rachel pittman / two poems

Cassandra

The birds tear open my belly to scry

the ribbons of my corpse. The forecast

is cold and bloody. An eagle shreds my flesh

with its yellow beak. A mockingbird perches

on a rib jutting out from my flayed-open cage.

The sky is a god’s golden fist dripping juice

from a crushed peach. My city’s breathing is labored.

My city wears a gown of smoke, a necklace

of dead bees. I warned the Trojans death was coming

from the sea. Might as well cut out my tongue.

My granddaughters, if by some cursed miracle

I should have them, will cast my knuckle bones

for divination in circus tents. They’ll tell you the truth

about death and decay, and you won’t

listen. Knowledge has exponential cost. I have debts

in spades. Let’s assume: no granddaughters,

considering I’m dead. The birds are reading the omen

of me, my wreck and ruin. A yellow-eyed grackle

whispers in my ear. Here’s the prophecy you wanted:

The real curse is knowing what comes,

reading tea leaves, casting runes, and knowing also,

that no one will save you. A barn owl plucks

my left eye from my face. The birds flock and feast.

Feathers in my mouth. The truth dies with me.

---

Pastoral With My Dead Nana

The pansies died, but the knockout roses

cared for themselves in her absence. Mint

colonized the yard, scuttled from its stone

planter, propagated like cancer. It’s been years

since her hands touched anything alive.

Harvestmen spiders tiptoe across the brown

bellies of magnolia leaves. Today she reigns

over a garden of decadence and decay. Like God,

she watches me but doesn’t speak. I can smell

her perfume, plumeria, barely masking tobacco.

I kneel in the dirt and begin. Am I wrong to believe

I can uproot anything with tenderness? My hands

grasping dandelion leaves. The resistance of roots,

then sudden release, a shower of dust. Why do I

imagine a gasp? Nana joins me in the delicate task

of weeding. Soil gathers beneath our fingernails.

Her eyes in death had become pearls. Of course,

she wouldn’t return exactly the same. The garden

trembles where she steps, like a beloved dog, 

wagging its tail in welcome. Strange comfort

to know that she will still be here, tending the flowers,

even when I can’t see her. Wind combs our hair,

sends the trees whispering. I’m less afraid to lose her

this time. I’ll find dirt in my bed sheets for days.

---

Rachel Pittman is a PhD student at Georgia State University where she teaches writing and serves as an Assistant Editor at Five Points. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Grist, South Carolina Review, Whale Road Review, and Fairy Tale Review.