Free Like Water on Stone by Dana Walrath Page A

says,
    “Your clothes, they are good. Stay like this.
    Don’t let them know. Hide till nightfall.
    Soldiers were here a few days ago.”
    My clothes.
    My face burns.
    If soldiers catch us,
    what good could
    these clothes do?
    Soldiers would strip me
    like all the girls at the river.
    Girl after girl, naked.
    I saw them.
    Young boys died clothed.
    I’d be stripped
    and they’d know,
    and then what?
    Ardziv
    I circled the village
    all day while he hid,
    rising high enough
    to see Sosi and Mariam too.
    Sosi pulled wool
    into thread
    as Mariam slept.
    Lines of soldiers
    marched in the distance.
    Small groups combed
    the woods
    for strays
    like Shahen,
    Sosi, and
    Mariam.
    Sosi
    Mariam
    Mariam wakes
    in the dark.
    She wants to run.
    She expects it.
    “ Yalla ,
    come on.
    We must
    find Shahen.”
    I cover her mouth.
    She quiets.
    We go back
    to the stream.
    We drink.
    We eat grass.
    We wait.
    We place stones
    in a heap.
    He’s got to know
    how to find us.
    We listen
    for Shahen’s
    footsteps.
    Without running,
    night is huge.
    Wind
    water
    branches
    breathing.
    “I want Shahen.”
    “Let’s go back
    to the wood.
    Shahen went
    to get food.”
    We wait till the moon
    is high.
    “Come closer.
    I will draw
    a story
    on your back.
    We are at home,
    with Mama
    making lahmajoon .”
    “Lahmajoon.”
    “Shahen’s happy.
    Lahmajoon is
    his favorite.
    “Around the big
    rolling stone
    Mama breaks
    off small pieces
    of dough.
    She gives one
    to you, and a stick
    Papa made smooth
    for rolling.
    You poke holes
    in the dough.
    Mama pushes
    down hard.
    She rolls the pin
    front to back.
    Rotate the dough
    front to back,
    rotate the dough.”
    “Mama.”
    “Circles of dough
    go onto the tray.
    I spread
    meat
    onions
    peppers
    tomatoes
    and mint
    on top.”
    “Mama.
    Swan down.”
    “Yes. Mama.
    She puts the tray
    into the oven.
    Meat and mint
    perfume the air.
    We make more
    and more
    and more.
    She rolls the pin
    front to back.
    Rotate the dough
    front to back,
    rotate the dough.
    Out of the oven
    we stack them
    into a tower.
    We are ready
    for everyone
    when the mill work
    is done.”
    “Where’s Shahen?”
    I listen
    for my brother’s
    footsteps.
    The moon rises.
    Night grows.
    “I want Shahen.”
    No footsteps.
    My head aches.
    My gut pulls
    to nowhere.
    I search the stars
    for south.
    I search the treetops
    for the right branch,
    ready to leave
    without him
    when the moon
    touches it.
    “Shahen, goozem .”
    The moon moves.
    Shahen does not.
    He’ll never get here.
    The moon
    wins the race.
    Soldiers may have
    found him.
    He won’t be
    in Aleppo.
    I place two sticks
    on the ground.
    With a bit of red thread
    I tie them into a cross.
    I pull Mariam
    to her feet.
    I grab the pot.
    “Time to run,
    little one.”
    Shahen
    It is dark.
    Please, Sosi,
    wait for me.
    I can’t go yet.
    People wander outside
    between and around the houses,
    like we did at home
    in summer
    on the roof
    at night,
    singing,
    dancing.
    Cold air hits me,
    makes me shiver.
    I make it summer in my mind.
    Summer on the roof,
    apricot summer,
    dancing the tamzara .
    One — two — three,
    stomp, stomp.
    Full of life
    for hours,
    waiting,
    Sosi and Mariam waiting.
    Wait for me.
    Please.
    This village still stirs.
    Those men
    might be soldiers.
    I cannot go.
    I let my mind
    join the line.
    dancing the tamzara
    with my brothers,
    Mama, Anahid,
    and Sosi.
    Boy, girl, six in a line,
    hands on each other’s shoulders,
    the sound of the zurna
    piercing the air.
    One — two — three,
    stomp, stomp.
    Kevorg,
    Mama,
    Misak,
    Anahid,
    then me
    and Sosi.
    Our hands slip to clasping.
    The moon is too high.
    Those men must be soldiers.
    Why don’t they sleep?
    One — two — three,
    stomp, stomp,
    the bad things
    leave us
    as we stomp
    on the roof.
    One — two — three,
    stomp, stomp.
    One — two — three,
    stomp, stomp.
    Papa comes to the line.
    He pulls me from it.
    He says I’m a girl.
    I push to join them,
    Kevorg and Misak,
    stomp, stomp,
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