SUMAC

In Armenian, to care is հոգ տալ (hok tal), meaning “to give soul”

Our language is obsessed with giving away parts of ourselves

հոգուդ մատաղ (hokood matagh) -

I will sacrifice myself to save your soul

Hokis. My soul, spewed from our depths, like wine from karas jugs

But no one gives that away -

not willingly. not even the charitable

America is the most charitable of all nations

economists confirm it, publications report it

American economists, American publications

pundits repeat the affirmation

American pundits, smug grins cracking the screen

“Charity” (noun),

from the Middle English, from the French, from the Latin, from the Greek

“kara,” meaning “head” - an expression of love in Ancient Greece

From Kara to Charity. mutated so many times, the head lost her body

արևիդ մեռնեմ (arevid mernem) - I will die for your sun - perish beneath its glow

The Armenian asks, Is there love without soul, without light?

We’ve survived, not by hoarding or “preserving” - nor by conquering or stealing

The English cow chewed so much of India, that the word “loot” entered its tongue

“Loot” (noun), origin, Sanskrit - the world’s second oldest language

Armenian is not as old but no less wise

A home and haven to those without soil, decreed our Moushegh, Orphaned Prince of the Pen

After his roof ruptured and walls were looted, his tongue built a castle,

where every wanderer can own roof and wall

We’ve all felt the pang

those without a home, carry it in their bones -

gifting life and soul to pressurized eyes,

while singing, ծավդ տանեմ (tsav’t tanem) -

I’ll take your pain away

The drifter has much to teach the stagnant

but words are mutilated on a charitable tongue

So, there is no charity here

In this poem, I penetrate your lines

and break your vessel

to take what you cannot give

In this poem, I am conquistadora

my flag piercing your earth

and tainting its well

In this poem

you are homeless

marooned on crumpled sheets

howling release

Gather the ink

spill its agony

watch as your soul bathes

in my sun, hokis.

Anoti, Part II

Մաման կ’ըսէր ՛ | Maman guhser

Աստված անօթիների հոգին տանի | Asdvadz anotineri hokin danee

Mama would say, ‘May God take the souls of the hungry’

The halepa-stanci բարբառ swirls inside me.

It swooshes with the brown stuff.

Cup #1: Anoti. This word I once called lighter fluid.

This word that scorched our great-grandmothers.

Akh, even the desert starves for fresh meat.

Աստված անօթիների հոգին տանի | Asdvadz anotineri hokin danee

An heirloom from Tatik’s mother. All I have to hold her by.

Nothing but bones to gnaw at now.

Artsakh never knew anoti. Emptiness has a different shade this side of the border.

Once ծովից ծով (tsovic tsov), now սովից սով (sovic sov)

From sea to shining hunger

The camps are no longer in the desert.

They’ve crept into our homes.

Cup #2: Soon, I will learn the word for hunger in every dialect.

I will savor its bitterness with my morning coffee

this piece of toast that just landed on my plate.

No rations, no queues, no sweltering sun.

How արտասովոր (art-a-sov-or) ‘unusual.’

Fate is written on the forehead but inside is sov. Hunger.

To be means to starve.

A lesson we’ve lost in exile.

Cup #3: I am often asked how I find the words -

what time of day I sit, and how long I hold before release.

There is no method. There is no “process.” Except one.

I write hungry.

Only sourj to keep my insides warm

first cup, black; second, a splash of milk

As the numbers increase, the կաթ (kaat) tips the scale.

I dilute to keep going. Lest blood turn to stone.

Some afternoons, I’ll take out the սրճեփ (srjep | cezve) and make myself the black water of our

ancestors.

I’ll turn on the gas and watch the beans melt. Soon, they’ll try to escape.

Up and down they’ll scatter as I control the heat from the safety of my steed.

A desert of my making. How easy. To sear a body as it wails.

Cup #4: Աստված անօթիների հոգին տանի | Asdvadz anotineri hokin danee

May God take the souls of the hungry

Tatik had a sweet tooth. She could almost smell sugar from the other room. But deprivation shifts the

tongue out of whack.

On one of our last mornings together, her tongue drooled.

As I cleared the table, she reached over and scooped up the crumbs of a scone.

“You see these? These are us two, sitting and talking.”

She tossed them in her mouth and made a face.

“That was a little sweet.”

She thought the crumbs were bulgur.