Melissa King: Akhtamar Effect
Copper, warm, and silent on the wall,
Akhtamar stares east and I write
my academic body,
thinking of her desperate desire for the other
that she’s taken as a bridge, and the power
of time travel.
She looks different here at home,
frail and insecure with slim hips
not like by the black lake there
where she towers a Soviet warrior woman
over the forested shore and highway,
hands together above her head, looming,
ready to dive, fly in an arc over us
with our raisin buns at a red picnic table,
splash into that wormhole to save
what remnants are left and bring
back what was lost and drowned
in forgetfulness, remembrance, and the silences
of so many similar words over and over,
point the way to intimate communion,
but she still doesn’t, waiting
like she has all these hundreds of years
obedient and frustrated.
I understand that part.
When I remember the activists’ chant,
I rethink Akhtamar’s mythic patience,
the waiting and watchfulness of a survivor
for the crane of justice to hoist it all out of the water.
I raise my hands together over my head,
in my dining room, where I write,
My toes grasp sandy rocks under the table.
I sense her tension
and put her body into my words.
Copyright 2016, Melissa King
