Daniel Khalastchi
Because rain. Because hard. Because
pain in my ribs, because buckle and
wait. Because cramping. Because
kneeling low. Because pause. Because
fact. Because wings unreel the flat
spread of my stomach. Because feathers. Because
damp. Because red, white,
because loose the skin falls to all- pile my
shoes. Because shirt. Because torn. Because
buttons un- done, because chest a pale
fire. Because calm. Because thinking
through. Because steady. Because focused. Because
bones straighten, retract in a
fold. Because movement. Because pushing
out. Because stretch, because reach, because weak
the growth spreads like sick sheets on a line. Because
quiet. Because broken down. Because phone
calls, mothers, because children scream
softly they still want to touch me. Because
sirens. Because cameras and tanks. Because there
is no choice but to head for the hills. Because
terror. Because running scared. Because breathe, because
breathe, because spasms, beats. Because from a bench I
step to the air— watch as my city
folds down to a circle.
I Wait, There Is Chatter:
Two crewmen open the chest
lid when I muffle the need
for a toilet. They allow me to
stretch, but keep a close eye
on the clock by the porthole. I am
shown to the bathroom and
stripped of my belt and shoe
laces. Once inside, I spend
my time in front of the mirror. My
cheeks are swollen. My left
ear, covered with gauze. Where
they waxed my chest I am still
partly inflamed, but the map
carved into my breastplate has
healed surprisingly well: a circle,
seven perforated lines, six Xs and
a triangle. No matter how I stand, I
can’t read the key tattooed on my
neck. Looking down, my ribs rinse
in the wake of some terrible
fortune. When I hear knocking, I turn
on the faucet. The gas rising up smells
of sweet leather gloves in my windpipe. If I
come out quietly, there’s great promise of
water. I hold out for a radio.
