"this is how the war begins / the one we didn't know we were fighting"
by Elly Katz
Published onDec 23, 2024
In Spite of
Photo by MART Production: Pexels.com
ever blooming wounds we are light sleepers now
I’ve known rivers older than any veins I’ve heard the Nile roar in Bible lessons I’ve heard the Mississippi flood its mud in history textbooks; the rivers grow us no matter what death upbraids the flesh the seas save our souls if we meet disaster and hold on
lavender wildflowers return me to a myth that doesn’t exist yet desire whispers into my chest it’s another kind of touch I can feel
this is how the war begins the one we didn’t know we were fighting after its arithmetic began to permute our days but our belief reaches far ahead
cut through the pain break the fever
shadows at dawn yell help us
we sting with fear we press the body
ivy graduation paved a path we had our techniques down
we knew whose feet stepped along our roofs at dusk
we knew how to flip switches in neurons how to hedge our stocks how to palpate breasts for cancers
we knew how to make sense of simple living how to walk and walk until the possibility of the body buckled
nothing is at stake of not happening
we are efficient dreamers now mom’s gas-house eggs we named hole-in-the-middle sizzle cheddar chars the underside of bread sorghum up under our fingernails dirt salves our thighs we hum secret prayers to suckle ancient lullabies
we are clay and water we aren’t made of nothing
we knew our names we knew how to peel meanings off their backs to activate this life
what more could Memphis folk want we admit we are human beings we’re not exhibits of ourselves no one warned us we are only fractions that disappear
mortgage the home in memory of manners and homespun hope
easy equation of daily living how we looked right through the sun and didn’t see what accosts
there is no measure for what is missing there are no reparations but our insistent love
feeling falls out of my right leg the feeling goes elsewhere
dad doesn’t hoist me by my underarms to swirl me around the map of his heart
our stockings are isopropyl we are too incompetent for our own knowing that some breaks stay broken
mom and dad pace in waiting rooms for the doctor to slit the synapses out of me our many selves
the things we know are not easy we don’t crack New York windows taxi lights cry lightning tears we are empty of devour a language our lungs whine to understand
I carry rivers I am the river
copper current without beginning without end my stroke is thirsty my instincts retire to unlearn thirst my stroke is the rain hesitating the breath at my temples I am the body at the riverbank letting it drink from me
my lonely head scratches our record at twilight the stars built into our dewy flesh sing notes of dandelion grass
how we presumed that world was a fixture but we were wrong wrong makes our bodies its home I am without home
my body isn’t my body my body is first water in the wake
I give up migrating loops of my grief like a ram gives up its horns it’s excruciating to part with our parts when we don’t get a spare set
my mom touches my hip that’s not there my dad touches my shoulder that’s not there
my stomach loosens its melancholy in whirlpools of their emerald love
my mom prays hard with my proof on her hands
At 27, verging towards a doctorate at Harvard, Elly Katz went for a mundane procedure to stabilize her neck. Somehow, she survived what doctors surmised was unsurvivable: a brainstem stroke secondary to a physician's needle misplacement. In the wake of the tragedy, she discovered the power of dictation and the bounty of metaphor. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in the Stardust Review, the Sacramento Literary Review, the Amsterdam Review, and many others. Her first collection of creative nonfiction, From Scientist to Stroke Survivor: Life Redacted is forthcoming from Lived Places Publishing in Disability Studies (2025). Her first collection of poetry, Instructions for Selling-Off Grief, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books (2025).
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