AMEE BROUMAND

Falling

Raging in the windstorm, a kite swoops down, biting the rooftops.
Streamers ripple upon the windows, embattled shreds of gold.

Floods come, welling through the earth and eating the world away.
Maps tear themselves up, remembering what used to be.

Gone now, the thrushes sang as one, never noticing how close they pressed
or the living rush of proximity.  But joy was upon their faces.

Opals sink into the mud, into the blood-void, still staring at the gleam
of the sun.  In vain they glint inside, wondering at the depth of the sting.

Lost after an insane Saturnalia, the musicians find themselves at the cliff.
Beyond the cataract's call—silence.

Witness:  Silhouetted against the moon, a woman walks among the graves
of strangers.  The field is covered with green stones.

 

Night

The nurse wants more blood; the patient slumps down, ears
ringing.  Beeps, whirs, voices, footsteps—concerns and coldness.

Plucked from the heart of the ocean, a giant squid is tossed
onto the storm-ravaged shore.  It dies watching its home rush away.

Crowds gather every evening to view the comet, a bright smudge
in the spring dark.  Ancient and icy, it holds no memory of eyes.

Swirls of milk expand unnoticed in the tea as two old lovers ignore
each other in the cafe.  The autumn is sharp, an acrid embrace of air.

A spider tries to fly a petal on a strand of silk.  The web is destroyed
as the strange kite rises into the blue, the spider grasping at clouds.

Ten thousand drops of rain on the glass—the sky opens.
She haunts the shop doorway as the street boils, dancing.

 

           Edge

            The tensions of the air collide in sparks, a billion violins
            at the brink of the world.  Fireflies escape the limits of day.

            Wind lifts the petals higher.  A glass of red wine basks
            in the window, opening to the violet sea.

            Night beats beneath the faces and garments of sunny-day insects.
            A name is a crazy thing for heat to wear. 

Eyes close in the hum of the street—the air is a roaring ocean.
In the flat light of noon, no one remembers the sound.

            A heron at dusk nears the river on crooked wings, huge.
            There are ripples in the mind where the dead have been.

            The nest broke open in the storm—there are no more cries.  The mother
            still hovers over the ground, confused by the sudden weight within.

 

Amee Broumand is an Iranian-American writer from the Pacific Northwest. She has a background in literature, logic, philosophy, and photography. Something of a recluse, she has written over 3,000 poems which she has kept to herself; however, recently she has started to dust them off and face the faces. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Rivet, Clockwise Cat, Duende, and The Courtship of Winds.