wildscape. literary journal

Archipelago of the Two-Headed Hare
by Gabriella Ekman

We must resist, she says, but I must 
buy gloves for my child, to protect 
her hands against the cold, though 
she resists, tearing them 
off with a scowl. Swans
downy, grey, snap 
at sand, hiss 
this is
mine.		

                                    I no longer buy pinot noir
                                    she says, from the US, she says
                                    I guess you must start somewhere
                                    but where, this resistance 
                                    is confused, where
                                    are my glasses, 
                                    keys, where my 
                                    wobbling
                                    fist?		

                                                                                Too tired to fall asleep, my daughter
                                                                                cries. It sounds like pain. I leave
                                                                                the house; my dog howls. In plenty,
                                                                                in peace, we still grieve the loss 
                                                                                of what will return to us. 
                                                                                What sound, then, children 
                                                                                of war, when from your
                                                                                mouths, your tongues
                                                                                burning 
                                                                                speak








My grandfather, self-taught, painted horses
sometimes a cow, during the last world 
war. My grandmother scrubbed, shot
the pigs he’d named. At night
no lights, so planes could 
fly, screaming, clear 
across the 
seal-rich
sea  



To
whom can 
coral coiled
drift from a warmer
sea, whom bite of fog
or seals rocked luminous
brown-flecked, by curls of bracken 
wet, when porcupine woman, small 
jaws fanned round her hands and four scorched toes
where the axe-cracked skulls of sea-long 
merchants, where the boats, weary 
home scratched like a name into 
their sodden hulls
so we know 
we're where
who?		    		


                                         	My grandmother fought every hour 
                                        	and apologized for it every day
                                        	her language (kieli) whacked
                                        	out of air with birch whips
                                          	the teacher’s blonde braid
                                         	swinging. When cancer 
                                        	ate her, she sipped 
                            	                wine, for hours 
                            	                after 
                                            	screamed 









                                            	                                      	 In Stockholm, I turn forty-five, dream 
                                           		                        	 I married him. Took many buses. 
                                           		                        	 Things did not work out. I wake
                                           			                         to my daughter, saying
                                           			                         where is mamma? 
                                           			                         Where is mine? 
                                           			                         Gone, long 
 			                                                           	 since


First, she ate swedish (havet, himlen, barnet), though the shining Rocks,
they said, and fat swift Fish were estonian (kivi, räim).
Then soviets burnt her Boat (лодка), but she
could Swim. Then germans freed her
from her Limbs (beine, waffen).
When soviets rained in, again
she could not Swim.
She ate her Skin.
Ate the Sea
the Sky 
Him.		     

                                                 How many eggs to flour? I ask, 
                                                 baking, your grandmother baked the 
                                                 best pancakes, my mother’s voice 
                                                 says, but I don’t remember
                                                 pine seeds crouched too
                                                 far from the wind that
                                                 carried us, sleeping, 
                                                 tucked into elbows
                                                 of cloud, all
                                                 the way 
                                                 home 


Once
ships, sleek 
minnows, they say (ros, ruotsi, rus)
spilled down rivers
others, later, demur. 
By missile. Listen. But if 
you aren’t heard? Roar. In cold, plant bulbs
papery skins rustling, thin, this wind will whittle 
the seas of the world, if (якщо) or (або), now (nyt) now
crawl quick. Keep watch for bears, unspelled from winter. 
Green shines the two-headed hare beside the blooming linden tree.

about the author // Gabriella Ekman