We write prose in
the dead-cold Winter air,
where the old works we
cared for are frozen.

We buried their poets
in the dirt, along with
their bones, beneath
sleet headstones
of inscriptions meant
for the passerby.

Soon Spring’s rain shall
wash the prayers away, and
her warmth will deliver us
from poetry to life.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)

I lay the stem and foot of the wineglass
next to the two Jennies of Morus Muskat
on the windowsill above the sink. One
is empty, the other has a glass left.

I sweep sprinkles of glass onto the blotched
paper towels in the trash, then put the
bin and the dustpan and hand brush away
beneath the sink. I glance out the window,
leaning open-armed against the counter,
and watch the tall grass dance to the breeze.

The setting sun brushes the blades and the
backyard and the dirt path, the porch resting in
a shadow. I leave the sink and grab a glass
from a cabinet and return. I pour the
rest of the Muskat, getting every drop.

I place the bottle on the sill and freeze.

She is standing on the porch in her
Santorini blue dress, the back stained in
crimson from the small crater in the back
of her head. The mush within her skull has
rot, fragments of flesh caught in her dark hair.

I clench my eyes, hoping she disappears,
but when I reopen she is still there.

I take a deep breath, letting the knots
escape my bones. I gulp down the glass and
walk out onto the porch. She doesn’t breathe
or sway, a statue peering into the
blades. Her lips are closed, her green eyes
unblinking and settled, mascara rivers
melted into her cheeks. Her expression feels
like the calm of the broken and numbed, of
those who have surrendered the fight. I say
hello, again. She looks at me, her eyes
unwavering. She glides over and skims
her cold fingertips across my throat and
down my arm as she leaves the porch, down the
dirt path to the edge of the grass. She turns
around and looks to me, and I follow
the path to her. As I stroll through the mist,
blue in the twilight, my heart pounds, though my
mind is clear and set only on her. I
reach her, and my breath has become shallow
as she stares into my eyes. She kisses me,
and it feels the same as it once had, but
I taste metal and am overwhelmed by
the smell of nitrocellulose. She turns
and steps into the field. I get a glimpse
at the hole, and see the decomposition
and the maggots that have burrowed, writhing
in the putrid flesh. She turns around, her
eyes closed, and she reaches her hand towards me.

I reach my hand out, but stop halfway. She
senses my falter and puts her hand down.

She opens her eyes, looking at me in
disappointment that I would not let her
lead me. She disappears, leaving behind
an emptiness only she could fill. I
remain paralyzed, my senses dulling,
my heart slowing. As always, I turn
around and follow the dirt path through the
clear morning air and rays of sunrise.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)

When we are breathing,
we share in our breath.

People are self-seeking,
and unless we play with
pragmatics, we can’t help it.
Yet we are helpless in
how bounteous we are.

When we are breathing,
we share in our breath,
and when we die,
we share in our death.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)

Moonlight peers through window blinds,
thin, fluorescent strips streaking the beige
walls and tea green sheets. Her dew-eyed
gaze lies on the baby blue bib,
imprinted with a small white bird,
next to her on the bed. Beside
the bib is a wristband from
Carnation Hospital, and an
open, small, wooden box.

She reaches for the bib and
caresses the soft cotton,
shadowing the bird and the seams.
She takes a glance at the wristband,
but clenches her eyes. She grips the
bib and holds it to her cheek and
sits this way until she melts into
the dark.

The streaks drift.

Coming to from her trance, she lays
the bib into the box, then tosses
the wristband in before shutting
the top. She carries the box to
the closet and buries it beneath
a bundle of unkempt, *****
clothes. She closes the door and prays
to the blessed ****** Mary.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)