Girl Named

“A Girl Named”, “What the River Took” and “What’s New, What’s Left”

by Konstantin Rega

A Girl Named

Beside the mist and the tree the mist and the branches the mist and the body

Beside the mist and the song the mist and the call the mist and the body

Beside the mist and the mother the mist and the father the mist and the body

Beside the mist and the rope the mist and the brook the mist and the body

Beside the mist and the stem the mist and the fallen petals the mist and the body

Beside the mist and the doll the mist and the frosted earth the mist and the body

Beside the mist and the tree the mist and the father the mist and the sky

Beside the mist and the branches the mist and the mother the mist and the body

Beside the mist and the sounds the mist and the dawn the mist and the body

Beside the mist and the body the mist and the mist the mist and the body

Beside the mist and the song the mist and the discarded doll the mist and the sky

Beside the mist and the letter the mist and the boat of bark the mist and the dawn

Beside the mist and the grass the mist and the birdsong the mist and the body

Beside the mist and the brook the grass and the dew the mist and the body

What the River Took

The present does not exist. Doorway         between two wor(l)ds that you         sleep in
sheets wrinkle and bunch unraveling          bones          the dust of us still singing. In          Out
was
         and was          we echo in this space this           collage of unbreathing beings.          Sunlight
pushes struggles against your          body          still positioned as an hour ago          Doors opened
but nothing steps through          It is          portal t h  a   t    m     o      v       e        s around
us.
All the pretty fishes motionless             above          your sun-shot head. So many holes
whistle deedle deedle dee          whistling the river          feeds          this summer feast yet some
still starve though           there is plenty to give.          The present is          a magician’s trick:
your
grace         melted gold seepingslippingspearing holes          where I am          forgotten
between the silent humm         (I)          ng w          (I)          res. Two hours slide through
you          same lovely form on auction          do I hear three?          You create my tag
verbal license plate sinking in          that stream from          the portal you          let          create
my hunger.          The future          diaphanous          wisp of hair. The past captured          in
a cracked bell jar
leaking delicate filigrees          silken lightning.          Tree of Life in its glass house
scorched by strands of          silver hair from your static          head          do I hear four?
Soon the moon and its tides will go          through you          the dust          not enough          to
stop my gaze penetrating          you          drinking that stream where my name begins          to
bob. Sun’s fool’s gold          laughing          mouth sinking          deedle deedle dee. Your lips give
birth          to zero          that seed bursting seconds:          our tree burnt-to-growing feeding off
wounds
          the umber sap dripping           your honeycomb head. Tears          now raising another
stream to collected and          distribute me          bones whispering           along the graveyard
ground of this gushing          river’s tread.

What’s New, What’s Left

I keep stray hairs, those

golden lines

pulled by comb and air


before you question my

disease, my

battle and bait that I cannot shed.


Casting a bone out, a shard

of fallen tooth

the fishing line gleams


as thoughts, yours-mine,

sink in

the containing stream


seams to

wound and stitch

but there is no thread left as


the hook cleaves the bed.

Discarded frames

flesh peeled, the silver stuck rings


still clenched chewing through to

loose another

net more tackle kept in storage


misused reused like fragments of

sand

castles which oblige the tide


allowing a splinter to live

inside.

I take wound hairs


so as to collect

dark debris

repurposing pulled out teeth


from my childhood trove

restringing

my arms, hands, feet

*


to lure

in

those ancients below…


the waters swirl, yet no

grave

nor you can keep me.


My lungs have turned to

dark wings

stuck spread in remembrance


of what flight used to be.

The creek

sinks waters lowering


as more leaves, clumped

organs

decomposing, are brought up


to breathe (their own stink).

Sunlight strings

cast here there here


ready to snag and snatch

wad(d)ing

forms not flesh or blood


but biting all the

same

living off living.


You call, throwing your

own cage

dried-blood wings crystalized


to meet mine, yet

nothing caught

and I will never answer


as I am trained to do.

Do not

knock on the glass,


feed my disease, fishes

upturned white

exposed bellies leaking


dripping beads of bone

better than pearls;

this oyster remains closed


its mucked tongue—

hidden

beneath the stream’s tar flow—


unhooked and silenced to

vibrations solely,

but I have already fed


my ears to it

to grasp

its tangle of fumbling teeth.


Splinters sunk tugging

ripped

from shining blond fibers


linked by my hand

knots

counting length depth


yet to acknowledge

wait … wait …

no just more muddy reeds.


You appear, disentangled

no longer clinging

below the veil of (we)ave


shredded—not to share—

returned

to carbon dustings


my reeled in, wound about

hook and line

cannot tear, taste, tease.


I have allowed the

digestion

and disintegration of

*


it (you?), though my

hair

still leaves its slivers


perhaps preparing for yet

another

fishing expedition.

About the Author

Konstantin Rega

Website

Born in Krasnoyarsk, Russia, Konstantin studies British & American Literature and Creative Writing at The University of Kent in Canterbury, England. He has been published by The Claremont Review, Four Ties Lit Review, AOM, Minetta Review, Every Writer and has won the ZO Magazine Silver Prize for Poetry, and is currently a Review Assistant for Newfound and a contributor to the Black Lion Journal. Read more at his blog: neomodernkonstantin.weebly.com.