“Yaremche Series”

“Yaremche Series” by Aisha Down begins:


Snow brindled the hills late last night,
behind the gray clouds impending at the south horizon
rise white clouds, flared pink like a cut thumb,
an empty seashell opened to draining light.
Here are the hands, volunteering to be yours again,
knotted, bruised at the wrist. Here is flour, here the heart
that will fail you, the water’s comprehending stain,
the bread that comes together, brief flesh
in your palms. Here are the inadequate resuscitations of art.
Here is yeast and yeast’s rising—sightless belly,
soured breath.

[continue reading]