from: Postcards from the Knife-Throwers Wife
—Alex Stolis
August 18—Jackson, MI
We grew up in a labyrinth; we were question marks,
tumbling stars fading in a rumble of sky. I remember
soot, dirt under fingernails, smell of cigars, the feeling
of stiff canvas and damp air. If anyone should ask, it’s
all a dream. Made-up stories of who we are and where
we came from. The truth is kept secret. Wrapped up
and buried. I know by heart the lightning beat of your
pulse, the cadence of breath when you laugh. Secrets
are all I have left. The only things to truly call my own.
To give them away would mean to be adrift on neon
moons, water soft and new. Oblivious to time, space,
destination. With no direction home.
August 20—Marion, IN
Making our bed, the sun was late in rising. I wanted
to die. Not dramatic. Not heroic but soundless, breath
-less, colorless. My past has broken with me whether
I wished it to or not. How many memories have been
lost trying to forget the bad ones? It’s a price I’m still
happy to pay for living in this unformed place, filled
with unformed possibilities. Of course, I still dream.
Of bridges. Dirty gray suspension bridges. Wooden
railroad bridges. Bridges crossing rivers, the water
roiling, angry. I find myself lost; unable to speak,
barefoot, and frozen in place. I lay the coverlet over
the bed watch the sun bury itself in the clouds, hiding,
waiting. I open the window, feel the breeze against
my face. Dust motes float from nowhere fully formed,
a universe that dissipates like a ghost. I’m still alone,
made of hollows, solitude; particles of air and liquid.
August 21—Anderson, IN
When I was a little girl my grandfather would have me practice
saying my name in Italian; all the proper vowel pronunciations
and rolled rrrrr. He would take my hand in his, look in my eyes,
whisper, don’t forget who you are.
Husband mine, you told me that we offer all there is to give,
tell me you ache yearn can hardly breathe for the distance
that’s cleaved us in two. How we hold each other close but
aren’t able to touch, how we have been ever faithful
to our one heart. You’re real and make-believe, flesh & blood
in another land; a ghost in my life. Which of us will be alone
to rewrite our love when all that remains is a bundle of brittle
and faded letters?
This morning is suffocating hot, I’ve nowhere to go but know
who I am. Know what it feels like to be alive in the memory
of trees and grass, to be the light on the wet, round stones
sunning themselves in the riverbed.
ALEX STOLIS lives in Minneapolis; he has had poems published in numerous journals. The full length collection Postcards from the Knife-Thrower was a runner up for the Moon City Poetry Prize in 2017. Two full length collections Pop. 1280 and John Berryman Died Here were released by Cyberwit and are available on Amazon. His work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in Piker’s Press, One Art Poetry, Eunoia Review, and Star 82 Review. The chapbook, Postcards from the Knife-Thrower's Wife, is forthcoming from Louisiana Literature Press in 2024.