Traci Brimhall | Poetry
from NER 40.3 (2019)
Misery won’t touch you gentle. It always leaves
its thumbprints on you; sometimes it leaves them
for others to see, sometimes for nobody but you to know of.
―Edwidge Danticat, The Farming of Bones
MACHETE: I AM
Steel cut silver glaciers splitting the sea in-
to several bodies of water
Stripped winds slashing through leaves &
felling branches & trees
Still ocean waves suspended in blue-
curved motion ready to cleave
Stretched cirrus clouds slit open &
ready to curdle a stormy scream
Single shards of lightning strip-
ped from the fist of an angry god
Surgical scalpel weapons open &
stitch scars & swollen wounds
Sullied nail file metal carving cut-
icle cane harvest from brittle ground
Sharp teeth slicing raw meat &
savaging a pack of hungry wolves
Slick needles blinded by the dark &
without an eye for threading
Silhouette of fumbling fingers bathed in moon-
light pointing at you, you &
you—the letter S split—
at the spine &
the sacrum
MACHETE: MY MASTER
The hand is my master
The flesh my song
My master says:
“I know you don’t
know how to make
a decision”
so when he sings
I swing
MACHETE: THE TASTE
I most prefer the taste of plátanos against my cheeks.
Dry against my lips & sometimes sticky sweet on my gums
it severs smooth. I know that what I’ve cut will feed.
For thirst I like to strike balding coconut skulls swollen
with cerebral fluid that sprinkles my easy edges wet with milk.
A drink of solace on a sweltering summer day.
Shredding bark, I spoon a gentle meal back & forth.
Lapping the brown, I crave the soft rub of splintered wood.
My sharpened tongue insatiable as I carve.
But I flinch when thrust against la caña. Sugar cane
nectar makes my mouth water. But I can’t shake
the bitters of blood that warm my blades when I mistake
skin for stalk. I spit numb & gag.
Teething pink muscle gets stuck between my teeth.
Dull blades repent for feasting on human flesh.
When I finally hit stubborn bone, it snaps.
The collapse, a fissured mountain of crumbling marble,
a ballad of sour screams I cannot silence or swallow.
MACHETE: NAMES
You have called me
many names:
Kukiri
Bolo
Barang
Bowie
Billhook
Golok
Hawkbill
Heavy
Latin
Paranga
Tapanga
Cane
You have used me
to cut & conquer:
cartilage
kings
skin
borders
bone
trees
tendon
colonists
& crops
But where can I find
the names of the flesh
you’ve made me carve?
Where have you buried
the human limbs
you’ve made me cleave?
MACHETE: ACCEPTANCE
I eat paper
for breakfast
& rub my quiet along
the banks of the River
Massacre
I collect soil &
sand on the tips
of my toes
to feel a little less
alone
There is the river
with every bone in it
Here is the blade
littered with promise &
swallowed names
There is the border of fish &
flesh crossing
Here is the sharp heat &
hunger
I want to love the rain
Raise the city up &
dip my tongue in honey
remember the bones
wild animals & sugarcane
eat tree bark & almonds
I am your endings &
your beginnings
I am everything
that begins &
ends with blood
MACHETE’S LULLABY
In the dark
in the dark
my dimpled grooves
will crater
a heart
before sunrise
& in rain
I’ll find you
again & again
my hands
in your hands
glass hiding
in sand
MACHETE: UNDONE
I understand
decay
gangrene wounds
that never seal
a shine that won’t
return
sunlight cut
between the leaves
of a palm tree
I know the ache
of decay
pulsing
itching
sunburned poppies
that flower
into black dahlias
when you want
the blood
to flow but it won’t
when you want
the steel to cut
but it bends
grapes that fail
to ferment into wine
Decay is more
than loss
everyone knows
dust
decay is to lose
more than once
Watch the pieces
wither & fall
one leaf
one limb
one salted blade
at a time
wings of a butterfly
dried up after
a summer sun
Decay
like rust
leaves everything
undone