The Moons of August

Danusha Lameris

• Publisher: Autumn House Press
• Year: 2020
• Print ISBN: 9781932870954
• eBook ISBN: 9781938769719
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Poetry
• Index: Literature

Winner of the 2013 Autumn House Press Poetry Contest, selected by Naomi Shihab Nye. This stunning debut collection explores family culture, motherhood, and memory.

two

INSHA’ALLAH

I don’t know when it slipped into my speech

that soft word meaning, “if God wills it.”

Insha’Allah I will see you next summer.

The baby will come in spring, insha’Allah.

Insha’Allah this year we will have enough rain.

So many plans I’ve laid have unraveled

easily as braids beneath my mother’s quick fingers.

Every language must have a word for this. A word

our grandmothers uttered under their breath

as they pinned the whites, soaked in lemon,

hung them to dry in the sun, or peeled potatoes,

dropping the discarded skins into a bowl.

Our sons will return next month, insha’Allah.

Insha’Allah this war will end, soon. Insha’Allah

the rice will be enough to last through winter.

How lightly we learn to hold hope,

as if it were an animal that could turn around

and bite your hand. And still we carry it

the way a mother would, carefully,

from one day to the next.

WHAT TREES DREAM OF

This one thinks, let me be the slender bow

of the violin. Another, the body of the instrument,

burnished amber.

One imagines life as a narrow boat

crossing water,

a light mist of salt on the prow.

And still another—planed down to planks,

then hammered into shelter

voices vibrating through the rafters.

We do not notice their pleasure,

the slight hum of the banister

beneath our palms,

the satisfaction of the desk

as we tap our pens, impatiently,

upon its weathered surface.

They have ferried us

across rough seas

to lands that smelled of cinnamon,

carried arrowheads to pierce our enemies,

housed our senators,

who pace the creaky floors, debating.

We have boiled their pulp,

pressed it into thin,

white sheets of paper.

And when we die,

they meet us in the blackened soil

and take us back

carry us

up the length of their bodies

into the trembling leaves.

NAMES

What happens to the ones that fall out of favor:

the Dorises and Archibalds,

the Theodores and Eunices?

They all had their day,

once roamed the earth in multitudes

alongside Gerties and Wyatts—

at least one in every classroom.

Names written in neat block print,

scratched into tree bark,

engraved on heart-shaped lockets,

filling the morning paper

with weddings and engagements.

How could they have known

that one-by-one the Constances

and Clydes would disappear,

replaced by Jennifers, Jacobs,

Ashleys and Aidens.

That few would ever dance again,

corsages pinned to their breasts

or hear their names on the radio

whispered in dedication,

or uttered in darkness

by a breathless voice,

or even shouted out in anger—

“Seymour!”—

as they grabbed the keys and stormed out the door.

Each name fading quietly from daily life

as though it had never existed,

except for the letters etched into stone,

warmed by the sun

and at night, lit by a crescent moon.

EVE, AFTER

Did she know

there was more to life

than lions licking the furred

ears of lambs,

fruit trees dropping

their fat bounty,

the years droning on

without argument?

Too much quiet

is never a good sign.

Isn’t there always

something itching...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication
• Contents
• Before
• one
• two
• three
• four
• Acknowledgments