Free Like Water on Stone by Dana Walrath Page B

with the mill,
    stomp, stomp.
    I pull Papa’s arm,
    stomp, stomp,
    from my shoulder.
    One — two — three,
    stomp, stomp.
    Kevorg and Misak,
    stomp, stomp.
    One — two — three,
    stomp, stomp.
    Content with the mill,
    stomp, stomp.
    One — two — three,
    stomp, stomp.
    White faces
    like clowns,
    stomp, stomp.
    The soldiers leave,
    stomp, stomp.
    I step out
    like lightning.
    The moon is too high.
    My feet know the way.
    I run alone.
    Faster
    without them,
    white faces
    like clowns,
    to a steady pulsing beat,
    to my sisters
    in the woods
    by the stream.
    Sosi
    I pull Mariam back to the stream.
    Moonlight cuts through the trees,
    lighting a clear white path in the water
    rushing through the stone.
    Oh, Mama, my Mama,
    are you making dolma ?
    I’ve got the pot.
    Papa, my Papa,
    plucking the oud .
    Misak and Kevorg
    white from the mill.
    Anahid, my sweet sister,
    has your new baby come?
    I hope it’s a girl.
    Girls don’t leave.
    I can hold your baby in my arms
    and breathe in
    the pure, sweet smell
    from the top of her head
    that I remember
    from baby Mariam.
    I put down the pot.
    I pick up my sister.
    I bury my face
    in her stale, knotted hair.
    Shahen can go to America
    by himself.
    I must go where
    Vahan can find me.
    I pick the pot up
    and turn to the north.
    We’re going home.
    Shahen
    I fly down the stream bed,
    searching each stone
    for the place
    where we turned
    and they waited.
    But I can’t find the place
    and the moon is too high.
    I cannot call out.
    Back in the village
    those men,
    they might hear me.
    I cannot call out.
    How can I find them?
    Strong, bright moon,
    help me, please.
    Help me
    find them.
    A large bird
    flies over me,
    not an owl
    or a bat.
    It’s a day bird,
    an eagle,
    out at night
    like me.
    Sosi
    Without Shahen
    night sounds grow.
    Mariam heavy
    like a sack of milled wheat,
    the pot like a stone.
    I follow the light in the stream
    back to home.
    More night sounds:
    wind,
    footsteps,
    breathing.
    Ours?
    Shahen said,
    “If I do not come back,
    they’ll be looking for you.”
    He said,
    “Go fast.”
    Stomp.
    Stomp.
    I go fast.
    Back to home.
    With the light
    down the stream,
    back to home,
    where I’ll find them
    waiting for me.
    The eagle passes over us,
    then turns and comes toward us,
    flying upstream
    as we go down,
    coming close to my head,
    the strong flap of wings
    beating like the dumbek
    and a strange whistling sound,
    its cadence starting high,
    then gliding down and fading,
    like someone begging.
    Again he comes over us
    and makes a tight turn,
    his beating wings and whistle
    filling my ears.
    But I won’t turn around.
    We’re going home.
    Shahen
    I’ve gone past the place
    where we turned,
    I am sure,
    so I retrace my steps
    on each stone,
    going slow
    till I see it.
    I missed it before:
    a pile of stones
    in a heap
    at the stream,
    left just for me
    by my Sosi.
    I leave the water’s edge
    and turn into the woods
    till I find the soft spot
    where they waited.
    And there on the ground
    where my sisters once sat
    is a cross of two sticks
    tied with red thread
    pointing north.
    North!
    Sosi, no.
    They will find you
    and kill you.
    Not north.
    Not the river.
    Not the soldiers.
    Not north.
    There’s a bear in the sky.
    Run away.
    Run away.
    Not into his claws
    and his teeth.
    Cross in my fist,
    I run back
    to the stream
    as if the earth
    is made of fire.
    Step, step, step, step,
    breath, breath, breath, breath,
    step, step, step, step.
    Then from that steady pulse
    I hear it in my mind,
    baron Kaban’s duduk winding
    da dee da dee da dee, daaa, da da dee da
    da dee da dee da dee, daaa, da da dee da ,
    the drum pulsing,
    the Alashkerdi kochari
    calling me into a line of men
    shoulder to shoulder.
    Step,
    hey,
    step,
    hey,
    step,
    hey,
    step,
    hey,
    our call back to the drum
    syncopated,
    the drum pushing my steps,
    the duduk winding
    da dee da dee da dee, daaa, da da dee da .
    Step,
    hey,
    step,
    hey,
    step,
    hey,
    step,
    hey,
    faster and faster,
    all in a line
    we