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page 96
with frail blooms drawing strength from atavistic barks and sacred cliffs – blessing them with breaths as they search thickets and vines for clearings – the wind brushing off leafs and sifting through shadows with the distant perfume of diesel oil. iii. Then the old man spoke of an ancient god falling from the sky – and the god’s velvet feathers scattering over hardened shapes – the god spending time on earth with men who knew nothing of pure beauty. And in her rage – the god finally rose – and rose with petals of fire falling in the wake of her flight leaving the earth and mortals to remember her forever. Gabriel and Ji-hwan take all this with a grain of salt – Lomonosov graduates. Journalists out here to get something good on the mad veteran in Borneo still haunted by screaming villages burning beneath 94
page 97
dirty clouds of smoke – valleys torn and littered with limbs – the heights of Caucasian mountains shivering with trees… And the two men will lift their glasses in a bar overlooking The Moskva – their piece tagged with names of warlords who sent hail over broken hills to churn fields as villagers fled in droves for Ingushetia. And though the Moscovite and Koroyo saram know I dream of those who ran from incendiary rain – running into the scope of our aim – they don’t know that I too wish to be buried beneath a stone without a name – where a single flower burgeons from blind roots that felt through stony soil to find a cup of bone – the cavity of my skull compact with secrets. My ribs will be collapsed. My bones leached of minerals. And my soul lost somewhere above a field where lone wolf calls echo between Chiri-Yurt and Duba-Yurt. 95

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with frail blooms drawing strength from atavistic barks and sacred cliffs – blessing them with breaths as they search thickets and vines for clearings – the wind brushing off leafs and sifting through shadows with the distant perfume of diesel oil.

iii. Then the old man spoke of an ancient god falling from the sky – and the god’s velvet feathers scattering over hardened shapes – the god spending time on earth with men who knew nothing of pure beauty. And in her rage – the god finally rose – and rose with petals of fire falling in the wake of her flight leaving the earth and mortals to remember her forever. Gabriel and Ji-hwan take all this with a grain of salt – Lomonosov graduates. Journalists out here to get something good on the mad veteran in Borneo still haunted by screaming villages burning beneath

94

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