Pre-History

By Armine Iknadossian

I will never come home

to babies –

carriages of little moons

with fine hair.

I have made peace

with Daddy,

have known

the silver leash of love.

My body –

its soft history grown softer still.

There is snow in my room

a broken faucet

old mirrors on opposing walls.

You have seen me hung

with pearls

in a slow boat across the Lethe.

Look

deeper

still

My remedy:

soot and steel

knucklebones

sad fragments from the sea.

You wish to know me

call me mistress prophet

an inconvenient queen

to harness my tongue

(cautious commander)

and get me

on my knees.

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Arminé Iknadossian is the author of All That Wasted Fruit (Main Street Rag Press). A former English teacher, Iknadossian now focuses solely on writing and serving the writing community. A recipient of a fellowship from Poetry at Idyllwild in 2005, Iknadossian also earned…