Snow Fugue

Chelsea Dingman

A mournful voice sings to quick beats
in my head, but I know nothing of heaven. In a frenzy

of whirling wind, headlights on a white wall, I pull
over the truck. Late April & the sky has broken
its neck. I swear I see faces pass the windshield. The howl

of voices I’ve forgotten in the cracks of the doors. Whistling
through windows. I close my eyes & count

their bones. Wonder if this is the dream where children are
buried. Why each move towards home takes me
further away. The cab rocks & creaks. When I open

my eyes, every tree is erased, Every stone & bird & gravel
road. Stepping outside, I lean into snow, wanting

to be lost again. To know that kind of violence. How cold needles
the insides of my nostrils. My mother, in a ragged babushka,
bent over Rohatyn’s fields. How I began in a place I can’t find

with my hands. Now, how not to welcome the snow’s blades,
a torn blood vessel, the fire in my fists. How when wings plume

on cold a spring morning, I am blinded instead.
But, I whisper even though there is no one
to hear. Even as I wonder who’s talking, —who I hold

so tightly inside. Like a hummingbird, before
it flies out of my throat & falls

to the ground. Before I palm its heart
& find it still beating.

More by Chelsea Dingman

Reconstructing the Saints

	Church of the Holy Spirit, Rohatyn 1924

You enter to escape
the cold & find a canvas of St. John,
                  his hands unsealed

to write. Other icons,
painted in vibrant reds, mounted
                  on wooden walls’ slick gloss. All white

men, suffering and suffered. Christ,
stripped. His chest: ribbons
                  of bone. Archangel Michael, Abraham—

young boys again. You ask them about
hunger. How to outrun changing
                  flags like a child outrunning its name. A war,

past, yet still humming. Your mother
thinks God must be dead, but you ask
                  the sky to show its hands. For manna

to frost the cemetery’s leaning statues,
forlorn rows. To frost wood, overrun by lifelines
                  like an old man’s palms. For red

water to spill forth from the Hnyla Lypa
cursing below, its name already lost
                  on new maps. You search the saints’ eyes

before turning, light ivying
their faces. You think a house can keep
                  you safe. The bodies, buried. Doors

that won’t spit you out. You search
their hands, empty as spoons. They can’t take away
                  what you pray. This weight: fist & bone

& wail. In their silence, you hear blood,
as it spins like air through a windmill’s vanes.
                  As it coppers the chambers, makes them flame.

Notes on Inheritance

                 “This is the only kingdom.
                 The kingdom of touching:
                 the touches of the disappearing, things.”
                                            —Aracelis Girmay

                                                           

When I see wax, I think of submission.

I think of afterlife. I think of the sky
& what it leaves behind. I used to think

myself a doe, then a hurricane. The muscle
inside the tongue. The prayer-sore. Again

& again, something foreign. Fugitive. So briefly

I was a girl. A young woman. A mule, mother, arm-
rest—the sky resting on a bridge overlooking

the river. That cold, cold water. I waded in,
three seconds to numb. & nothing. I can’t give in

to love. What will become of us

when it’s the child that is imagined?
Our gods: the fields under a haze

of mosquitoes. And lo, the stars’ white
fire. And lo, the splintered spines of spruce

trees. And lo, the disappearing hours.

I stretch my neck into the next life.
I breathe in the cherry blossoms & bomb-

scent of aftermath. I don’t care why
I didn’t want this. I lean into myself.

I take what is offered until I forget

I am what is offered. With the orchard
& the apple I didn’t name. There is

an hour that bears my grave already.
It’s late. I can’t help but wish I wasn’t

lonely. That I wasn’t made to disappear.

Here, the Sparrows Were, All Along

Every minute or so, a hallelujah
dies in someone’s mouth. Every minute or so, a gunshot.
            A ceasefire. A tire shreds

                        on the highway, & pieces flit like sparrows
across the sky. Silly me. I thought
                                                we were here to live.

            The garden’s hallelujahs: tulips & rhododendrons, alive
in the ground. We expect so much
                                    of life. Once, I was a child. Then, a child

                        was locked inside me. Now, a different
country claims us. Tie my hands
            to the wind. Strip my mouth of any country

                                                that doesn’t fit. Sorrow the sparrow’s
steel cord & textile torso. Its irrational wings.
                                    The problem with flying is most people

                        settle for land, no matter how often
we are unloved by land.
                                    Rewind the centuries:

                        before planes, the accidents of a gun,
or mouth, or gentle morning, how many people
                                    believed they could fly? Breaking gravity,

            what names did they cry when they took that first step
away? Listen to me. I’m telling you
                                                 what only the wind knows—

here, the sparrows were, all along. Nailed
to their species. Alive, or not
alive. Sometimes, not alive at all.