Two Poems by Nadia Arioli

Hole Shapes

 

Wet webs blanket the grass in mornings

in Scotland and North America. Congealed

dew. Plasticine rain. No scientists can

agree on the composition. It contains no DNA

or known origin. Nature writers of old

called it star jelly, with the thought

shooting stars had a byproduct. No—not

byproduct, remnant, a memory before

they sped on. A hearty slime painting

the planet below. We know now

what is too distant, what burns too much

up, but we’re still no closer to an answer

than that old story.

 

In 1996, in Arizona, cars speed on by

suburban intersections, bent poles

like arthritis where stop signs should be.

Not natural causes, but yanked by human hands.

I, a child, wanting to know

the comings and goings of all things,

asked my mother as she was driving

who would do such a thing –

make a wound metallic where order should be.

And my mother said that people take,

you know, what isn’t theirs to take,

because they don’t need it.

They think, Well, I’ve already stopped,

I don’t need this anymore. So they

get out of their cars and just take the sign.

I harrumphed, too young to need a story.   

 

There are many reasons to feign delicacy.

One is to turn fault lines into jokes.

One is to see how fluid catches light

and call it from the stars.

One is to account for the place a stone is

instead of a mother’s love.

 

 

Watching Perry Mason with a Mouth Full of Vomit

 

We call my grandmother as she is dying,

long distance, my sister and I. What is

there to say? It's been a decade, we're sorry

 

you're dying, remember us? Even

though I am on my cellphone, I am picturing 

cords spanning continents, curling 

 

like umbilicals, ribbons

on a welcome basket, sashes

on a casket. I want to tell my grandmother

 

I, too, have tether now,

there is a fourth. My body

is like the hospital my grandmother 

is at: not a place for getting stronger,

 

just where the fragile go to die.

My sister is on the phone too, and I 

don't want to be a further disappointment. 

My sister and I say, We love you, we're here. 

 

My grandmother croaks, I don't feel so good,

and the rest is all vowels. She can 

no longer swallow. Choking, gurgling,

her mouth the deepest cave. 

 

I tell her that we can't understand, 

the connection is static (a white lie).

I'm glad we got through. She dies

 

the next day. I take three tums

instead of two, the heartburn tearing 

harder in my chest. Mourning sickness. 

 

I turn on Perry Mason, even though 

that channel has tons of static. I watch

what could be any episode with a mouth full of vomit.

 

Because Perry always knows what to say, 

so articulate, so calm, perfect Transatlantic. 

The truth will out, justice will be served. 

 

Perry gets the last word in before the credits roll. 

And everything, everything is tied up neatly

with a bow. Here, death is always sudden, even sexy.

Nadia Arioli is the co-founder and editor in chief of Thimble Literary Magazine. Their recent publications include Penn Review, Hunger Mountain, Cider Press Review, Kissing Dynamite, Heavy Feather Review, and San Pedro River Review. They have chapbooks from Cringe-Worthy Poetry Collective, Dancing Girl Press, Spartan, and a full-length from Luchador. They were nominated for Best of the Net in 2021 by As It Ought to Be, West Trestle Review, Angel Rust, and Voicemail Poems.