Ana Arzoumanian

Dash out in long steps, grandma, run, don’t turn back, they are there, run, they’re watching you; to the other side, pretend, now pretend, don’t scream, who would help you now if it’s only you they have to play?; ease off that thing inside, be patient, they are only bodies threatening you, guarding you, only bodies squashing and pecking. Like a slave without a master who no more implores you, who has nobody nothing left to pray, be patient and forget; soon the last one will be at bay, finally squeezed, the last one and you’ll be dead....

It’s not a knife on cold sheets, angled profiles through the thick handle; promises of limits. With no purpose always damp, pulsing. If it were a knife it’d keep standing on what resists it. If it were, I would then clean it, and putting it away, would not remember. As knives can not remember. If it were, every time my hands are in that pocket, I would feel it say “here it is, now yes, oh you couldn’t, but try!...

And the other blood which does not – run, which smells of acid of women whose blood does not – run. The suture of their legs, Its sharp stiffness, in morsels mutilated invisible on the sand, on the sand to the sea, to the sea that swallows ships; on the sand of exile dissolving drinking jars with moles, and the air stays overcast, concave, shovelfuls to inhale, pushing dragging shabby dresses of women whose blood does not – run....

SHE WITHOUT A DAUGHTER By Ana Arzoumanian Dash out! Using large steps, grandma, run!… No turning back, they are coming, run, they are upon you; go to the other side, pretend, now pretend, don’t scream, who would help you now? if it’s just you they have to play; ease off that thing inside, be patient, they are just bodies threatening you, guarding you, just bodies squashing and pressing. Like a slave without a master who implores you not to who has nobody to pray to be patient and try to forget; soon the last one will be resting, spent finally, the last one and you’ll have died each time too....