” like a watch-

charm, or a buttonhole bouquet,”

maybe it’s strange that I

understand

her bipolar mind? —that

insurmountable longing to plunge

into another, uninhibited, unafraid

 

I smell the faintness of magnolias, thinking

of her, this beautiful peril of a woman

submerged completely in her lover

 

I, too, am that woman dear Zelda

even in Anatolia, Montgomery is not

far away.

The Magnolias again...

 

my fingers find his fine,

smooth face,

I give him a soapy

lemongrass

kiss, this

more humid than the steam –

flitting feathers

against beaded skin,

Weeping Willow in the breeze

of him.

 

I want him to wear me too

darling Zelda.

This, I understand.

Understand,

your marvelous, licentious- mind.

Traveling the Pine Barrens

 

September Sunday, we drove through the Pine Barrens

New Jersey seemed like a rustic mining town on the other side

of the world. Steam rifted off hillsides of frost,

 sun licked porticos into the icy banks

 

We followed side roads as they twisted like Colorado’s Gold Camp Road,

cutting through Rocky Mountain tunnels from Bear Creek to Cripple

Creek. I even caught a Redheaded Woodpecker knocking on a Pine,

his head so strange, like a rooster’s comb. I imagined a loud cock-a-doodle-doo

 

Was I here before, mixing the terrains? Or did the frosted

windshield swooshing the fog take me out of my head and into

him –

     him…

parting hair from my eyes, tucking it behind my left ear. We drove too,

in a small space of time.

 

Two men. They did have the same eyes. Yes, but different

hands –

         hands....

One of his jammed inside rust, cowhide gloves, piloting the turns, 

the other in my naked palm, tracing fingers, flicking nails

our breath clouding the glass, like delicate spider webs

in between crisp-autumn Aspen leaves.

 

The other side of this road leads to the Jersey Shore, a seaside rendezvous,

and a weekend laughing at his stupid jokes, sipping his tawdry-unfortunate port.

Two men, two merges in empty hallways to somewhere else,

and two very different women.

Lovers and Pines

Changing winds move through pines, growing in rock-strewn

cliffs near the Aegean Sea. Everything changes here, but these pines

are old friends, encircling lifetimes.

 

We embrace hands, not wanting to admit that we are getting older.

What couples will sit here, sharing coffee, winks, and lover’s gests

after we are gone?

 

Will they remember how deeply we loved beneath happy canopies

of branches? These verdant grandfathers and grandmothers who keep

secrets of the world.

 

They have kept us along with seasons. Cycles of warmth and chill,

little bees with queens and drones who sting those coming near.

 

But we do not frighten. They relax, sing us surahs,

then buzz like barefoot toddlers leaping in summer clover

 

We want the world to know that we were here,

below bark and bough, smiling, planning our future among

Turkish coffee grounds, teas and cappuccinos.

 

You, chuckle when I place my foot between your thighs,

my red toes smooth wrinkles in your jeans, wandering further,

 

The bees go crazy!

 

pines hide in setting sun, just for a while, letting us have our fun,

whispers … hums,

maybe uttered by those before –

 

couples planning under parasols of shade

with sweet nesting sun,

a voyeur breathing between unfastened pants and pines.

 

 *

Water Wheels of Hama

“We breathed together then,” she would say, stirring her spiced lamb; Arab, Kurdish, Druze, Armenian, Circassian, Assyrian, Alawite, Turkish, Palestinian, Ismaili, Greek, Jewish, Yazidi. Samira, my mother, told stories about the Water Wheels of Hama. She would laugh making her kibbeh, my great grandmother, Anissa would nod her scarfed head, the old Spice Road, “Allah, Allah.” Anissa always told the same story of Ottoman recipes brought by Chinese caravans, sweet and sour recipes too – mixed meat and fruit- the Persian way. But, momma kept mixing her kibbeh made with quince, cooked with pomegranates, lamb, and minced onion. This was her Aleppo- her kibbeh.

We hold these traditions, like the Water Wheels of Hama hugged Orontes River. Tomorrow, I wait for another story from Anissa, Momma says we will make more kibbeh, but I know she is lying. The lambs have gone missing. We are missing too, trapped someplace between Kilis and dying.

 Nirvana

They chased the sun in December's early fall,
moved in and out of two-thousand- year- old
cobbled-stone and marbled streets, burnished
gold as fields of October's ripe maze.

Even through the bazaar of chattering crowds,
street-side loiters, marina yachts, and seaside
merry, they heard only one another.

The faintest breath of fish, spider, and honeybee.

And so they drove. Her, with cream hands tucked
inside the warmth of his jeans. He, hands to Harley
bars, careful to not let wind chill the snow of her skin.

They dipped in and out of shadow, light, pavement,
and pines, bending into moment, somewhere between

easy and nirvana,

 

setting into one another with disappearing sun.

Yet, rising with moon's imperial crest

 

 

Fading

 

Today I am not afraid of the north wind blowing from Rhodes,

or the tremors strike at midday

and, I am not afraid of the man with crooked smile and dirty

hair, or the gang of strangers yelling on a darkened street-corner

the waves crash at my feet and the tides howl my name

but I do not fear them, I do not flinch

As I walk past fields of mint, hyacinth and jasmine

I do not remember their smells, even

while crushing them between my fingertips,

I do not recall

nor the names of the faceless men who smile and call out my name

the same ones that shout as I pass by every afternoon,

but, knowing soon

I must leave you

leaving

left

the Sunday of your smile, the way you squint your eyes when

you laugh, say nothing and at the same time everything

for me, you are ten thousand suns blazing

night's moon silvers behind your eyes

like me the wolves are jealous and mourn their loss, and I will

see no one

hear no one

smell no one

taste no one

because you are my senses

so let the north wind blow

darkness cover over every lit -path

and sea's waves crash like too many violent spring storms

fading for you,

you forgetting,

FORGETTING ME.

are my sole DISASTERS

 

Kristen D. Scott is a six-time nominee of the Pushcart Prize in poetry for six works from her 2014 collection Opiate. She is an award-winning essayist for her work on Federico Garcia Lorca and his books the Divan del Tamarit, Poet of the Deep Song, and essay, "The Duende."

 She has published in several anthologies, newspapers, and ezines, including two front covers from Nacional Newspaper in Albania, Atunis in Germany, Al-Nasr in Algeria, the San Diego Poetry Annuals, Nomos Review, Perigee, Alesbuyia, and has published two poetry collections from Garden Oak Press; Liasions (2012) and Opiate (2014). She has been translated into Arabic, French, Albanian, Türçe, and Italian.

Scott is Editor-In-Chief (emeritus), founder, and web designer of KNOT Magazine.