"Meg" by Tina Demirdjian

Meg

On mornings the wind
brings dead leaves
from trees to the ground

the Santa Anas
fierce and unforgiving
dictate their fate

while Meg sweeps the fallen

her 90-year-old bones
thin as a yellowed leaf
wisp the leaves like a broom
around the curve

where two soldiers
once came long ago
and knocked on her door

We are sorry to inform you
your son has died at war

and the letter in their hands trembled:

the way the leaves
trembled in the wind
before Meg swept them
after each storm.

She’d gather them into piles
like words on a page
she’d try to make sense of:

the word war she’d rid of
into the dustpan first
and swerve the broom
around the curve to find
the word died

and let it rest for a while.

The word son she’d sweep
closer to her to keep an eye on
like a little boy at her side
until she was done
until all was swept away

she’d pick him up

and give him back to the wind
like news that travels in silence.

Tina Demirdjian

Tina Demirdjian's first book of poetry is Imprint. She is also published in Birthmark: A Bilingual Anthology of Armenian-American Poetry and in various journals: The Los Angeles Times, Ararat International Journal, and High Performance. She has performed poetry in Los Angeles and New York and received grants from the Durfee Foundation, Glendale Arts Commission, and the City of Los Angeles Department of Cultural Affairs.

Headshot: Tina Demirdjian

Photo Credit: Jackson Purcell