“Cell that may Murder or Create” by  Jury S. Judge

“Cell that may Murder or Create” by Jury S. Judge

Five Poems

by Amanda Mei Kim


MASS PITCH

 

Beyond the tar stained sands, coral takes root on a sunken U-boat, a bed of algae grows around a bleached tennis shoe, the rubber peeling away from the soaked canvas. The planet tries to keep pace despite the humans.

The people recycle their stories instantly, no time to assign names or transfer myths. A fourteen-year-old boy killed a dozen people, “the gunman,” they called him, the same name as the boy who killed six the month before.

They used to assign powerful, distinct names: the Ripper, the Brooklyn Vampire, the Angel of Death, the Son of Sam, the Zodiac Killer. Now, there are no more phantoms, just anonymous flagpersons signaling the path, ambiguous and unaccountable.

The victims are forgotten entirely, they are immersed in a flash of ink, their limbs flail, their auras turn black and then the light moves on to another unknown.

Not even diseases have names, scattered letters and numbers. Where has all the exotic gone, when we can no longer languish under the carrier winds with a missionary in a linen suit at our side?

Killing is now understood as something that happens in batches, to villages and countrysides, peninsulas, and continents. Planes fall from the sky, cruise ships carry swimming pools full of legionella, a processing plant sends e. Coli to the far quarters by train and truck and barge.

Death is produced in factories for the masses.


LOST LANGUAGE: BUILDINGS


I look out the window, seeing the city as it should be seen, from a moderate
height, not looking down at unadorned rooftops with gaping vents and spewing
fans. Nor from below, with the city, a series of tall obstacles and crowded arteries.
The view from the third floor is perfect. Across the street is the church with the
glowing marble steps and lantern towers. I don’t know what all the decorations on
our house represent. Not the garland on the crest above the door, nor the diamond
pattern on the floor boards, or the six-paneled doors. They all belong to another
language and their meaning is lost. A cherub in the church’s alcove holds a bowl
full of what? Milk or water? Stripped of myth. These all had meaning once, and
not so long ago. In the distance, skyscrapers rise up, all concrete and
glass—impossible to adorn with anything but flat billboards and LED lights.


NEURALGIA/NOSTALGIA

I could place my lips on the barrel of the syringe and fill his arm with my breath like a balloon. He shows me his antique gold and silver needles, with their bevels and lumens which were designed to deliver opiates to the painful points. “It was invented for neuralgia sufferers,” he said, “but that’s not what’s wrong with us, we’re stricken with grief, nostalgia.”

“But not for long!” He sweeps up his leather kit and heads toward the bathroom to fill the tub with warm water and bubbles. “Come on,” he says. And I follow. He opens the case and the needles look like a string of blow darts. He squeezes my bicep and taps at a vein.

“No,” I tell him, “I’m ok.”

He winks at me, “I think you have a touch of nostalgia too.”

“I’m alright,” I say pulling my arm away.

“Come on, we all have it, a little bit.”


Chinatown : Bone : Ballast

Driving through the desert night, a soft keening sound comes from the crack in the window and I can see planets in the black sky, the farmer Saturn, floating Neptune, peripatetic Pluto and Calvado trading Mercury. In my father’s last hour, it was suddenly clear to him, what he needed to do, not end his life, but fulfill it. He jumped into the sea to save my mother. All that is mortal can fit in a shoebox and placed in a wall niche.

But enough of it, will hold a ship upright. It is the pulverized bodies dug up after an earthquake that kept the ships from tipping as they plowed into the sea.

After the earthquake, they dragged tons of rubble and debris, cooking pots, broken glass, pottery shards and unnamed uncounted human skeletons, to the shipyard, filling ship hulls with human dust instead of the lead they could’t afford or didn’t want to when they had unlimited access to a free and natural resource, the bones of men, women and children.

One way or another—by time, human error, unfathomable winds—the ships delivered their packets of stone, mortar, bone and household trash to the sea.

Another hundred miles, still moonlit desert, passing groves of Joshua trees with their arms outstretched in a grim slow dance, a retreating dance. Somewhere nearby, they chopped down the oldest living thing on earth, a short gnarled pine tree named Methuselah for further study.


ON THE NARRENSCHIFF

When they stare death in the face, when they walk right into it, people often think they are blessed, how can they not be? The one who faces her deepest fear must prevail because it is the fear itself that is supposed to be the final test, that little voice that says, no, you’re not ready, it can’t be done.

Unfortunately, ropes still break, concrete crumbles, roofs collapse, flames climb thin walls. In that moment, when you’ve actually turned yourself around, no other logic exists, not the kind that measures the actual distance between a treetop and the ground, or witnesses the frayed spot on a rope, or sees that an oddly-shaped bulge in a pocket is really a gun, or that the person across from you has also turned around and you two are now squarely in death’s grip, trapped in a hero’s tale, and can see no other way out. Shoot first.

The narrenschiff turns slowly against gales, and even in calm waters, but it turns given enough time. Forests will grow back, an apology will be made. Names will be offered and even murder will be personal again. Don’t I know you?

 

WRITER'S BIO:

Amanda Mei Kim is a fourth-generation Californian and experimental writer. She received her BA in American Civilization from Brown University and her MFA in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University. She was a recipient of the James D. Phelan Literary Award. Amanda completed residencies at Yefe Nof, Hedgebrook, the Fine Arts Work Center, and was selected by Ursula K. LeGuin for the Flight of the Mind Workshop. She grew up on a family farm and currently lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. Currently, she is working on a novel about the caretakers of the earth.