Las Vegas
If I tell you
I speak mountain
If I tell you I hear the snow-
capped peaks murmur
they were once
the ocean floor
on our shadow desert
climb when earth
slides and slips –
where will you
arrange me
inside the categories
of your life?
Deep Water
We are wet.
We are salty.
We are burnt by relentless Albanian sun streaks.
We are soaked by gem-colored seas.
We are descending mountains.
We are squeezing lemons onto meats just grilled –
Goats that grew up here, our host proudly says, pointing to the forest.
Figs assaulted by our greedy teeth. Their skins lay limp and defeated.
Swallows by the sea are purple-blue.
They are fast.
They are flying on a tilt.
They are spreading wide their wings –
They leave no wrinkle in feathers slick with soaring.
They are similar to the swifts we counted.
They are Balkan and fresh from fighting.
We are not in danger here.
We are in danger here but not the danger we had normalized.
We are vulnerable to different terrors.
We are not afraid to unwrap chains from arms and wings.
See there is no current in which to drift away. We have learned a secret.
It is this: Deep water is delicious. The swallows may not know it, but watch
us reach to whisper this while inhaling the breeze of high speed wings.
Entering the Patriarchal Cathedral of The Holy Ascension of God in Veliko Ternovo, Bulgaria
After a steep hike on rocks and dirt
we caught a breath and slipped
through sweaty crowds to cross
the threshold of a cathedral lacking pews.
We circled the darkened sanctuary
heads back and eyes wide. Someone
had painted servant women offering
oval loaves of fox-colored bread
and frightened men hiding behind
bony fingers as long as limbs. Each
fresco revealed a scene of suffering
and we murmured words like beautiful.
We knew that we were starving.
Pinto
Three deer wander
up a slope of grass
behind a row
of aging townhomes.
Fog rises.
The sun, too.
Dawn dissipates
in its gentle way.
Time to make
themselves safe
from humans and machines
emerging with the day.
Instinct to abandon
open space
drives them to the tree line.
But this is hard.
Beneath the weeds, treasures
making them want to stay.
Someone has tossed
a waxy bell pepper
red and sweet. Seedy. It is all
so good. But the world
is waking. They step
into the woods and I feel
the reluctance in bones
of mine that long
to roam. One deer goes in.
And then the other.
The third deer is a pinto.
She lingers, flicking
ears while her piebald coat
shudders. One large brown
eye meets my smaller two.
We are curious and quiet.
I hold her hesitation,
sharing a whisper
of a moment until
she joins the others.
I go inside, struggling
with the screen
on my patio door
like always. I make
a tiny coffee on the stove.
I begin my day.
In the Everglades
I am in the Everglades. I’d like to think
you would love it here but instead I find
myself cataloguing all potential displeasures.
Biting flies. Park rangers knowing more.
Maybe the alligator bellows would have
impressed you? They sound like thunder
and I stopped, stunned by the guttural roar.
We never heard those – you and I. The driving
would have hurt you. Thirty-eight miles
there and back through the park. You never
liked boardwalks and you might have complained
the birds were too common; great egrets and ibis,
herons and wood storks. Masculinity displayed
at the Flamingo Marina would have left you
threatened and inadequate and unquiet.
Bearded men lowered boats, cleaned
and gutted their fresh catch. Mangrove snapper,
they told me, and spotted sea trout. They showed
me a crocodile and where to find manatees.
In the Everglades I think about you every minute
but I am relieved you are not here. You were
on my mind when the purple gallinule arrived,
stomping over lily pads with bright yellow feet.
You were with me in the mangroves, boat ramps
at Nine Mile Pond. Every single scene was a moment
we might have shared and then I did things you
would not have tolerated: a pricey hotel. A pitcher
of Sangria at dinner. Driving through Miami at night.
Not complaining about heat stroke or sore ankles
or chairs feeling like torture devices. There is only
one Everglades and you should never come here.
I am in the wild and you are nursing your inner child
and watching the same dull shows over and over,
wondering why the plot never changes. I feel
free today. Free of you. Free from you. This is
the wilderness without you. Look what I can do.
Cari Oleskewicz is an essay writer and poet loosely based in Gainesville, Florida. Her work has appeared in a number of online and print journals, including Literary Orphans, The Fourth River, Thimble Literary Magazine, Mom Egg Review, Spire Light, Found Poetry Review, and Lime Hawk Review. She has recently completed a memoir, for which she is seeking representation, and is working on a story about horses.
The Marbled Sigh 