☀ Editor's Choice: "Transhumance II" Phoebe Giannisi

for mom

i.
words are markings on the mountains
the mountains aren’t spoken
the words are plaited tracks
the words are branches
the place flashes through time
time does not exist
time turns back
each year I ascend and descend your line
time
carrying nothing on my back
I stitch I unravel joy through sorrow
carrying each day on my back.

ii.
in the beginning was the law: scraps of earth allotted
how far? up to the markings
each time a little farther out
beyond.

iii.
boats of people leave in droves
young and strong
their mothers in their headscarves left behind
wondering “where are you now, my son?”
daily and praying
in the light,
will they find out in the end?
“where are you, my son,” the goddess Thetis asks,
a cuttlefish or cormorant
diving into the sea
like a bird in the sky
“I nursed you with rosewater
raised you with milk
with my immortal fire
I submerged you within it
to be a shield for your body for when you’re beyond my reach
but bodies are bodies, they’re tangible
and I had to hold you by the ankles
upside down
from your tiny heels
and this stamp this undying grip
became your vulnerable marking, my dear
the place of the mother’s grip
the mark of death.”

iv.
they called and said
come over
when I got there a young shepherd
stood inside the pen a tall redhead
in a cobalt blue uniform choosing
kids for slaughter
males mostly, two months old
he took them one by one in his arms
and while they bleated walked over
cross dangling over his chest
and carried them across the fence
to the other side
he was Christ and Calf Bearer
and Charon
and also he was midwife
and mother he knew
by heart whose child was which
having guided with his hands
each one’s mouth to its mother’s breast
he showed it how
and even taught the mother
what to do
now he shoves each one inside
the black opening of the truck bed
the mouth that would
take them to Hades
and when
one manages to nudge
its tiny head through the hole he stops
to caress
it lovingly before hitting
its nose back in
when the mothers return to the pen
from pasture
and find them gone
inconsolable—he tells me—they grieve
do they realize?
will they remember?