two poems by Suzahn Ebrahimian                  Sitting with Alma Two children, sandwiched together, cradled Between the arms of the blue velvet chair In my room. Two children, though One of us had outgrown that title like An old sweater with wrists sprouting Bald over the cuffs, an overwintered carrot She asked me about impossible Forcing me to lie I told her that not many things are impossible, really. Her eyes widened, she confirmed with exactitude: Only ten things are impossible And the first Is doing splits on the moon Then we sat silent, forced to consider She, as to what the other nine Could be And I, as to all impossibilities That would most certainly Come before moon splits All my impossibility Facing me expectant as a Child would; impossible To kill a ghost, to bring A ghost back to life To scrub memory creaks Out of wooden floors To not, at certain times, Feel my mother As if she were a suggestion Inhabiting the spaces between My skin and my muscles To finish my laundry To avoid succumbing daily to A tempting shroud of bed sheets To stop coveting a bird’s wing Or a fox’s tail or a minnow’s fin Hours later I alone remain Cradled. Our list of ten remains at one, Because whose life depends upon Doing splits on the moon? Better that the impossible remains The simple unreachable For now   You asked if I woke up when you climbed over me at night  We live in an alley that was carved out of folklore Anointed in green and poppies and medicine Stones litter the ground and point to the familiarly shaped Leaves that had died stuck on the stem. I picked the smallest And held it up to you with one eye squinted, “hearts" In the mornings I treasure The way the leaves look Filtered through a sanctuary window Later, I see you in the kitchen Offering up leeks I hear the knife coming down Onto peppers You asked if you should mash The beans or leave them be, you asked If I was doing ok and your curiosity was readable, A sutra on a faded page The quiet struck trauma quickly, like oil fields Our psyches rest only in preparing to erupt There are tensions like a woven rug on a wire drying When wearily we realize there is No more dust left to settle Beyond the kitchen window There is an over-ripened sun That rots the loveliest colors

two poems by Suzahn Ebrahimian

Sitting with Alma

Two children, sandwiched together, cradled

Between the arms of the blue velvet chair

In my room. Two children, though

One of us had outgrown that title like

An old sweater with wrists sprouting

Bald over the cuffs, an overwintered carrot

She asked me about impossible

Forcing me to lie

I told her that not many things are impossible, really.

Her eyes widened, she confirmed with exactitude:

Only ten things are impossible

And the first

Is doing splits on the moon

Then we sat silent, forced to consider

She, as to what the other nine

Could be

And I, as to all impossibilities

That would most certainly

Come before moon splits

All my impossibility

Facing me expectant as a

Child would; impossible

To kill a ghost, to bring

A ghost back to life

To scrub memory creaks

Out of wooden floors

To not, at certain times,

Feel my mother

As if she were a suggestion

Inhabiting the spaces between

My skin and my muscles

To finish my laundry

To avoid succumbing daily to

A tempting shroud of bed sheets

To stop coveting a bird’s wing

Or a fox’s tail or a minnow’s fin

Hours later I alone remain

Cradled.

Our list of ten remains at one,

Because whose life depends upon

Doing splits on the moon?

Better that the impossible remains

The simple unreachable

For now

You asked if I woke up when you climbed over me at night

We live in an alley that was carved out of folklore

Anointed in green and poppies and medicine

Stones litter the ground and point to the familiarly shaped

Leaves that had died stuck on the stem. I picked the smallest

And held it up to you with one eye squinted,

“hearts"

In the mornings I treasure

The way the leaves look

Filtered through a sanctuary window

Later, I see you in the kitchen

Offering up leeks

I hear the knife coming down

Onto peppers

You asked if you should mash

The beans or leave them be, you asked

If I was doing ok and your curiosity was readable,

A sutra on a faded page

The quiet struck trauma quickly, like oil fields

Our psyches rest only in preparing to erupt

There are tensions like a woven rug on a wire drying

When wearily we realize there is

No more dust left to settle

Beyond the kitchen window

There is an over-ripened sun

That rots the loveliest colors