Like Water on Stone Read online

deep red paprika to make a paste,

  crisp allspice for manti stuffing,

  mahlap’s bitter almond nip.

  We buy a bolt of woven wool

  tight with pattern and warmth.

  Mama says the silks I love

  will wait till I’m a wife.

  Silks instead of Mama,

  silks instead of home.

  I search for Vahan in the market,

  beside his clocks and chimes.

  Arkalian clocks

  keep time for miles.

  Beirut, Konya, Van.

  Baron Bedros, Vahan’s father,

  works the tiny tools and gears

  inside the clocks’ bellies.

  Vahan paints their faces.

  His long-lashed eyes meet mine.

  Mama sees and pulls me from him,

  back to the Turk to pay,

  pinching my hand,

  as her voice stays honey sweet.

  “Sosi jan, a woman never looks.”

  Fatima Bey Injeli comes into the stall behind us.

  “Special price for you today,

  gavour, infidel?

  As though you need it,

  already with all the best land.”

  Mama places the bolt between them.

  Her left hip juts out like a ledge.

  She stares straight ahead, lips sealed.

  The Turk from the shop says to Fatima,

  “The gavour are clever with their money,”

  as he drops a coin

  into Mama’s open palm.

  “Teşekkür ederim.” Mama thanks him,

  nose up, lips drawn tight

  like a hard, wrinkled pit.

  “I can buy my cloth from others if you like.”

  The Turk bows his bald head low,

  the fringe of hair around his crown

  like an upside-down, bristle-black smile.

  “No, madame. You must come again

  with your lovely daughter.

  The bolt and the price pleased us both.”

  “Good day, then,” Mama says,

  pulling me from the stall,

  past the other vendors,

  past the crowd,

  over the bridge,

  squeezing my hand,

  muttering,

  “The bee gets honey from the same flower

  where the snake sucks her poison.”

  She lets go

  only when we reach our orchard

  spread along the river’s edge.

  “I said nothing to that snake

  only because your father

  holds her husband, Mustafa, dear.

  As if I didn’t have enough to worry me

  with you making eyes at clockmakers’ sons

  before fathers have even spoken?

  And Shahen, always wet from the river.

  He played with Turkish boys again, you know.

  The pair of you will be my end.

  And the nerve of that vendor,

  insulting us

  as we give him good money!

  Sosi, look around you.

  This is Armenia.

  Fat Turks from Constantinople

  rule for miles and miles,

  making Muslim villagers brazen.

  Kurds and Turks may live here too,

  but these are our lands.

  Your father planted these very vines

  with cuttings from my father’s arbors

  when he was leaving boyhood,

  the age of you and Shahen now.

  His grandfather’s grandfather

  planted the olives,

  his father,

  the apricots.

  Nothing came free.

  Not the millstones.

  Not the earth.

  Not the sheep.

  Not the wheat.

  Generations of sweat.

  Don’t you ever forget.”

  Grapevines heavy with fruit

  bend over straight wood frames.

  Silver olive leaves

  shimmer behind them.

  Apricots blush in the sun.

  Shahen

  When she’s near me,

  Sosi keeps her head bent

  to try to spare me shame.

  But I know she’s taller now.

  Everyone knows.

  Kevorg used to call us

  twin persimmon pits,

  Jori and Joreni,

  like the two smooth brown seeds

  he pulled one day

  from the soft, sweet flesh

  of a yellow-orange fruit.

  Now he’s silent.

  I’ll catch up this fall.

  Before the persimmons

  ripen again.

  At the river,

  I’m the smallest.

  But water evens us out.

  I swim the currents like a fish,

  faster than the fastest Turk,

  gliding in the waves.

  I always win.

  My stones skip

  far beyond the others.

  Bounce, bounce,

  ba, ba, ba,

  like the beat of a hand on a drum.

  But best is when I float.

  My weightless body

  stretches

  from one rocky bank

  all

  the

  way

  to

  the

  other.

  Ardziv

  I circled above,

  watching Shahen

  swim in the river

  with the young drum caps.

  Farther up the river,

  a small, fat frog, at water’s edge,

  caught bugs with his tongue.

  A heron soon ate him.

  I swooped down and grabbed a fish.

  That’s when I saw him,

  that boy, the drum cap

  with the toothy grin.

  He was with the man

  with the red drum cap

  and the stiff white beard

  trimmed and combed and polished

  so it spread out and down,

  like the feathers of a tail.

  That man shot my mate.

  The instant the bullet hit,

  she was gone.

  Her flight stopped.

  Wings limp, she fell.

  The man

  clapped the boy

  on the shoulders

  where wings

  would have sprouted

  were he a bird.

  They laughed.

  They watched her fall,

  as did I, from our nest,

  my talons balled into fists

  so as not to harm the chicks.

  For forty days,

  my mate had stayed there

  on the nest

  till this brood had hatched,

  three eggs this time, with me

  bringing all the food

  and fresh pine sprigs.

  One by one,

  the young emerged,

  in the order

  they were laid,

  their egg tooth

  breaking

  through the shell,

  their eyes

  partway closed,

  no true feathers,

  just gray-white down,

  and open mouths,

  open shut,

  open shut.

  She would never leave them,

  in those early days.

  It takes two full weeks

  for eaglets to hold

  their heads up

  for feeding.

  Open mouths,

  open shut,

  open shut.

  She was bigger, swifter,

  as are all females of our kind.

  But I was good for my size.

  That year I brought

  so much food

  no chick

  would need

  to eat the other,

  so ample

  were my hunts.
<
br />   Young rabbit,

  marmot, skunk,

  which she shredded

  and fed

  into their open mouths,

  open shut,

  open shut.

  But eagles suffer

  when they cannot fly.

  As the young

  grew strong

  and their wings

  expanded,

  and black-tipped feathers

  replaced their down,

  the young ones’

  appetites peaked.

  It was time

  for her to fly again.

  I pushed her

  from the nest

  as I had done before.

  She flew straight

  into a bullet.

  The man and boy

  ran across the earth

  to where she fell,

  the man’s red hat

  bobbing with each step.

  They did not

  slash her gut

  to find sustaining

  blood and muscle.

  Instead

  they plucked her,

  starting with her wings,

  her glorious wings,

  the father

  on one side,

  the son

  on the other.

  Each spread

  the fingers of one hand

  across her skin

  to hold it taut

  and took feathers

  with the other,

  one at a time;

  taking hold

  they snapped their wrists

  in one direction

  along the axis of its anchor

  and then

  SNAP

  to the opposite side

  in an arc

  SNAP

  to pull it free.

  Feather by feather,

  they plucked her

  naked,

  the father’s

  red hat bobbing

  up and down

  as he worked, laughing

  with his son, rousing

  hate inside me for all

  the drum-capped ones,

  the Turks.

  They didn’t eat her,

  as a hunter would.

  They laughed

  as she fell

  to the ground.

  They took her quills,

  pulled them from her

  and left her naked

  for the vultures,

  carrion,

  a thing we eagles

  almost

  never

  touch.

  Mariam

  Shahen

  Time to play the bird game?

  Just once.

  I have a new game

  for us, little bird.

  Meg, yergoo, yerek,

  one, two, three,

  I fly.

  to the ground,

  where your brother

  gives you a stick.

  Why?

  To learn to write,

  Mariam jan.

  I will be

  a writing bird.

  Take your stick.

  I have mine.

  We will write

  on the earth.

  Father Manoog

  says that an angel

  showed St. Mesrop

  the letters,

  wrote them in fire

  straight from

  God’s hand

  as St. Mesrop

  sat in a cave,

  just on that hill

  by the church.

  But I think he saw

  the letters out here.

  Look.

  Each letter comes

  from a shape

  in the world.

  I’ll draw.

  You copy.

  Three times.

  Smaller each time.

  Stick is the easiest,

  a nice straight line.

  Stick, stick, stick.

  Then a stick

  with a curve

  like the head

  and the neck

  of a swan.

  Swan, swan, swan.

  And the reflection

  of the swan,

  upside down

  in a still pool.

  Swan down,

  swan down,

  swan down.

  And a small snake.

  Ssssssss.

  Sssssnake,

  snake, snake.

  And a wave, alik,

  from the wind

  on the river.

  Alik, alik, alik.

  And a step,

  astidjan,

  like the angels climb

  to heaven,

  but this time

  coming down

  to us.

  Astidjan,

  astidjan,

  astidjan.

  And a smile, jbid,

  like the one

  on your face,

  so big your eyes

  disappear.

  Smile, smile, smile.

  The last two

  will be your

  favorites.

  They too

  come from birds.

  An oval egg.

  Egg.

  That’s right.

  Around to touch

  the place you started.

  Egg, egg.

  And flapping wings.

  Flap, flap, flap.

  I fly!

  These parts make

  our letters,

  all thirty-eight,

  little bird.

  What should we write?

  Let’s write “bird”!

  Trchoon,

  trchoon,

  trchoon!

  Trchoon is like this:

  stick and wings

  make “T.”

  Stick, wings.

  A stick, a swan,

  and a wave,

  make “R.”

  Stick, swan, wave.

  “Ch” is stick, stick,

  and a smile

  to the side.

  Stick, stick, smile.

  “Ooh” is two letters.

  Stick, snake

  and stick, stick.

  Stick, snake.

  Stick, stick.

  “N” when it is big

  starts with wings.

  When it is little—

  Like me!

  yes, like you—

  it starts with a smile.

  Smile, swan down,

  smile.

  Smile, swan down,

  smile.

  Good, little bird.

  Good writing.

  I am a writing bird.

  Sosi

  I’m far too young

  to wed, I know.

  But if Papa would only

  speak to Vahan’s father,

  then we could sit

  side by side

  at church.

  Side by side,

  we would touch

  the ground in worship,

  kiss our own hands,

  then forehead,

  chest,

  left,

  right,

  and our hands

  would rest

  on our hearts.

  I can see our wedding tree,

  almost my size,

  with seven slender branches

  laden with strings of

  apple, pear, and raisin,

  their tips joined

  through a single noor,

  a pomegranate fruit,

  curled ribbons flowing

  from where they meet.

  Papa spoke with baron Takoushjian,

  a man with six daughters,

  about a bride for Misak.

  Six Armenian daughters

  and still he said no,

  despite the mill,

  despite Misak,

  handsome, tall, and strong.

  When she heard,

  Mama’s lips sealed

  as
tight as a canning jar.

  At night I hear her

  rasping whisper

  saying to Papa,

  again and again,

  “I warned you this would happen

  if Anahid married Asan.

  He’s a good fine man, as is his father,

  but they are Kurds by blood,

  and we should marry our own.”

  Shahen

  Like water on stone, lessons fall on me.

  Again it’s St. Mesrop, who sat in a cave,

  and the angel who gave him the alphabet.

  And back and forth, in time with the clock,

  Father Manoog waves his head like a Sunday censer

  Through crumbs in his beard, he spits out old stories,

  each repetition a black ink inscription proving again

  that my fate—jagadakirus—written on my forehead,

  is not here with priests.

  Each book, each map, each history lesson

  sends me to my uncle in America.

  The chants of yogurt vendors approaching

  tell me this school day will finally end.

  Turkish calls—

  “AY-RAN, Ay-ran, ay-ran”—

  change to Armenian—

  “TAHN, Tahn, tahn”—

  as they near.

  But I don’t need a cool yogurt drink.

  My letter, from my uncle, my keri, is my treat.

  Dismissed, I run down the mountain path

  to my spot in the rocks, open to the river,

  hidden from church and from God’s prying eyes.

  There, in a crack in the stone,

  protected from the wind and rain,

  one folded paper holds

  all of New York Harbor.

  The boats, the statue,

  the buildings that scrape the sky

  like mountaintops come alive

  from Keri’s letter.

  I can see beyond pale pink rocks,

  rising above the Euphrates,

  all the way to the ocean.

  Below me, the great green stripe of river

  I will cross to go home

  fills with friends and laughter

  instead of New York boats.

  They’re Turks, I know,

  but sure, I’ll play.

  Papa does the same with music.

  Sosi

  Anahid

  Anahid jan,

  my sister bride,

  when did you know

  that you loved Asan?

  Ohhhh, Sosi jan!

  Are you in love?

  No. Not me. No.

  I’m too young.

  I’m just curious

  and I miss you.

  Curious.

  Yes, curious.

  Look at you,