Hades

Aria Aber

Where did he go? I asked.
Where do the missing ever go?

Imagine silence, the tyrant, growing thick
over the casket lowered into the ground
with nothing resting on

its leather—just the red daybook
and the shirt of Rolling Stones scented still
with pine and cheap cologne, tobacco.

An entire population sunk
to the bottom of the sea. Plastic forks, black boxes.

Daily, filtered light gleams
on the gold teeth of the disappeared. There’s a pile
of nameless bones eroding the soil

under a thousand hungry mouths
of Himalayan blue poppy. And bullet casings

litter the dirt, glimmering like coins. A cloth
that, weighted with ice water, slapped his face
the way a mother would in rage

and grief. The day they buried into earth
the thing without the body,
all the apple blossoms, I heard, floated

back into the gaunt arms of trees.

Aria Aber was raised in Germany, where she was born to Afghan refugees. Her debut, Hard Damage, won the Prairie Schooner Book Prize in Poetry.
Originally published:
January 1, 2020

Featured

Community

Finding company on and off the page
Carl Phillips

Conversations

Emily Ogden and Dana Spiotta

Reckoning with middle age and complicity
Emily Ogden
and
Dana Spiotta

The Stakes of Dictee

An introduction to a famously difficult work
Ken Chen

You Might Also Like

Aria Aber on the Poetry of Exile

Writing what can't be named
Meghan O’Rourke


Nostos

Aria Aber

Subscribe

Help keep print culture alive. For a limited time, enjoy 10% off two- and three-year subscriptions.
Subscribe