RITUAL

by Amy Shimshon-Santo

the year crawls toward an end 
sharp knife between its teeth
& bleeding tongue

a year of vowels

displaced from their consonants,
zipped together 

by a three letter word 
that is not good for children 
& other living things

I walk to the edge of language
thin stick between my hands 
holding a makeshift flag

colorless as the memory of water
scavenged from cotton 
clothing of the departed

it is time to place the year inside 
an urn, bury it in the Earth
lie down beside the unimaginable

hear the new year drumming
& dreaming itself into being, wanting
to be born

Dr. Amy Shimshon-Santo is a warm-blooded vertebrate with hair. She writes  poetry, essays, performs spoken word, improvisation, and choreography. Read or listen to her poetry collections: Catastrophic Molting (2020), Even the Milky Way is Undocumented (2020), and look for her forthcoming book Random Experiments in Bioluminescence (2024). Teaching and facilitating trans-local community arts projects have been central to her social practice for 30+ years. She is available as a guest artist, arts educator, coach, and editor. Dr. A has been nominated for an Emmy Award and three Pushcart Prizes in poetry and creative non-fiction. She was a finalist for the Night Boat Poetry Prize, and earned a place in the U.S. Service Learning Hall of Fame. Connect with her at @shimshona / @amyshimshon

WITNESS

 by Amy Shimshon-Santo

I am the person formerly known as _____ _____ - _____.

Now she is the bird left behind from the flock.

She is the figure weeping in the sand.

A witness, witnessed only by the sea.

I am not a war correspondent or a social media expert. 

I am not a documentarian of suffering.

Don’t worry. I have nothing to teach you and nothing to say. 

I’m just skipping words like stones along the water, 

knowing they will bounce and then sink down.

The birds laugh at us.

Birds side eye sonic jets and helicopters. 

Maybe they will tell the trees what’s going on — what they see and feel.

Last week I was a writer.

Today I am a barnacle on the belly of a whale. 

I am moaning like an underwater animal.

When did time stop? When will it start back up? 

Will it? Is this the new time, 

the timeless time, lost in unknowing?

I am not a flag.

I am no longer really a woman, I just gave birth to life.

I am not a faith, just faithful.

Oh broken bones and heavy stones

How far will you tumble?

How far down will you fall?

Six days ago was the sabbath. We gathered 

with 29 members of my family across four generations. Cousins with cousins. 

Sisters with sisters. Brothers and children and grandparents.

Six days ago was a Friday.

Today is six days past a moment of miracles, six days past the bomb.

24 hours x 6 ago there was a night where we could all lay down and hope to sleep.

If I am going to sit with the page I have to say that I don’t want to say

I want this to not be true.

Before I speak, I want you to know that I am wrong. 

Not because I know nothing but because everything is wrong. 

Not every thing but the big world of powers that evaporate worlds. 

I don’t want to remind my mind and relive what has become a beginning.

I don’t want to state the facts because the facts are a mush of kindnesses and disasters.

I am the person formerly known as a self.

I melted into the Mediterranean, sonic booms above our heads. 

My tears salt the water and make everything sting.

I want to tell you about the weeping. 

The mother collapsing onto her belly like a conch shell whose life has departed. 

She is the throw away, the detritus of those left behind.

Author’s note: I have been in three cities in Israel during this past week. I am from Los Angeles. My mother was born here in 1932 as a Jewish person under the British Mandate Palestine. I am a mother, a teacher, and a culture maker. I am deeply opposed to murder, torture, war, and intergenerational harm. War is the loss of lives and infrastructure and dreams and time. Torture and war are the worst uses of human energy and potential.

CONSIDERING WAR

by Amy Shimshon-Santo

Dead bodies are placed into a mass grave on the outskirts of Mariupol, Ukraine, on March 9. (Evgeniy Maloletka/AP)

after Cesar Vallejo (“considerando el frío, imparcialmente”)

considering that bombs 

leave craters in the earth

making it difficult

to mobilize hospitals,

carry pregnant mothers

across fields of rubble

comprehending the cold breath of sunday

broken bridges, 

families gathered beneath them 

without exact destinations

beyond a border

understanding that mammals with bombs

are cold hearted

explosive-death-machines, 

considering that men

—and I will call them that

because of their bombs —

explode sites

leaving the enduring silence

of family members

understanding that a cadaver

cannot speak

& I am just a storyteller

still living 

with the possibility of voice

I will make my breath a sign

painted in horror 

across the sky

that begs the bombing 

to stop

Amy Shimshon-Santo is a poet and educator who believes that culture is a powerful tool for personal and social transformation. Her interdisciplinary work connects the arts, education, and urbanism. She is the author of Even the Milky Way Is Undocumented (Unsolicited Press, Pushcart Prize & Rainbow Reads Award nominee). 

STOP A WAR

by Amy Shimshon-Santo

“i don’t understand why people keep choosing fascism.” —my mother. 

my words are knots, 

while I need parachutes. 

sleepless from threading imaginary-strategies 

potential sentences to disrupt the state. 

try lots of periods. . . . . .

put the [killers in brackets]

some writers spin enviable lines,

bumper sticker responses 

at the ready, 

then go out for cappuccino.

as if the correct terminology 

could bring back the dead 

my body is tangled,  

it can’t sleep for grieving

my head shakes, 

remembering do Nascimento’s lyric

 

eu sou america do sul,

eu sei você não vai saber.

 

same with everywhere,

imperial windows barely see in

much less out. do something, her body said

the world is on fire

you can only change what you touch 

how can a mom bring down a fascist state? 

massage therapists post information

on demonstrations, they sing

bring flowers, 

and are dragged on the ground by police

fascism comes in all flavors

styles and sizes

anyone can be a fascist

two for one, on sale now

maybe anyone

can be a freedom fighter too.

I want to stop the war

words were supposed to make the world

but mine roar within 

i misspell lines, small lions

the people who are doing the fighting 

are the ones who must stop.

i want to make them

let's see, i have hot water and a barrel of lemons

try! use your words

stop a war with your body

“we are not all that powerful, “ h says. “its ok,

we are not built for that.”

but my body, made of moon dust 

cells and pillage histories believes it is

it dreams of becoming 

big as a u.n., an i.c.c. — BIGGER!

a small body, dreams of being 

a body of power

she is more  

like a garden bird 

small and two-footed,

feathered with emotion

 

while history wears 

boots and helmets

carries rifles, barges in

drops bombs and burns

“we will get crushed 

if we try to carry the world,” h says. 

but that is what the body feels 

responsible for

how does a mother 

stop a war? 

"the people who are bombing must stop," 

the mother stirs, but we must find a way to stop them

Amy Shimshon-Santo is a poet and educator who believes that culture is a powerful tool for personal and social transformation. Her interdisciplinary work connects the arts, education, and urbanism. She is the author of Even the Milky Way Is Undocumented (Unsolicited Press, Pushcart Prize & Rainbow Reads Award nominee).