Two Poems

Poetry / Daniel Blokh

:: Cold Doesn’t Like Being Forgotten ::

	After Kathryn Hargett 

I’m 6 years old and can’t keep my medicine down. 

Quite terrible. This world will do anything to keep you
from the easy drift you wish for. The large pill makes it
halfway down, then wakes some ripple

in the murky depth of me—my mouth
cracks open, breakfast and cough syrup all wasted.

I hope enough regret might wash them down
but my body lunges forward time

after time, reaching for somewhere I don’t know. 
My mother grabs the mop. Doesn’t even sigh.


When my brother was born back in Moscow, 
he was always sick. My parents didn’t have much 
medicine, but they had superstition.

They fed my brother honey mixed with lemon and onion,
rubbed his throat with cotton dipped in gasoline, made him

gargle beet juice. He wore potato compresses on his skin.
Doctors put hot jars on him to drain
the wrongness out. 

Who can blame them? People have done odder things 
than swallowing a dandelion’s leaves 
to kill sickness, to clean the winter from a bone. 

When something climbs into your body
and writhes there, how can you reason with it?


In her dream, my mother was in Moscow yesterday.
In waking, it’s been more than twenty years.

She left her home and became mine, bowl of water waiting 
for hair, railing of a staircase. 

Still it tugs at her voice, the hint of back there hanging
on her Rs and Ths, spilling this country out of her,

the hold of homesickness

she found no superstition for getting rid of,
could never scrub away completely.


Now my mother places Airbornes next to Kurantil, 
makes me bloat with vitamins they only sell thousands of miles away,

antibiotics from online stores. She gives me my pills 
beside bowls of borscht, tells me, Swallow them together 

and you won’t even notice it. But I do
and red stains swell into the carpet.

No wet drowning can steal 
the pill’s dust from my throat, 
the cling of taste. 


:: Tonkaya Ryabina ::

The tired green of it, the sprawl
around the porch, the wind tussling
the blades so they dance with the song
we’re listening to, rustling
your lips. It’s heat, but won’t be heat
until I name it. For the first time today, your eyes
are questionless. Something in you is sliding 
awake. We could be anywhere: a summer house
in Moscow, a nursing home beside a wide green field.
The song flickers out and we settle back
into one of those two options
and I think about the rain that brushed past 
us last week, ate up the summer. You were almost 
smiling when the song played. Now you sit. 
You sit. You sit. You sit. You sit. You look at me 
and start to sing. Your voice too thin to hold the weight 
of melody, but I can still make out the lyrics: Chto stoish 
kachayas. . . You don’t know the next word. 
Tonkaya, I say, Tonkaya, and you say, I’m afraid,
and I say, Why, and you say, What if I forget? and water 
can scare away a summer, but heat always settles 
back around the world. Our voices drops clinging
to each other in a hopeless throat. 

What if everything falls out—What if I don’t remember the lyrics—
Will they forgive me? 


From the writer

:: Account ::

Cold Doesn’t Like Being Forgotten”

In “Cold Doesn’t Like Being For­got­ten,” I tell the par­al­lel sto­ries of my mother’s immi­gra­tion to Amer­i­ca and of me catch­ing a cold. The run­ning feel­ing through­out both sto­ries is that of the desire to reshape one’s self—both in chang­ing one’s phys­i­cal well-being and one’s iden­ti­ty. My moth­er came to Amer­i­ca from Rus­sia (large­ly for me and my sib­lings) with­out know­ing the lan­guage. Her 20+ years in Amer­i­ca have been spent large­ly on try­ing to adapt to the envi­ron­ment, but she is still an imme­di­ate­ly obvi­ous out­sider and treat­ed as such; there is still “the hint of back there hang­ing / on her Rs and Ths.” I present her past in this poem in the way I imag­ine her see­ing it in the past—something she can­not hide or get rid of, a dis­ease she “could nev­er scrub away com­plete­ly.” Yet there is a shift at the end of the poem, when, in the present, she puts “Air­bornes next to Kuran­til” and “gives me my pills / beside bowls of borscht.” She is no longer try­ing to erase her past, but has embraced it. She has real­ized it as a part of her.

Tonkaya Ryabi­na”

Music has often come into the poet­ry I write about my grand­moth­er; through­out her stages of demen­tia, even when she can’t rec­og­nize any­one around her, she has always been able to remem­ber the songs of her past in Rus­sia. In the poem “Tonkaya Ryabi­na,” the song is a link between that past and the present, between her real­i­ty and mine. As I sit with my grand­moth­er on a nurs­ing home porch and lis­ten to the music, it seems as though “We could be any­where: a sum­mer house / in Moscow, a nurs­ing home beside a wide green field.” For the dura­tion of the song, it doesn’t mat­ter; we are hap­py. Yet after the music stops and the moment of hope­ful­ness ends, the real­i­ty of the sit­u­a­tion returns, my grandmother’s men­tal dis­tress and dis­ori­en­ta­tion inescapable. “Heat always set­tles back around the world.”


Daniel Blokh is a 16-year-old Amer­i­can writer of Russ­ian-Jew­ish descent, liv­ing in Birm­ing­ham, Alaba­ma. He is the author of the mem­oir In Migra­tion (BAM! Pub­lish­ing, 2016), the micro-chap­book The Wad­ing Room (Origa­mi Poems Project, 2016), and the chap­book Grim­mening (forth­com­ing from Diode Edi­tions). His work has been rec­og­nized by the Scholas­tic Art and Writ­ing awards and the Foyle Young Poet awards, and has appeared in DIALOGIST, Per­mafrost, Blueshift, Cleaver, Gigan­tic Sequins, For­age Poet­ry, Avis, Thin Air, Cica­da, and more. He’s bad at tak­ing naps, which sucks, because he real­ly needs a nap right now.