Writing — Jen D'Mello

undulate

recurrent

brokenness

disassembly

and reassembly

of wounded

kinship

in flight

I. Fervor Dream

Nana stirred our deviation into honeysuckle time. It began as soon as she heard the breadth of the setting sun. We reorganized ourselves accordingly. The thread of our everyday choreography swelled, split, refracted. We danced our way into a different order together. She trudged through the front door and waded beneath the looming fruit trees her sister planted for her many years ago, swaying through the yard until she met the edge of the road, which wasn't exactly a river. She was predisposed to listening for the sounds of wounded animals, which inspired long, sonic meditations, during which her feet became ears[1].

Grandmother and I searched for fallen fruit beneath the avocado tree during Nana's momentary absence. Every now and then we'd touch our ears to the ground and listen for Nana's footsteps. We didn't know where she went. She didn't want to be found. We didn't ask because we knew that deformation was one of the conditions of our inevitable reconvening. With bulbous avocados in hand, we moved beneath the night blooming jasmine tree at the far end of the yard and inhaled each other's songs.

A swarm of fleshy, ivory tunnels protruded from pedicels and spread outward into stellar apertures. I picked a little flower and pushed the open end into my ear. Its choir unhinged my jaw. Honey seeped from my grandmother's tear ducts into a hole in the Earth. We dipped our fingertips into the pool and held out our hands for each other to taste. I held the flower I picked up to her lips and she blew out ghostly tufts: dandelion pappus.

When Nana returned, we noticed a pigeon resting between her right palm and her hip. How did she know how to hold wounded birds with such astonishing precision? Grandmother and I danced our way into our usual positions. I moved to get a glimpse of the pigeon while blowing into the aperture of another jasmine flower while she opened the door for Nana and the bird. The pigeon cooed, sounded trills. Nana's attunement to her predisposition and her devotion to these evening walks necessitated our reorganization.

Without hesitation, she walked into the kitchen, turned around, curled her sturdy, tender fingers around the handle carved into the skewed, wooden door and slid it shut. Nobody told me how to dance behind a closed door. I slid back into the living room and hummed a sister rhythm. I knew I wasn't supposed to interrupt Nana while she was with an injured bird, so I calculated accompaniment, keeping an ear out for the pigeon's sweet cooing.

When its sound finally made its way into my ear, I ran toward the kitchen craving enigmatic anomaly. Nana had left the door to the kitchen ajar. A fissure in space summoned loudly: come play. I leaned into the space between the door and the frame. My eyes caught a glimpse of her tired, leather sandals and her beautifully weathered legs. I noticed that the little door to the metal birdcage with the sky-blue, plastic bottom was unhinged. I froze when I laid eyes on the scene. Nana was cradling the pigeon in one hand and stroking its back with the other, while sounding a slow and unintelligible murmur. Her tongue trilled time and mine unfurled, grew outward, touched hers and proliferated, setting a precedent for a lifetime of efflorescent want for sound.

II.

If I retrace your

murmur with

my fingertips

and rub its edges

'til it blurs

I can hear it

sonic bloom

whisper into

the festering wound

inflicted while

cutting us in two

then take this

night blooming jasmine

and rub its buttery

petals around

on my tongue

I heard a crow

a rhythm

this morning

and remembered

your embrace

I wet my teeth

opened my mouth

sounded

new growth through

a proliferate jaw

now we can revel

in no-thingness

incite shift

swerve

ensemble

glide the angular tips

of our wings along

the darkest parts

of the night sea cutting soft slits

into saliva

with feathers

cartilage

and bone

flocking makes

it possible to

lean into

the sharpest pains

of forgetting

just below

the surface

is the swell of

sonic detritus

question:

whose wet mouth is this?

whose want for sound?

billowing recollections

in the throat

gargle ggggggg

with the back of

the tongue

expand chest

push air into

belly and contract

push tongue to

the top of

the throat

cry out in

pelagic shearwater

we only sing at night

when we can

salvage the flock

of the gull

choir's timbre