Lullabye

my heart was rural, animal
burning yellowed fields and rust
into my bones, my brain a china blue
mobile of flying horses, raccoons
crows, cats and dogs awake in the
woods as night slips in
and out of a life I'm not sure
is mine, ghostcorners taunt me
rangy creature that I am
salty dog, already adrift
in a new world (“bitch" someone says)
where we torch the liars, erected on
kindling of children's choirs, then
eat the ash, start to tail
and I'm trying not to fall
asleep in the car with Samrawit
the Amharinia caressing me
conjo Miami, Bizu, Aida— their name
for me, Cazrin, a song safe
through Mami Feleke begins to b'sma'am
and I know this small thing, as I too
am a small thing, so I trust
this nothing talk, a hand that strokes
my hair, z'lalim as I drift to dark, z'lalim
z'lalim, z'lalim, bubbles released to the sky
salt over my shoulder, brilliant sting
of lights, sound so orange
I could die— in memory
my future finding me, a broken arrow
vagrant, twisting, wild as sparrows
that haunt the body I have always wished
would simply arc like petal and stem
spark bright or quiet, the thicksoft
gleam of the pale ones.

conjo = beautiful
b'sma'am = to pray, asking for help
z'lalim = forever
Kate Martile is a writer and performer from Newport News, Virginia. She studied creative writing at the University of Virginia, and currently resides in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.