Issue #31.12 Three Poems by Zina Gomez-Liss
Genesis
She lifted up the hem of her skirt to reveal her inner workings. The nails of her toes glistened like gems and her feet were formed from clay still wet from verdant valleys. Small bright bells dangled from a tangle of raw silk threads wrapped around each ankle. The shiny silver polished spheres had slivered tongues that sang like a symphony. Her feet seemed to float and fall in a dance of Fate and Fortune. Her calves were striated muscle, aching sinew, chestnut horse-haired legs. Her knees were capped with burnished bronze and etched with ever intricate designs of keys and spirals bordering big beasts who ate each other whole. Her thighs were wide circumferences of white sea foam on which small galleons were tossed and lost with manifests of inky names dissolving into ocean mists. Between her legs an oyster shell opened effortlessly. Globes of glass-clear water revealed pearls so pure they tasted like fire. The iridescent drops poured down like rain upon the bells and tickled the air like the reckless laughter of unwed daughters. Her belly was full and round and speckled like a freckled eggshell.The dimple of her belly descended into the dark-deep waters where mothers drowned their grief for stillborn babies and every deserted desire. Her breasts glowed with a light as white as jasmine blossoms. Her skin was veined like glossy newly unfurled leaves. Milk streamed from her nipples like snowmelt from the steepest peaks. Her chest was flushed with the passion of Revelation. Her neck was ridiculously feathered, gracefully arching and bending and righting itself again. Her face was painted red (as would be the fashion of our people). Her voice was like the crack of whips, the ring of windchimes and the void. Her hair was black and long and coiled like clock springs pulled from grand old towers that kept the time of God. And oh my God— those long luminescent arms pulled up her silky dress in daylight. Her thin exquisite fingers clasped her hem. She threw her dress up and over the sun and put it out. The bells caught on the black satin of her slip like stars. The pearls were spaced like distant constellations. We laid upon her, had relations, and made the world by knowing her the only way we could.
final night
after Phương Anh and Huy Tưởng
I hunger for you like a flower that clings To wandering feet. I crave the scent of night, The echo of the moon and flashing sight Of spectral butterflies, their fragile wings
Like shadows shifting toward the agarwood. Recalling how you bent for what you dropped, I felt the earth convulse and time was stopped And all that ever was is gone for good.
Our glittered city turned to sediment. I think back to those yawning blooms that flowered Which on that final, final night devoured My memories, too thin and delicate.
I lie beneath a fragrant, fingered tree. A bird enchants itself—believes it’s free.
The Handmaiden
Once, out of guilt, I rashly scrawled my name For Adoration—3 a.m. was blank— A graveyard shift, a slow and silent hour. I woke that night and drove the empty streets And parked my car beside the churchbell’s tower.
I walked into the nave and crossed myself Before relieving two young women in The church. I sat not knowing what to do And, like a bad disciple, I dozed off, And here’s the dream I had while in that pew.
I saw a girl, a dark-haired teen, who stood Before a stand of fruited olive trees. Her eyes were shut. Her empty hands were cupped, Prepared to catch the rain—if it should rain. I watched and didn’t dare to interrupt.
Had Gabriel already come to her, This girl no older than my oldest daughter? She seemed at peace among the olive trees, Accepting every pain and future sorrow. It made me want to fall down on my knees…
Then, startled, I woke up, called from the dream By a young priest who gently tapped my shoulder. My hour was up. I’d done this modest task To sit before the host. Was this enough? I had no answers. Only more to ask.
I left the church and drove those quiet streets, That’s when a shower began to drum the roof And wash my way back home. I opened up My door and stepped outside and felt the rain Inside my hands—a humble, human cup.
________________________________________________________________________________________
Zina Gomez-Liss is the deputy editor of New Verse Review and a graduate student in the MFA program at the University of St. Thomas, Houston. Her writing can be found at The Beauty of Things (zinagomezliss.substack.com). She lives in Boston with her husband and five children.
________________________________________________________________________________________