Accent
The whispers of my childhood woods
and the hills redundantly green
cast a blade-sharp curse on my tongue—
the rich earth’s crust, the salt-thick sea,
the verdant domes, the verdant domes
you’ll never inherit! As if space
becomes litany and landscape
layers its coherence
on sounds.
After Yalta
Although
the streets were left unlit, and centuries-old
buildings, forsaken, darkened with grime;
although
in squalid government-funded houses
a chorus of housewives lamented
the lack of cold cuts and the scarcity
of money, while peasants sold
wilted dill in gloomy open markets;
although
banished words like sir and madam
were replaced by comrade, curfew imposed,
weddings outlawed after midnight;
although
rum was plentiful, sugar and soap rationed,
the Bible prohibited, legendary churches
demolished, monuments to Lenin and Stalin
built in their stead, the menacing Russkies,
armed to the gills with rifles and tanks,
always and forever at the border;
although
the world, divided, abandoned one of its halves
behind the Iron Curtain to iron fists, kirza boots,
broken treaties, then forgot about it, and grew
prosperous on a well-executed Marshall Plan;
here,
in the Eastern Bloc countries,
where the hastily manufactured
Communist Revolution
turned into a grotesque mix of terror
and gallows humor,
music
was still played, jokes copious, and people
fell in love, had children, got divorced,
just as in any other part of the world.
Iron Curtain
At Buchenwald, the clock stopped
at 3:15. Was it early morning
or mid afternoon? Who remembers?
What became clear to all
this time was that Jedem
das Seine, the forgediron
slogan above the death
camp’s gates, told—to each
its own bigger, better bombs,
while an opaque curtain descended
its terror and gloom over ancient towns,
time froze in an unending war
dividing the world into two enemy words:
them and us, as if there wasn’t ever
going to be a friendly neighbor again.
Home, a chant
A shadow captured in family pictures;
a soothing chant for tribal belonging;
measured spaces of peace; a longing
for holiday’s aroma, for breakfast milk;
home
a legend of bread bought at the corner store
when, too young to know the value of money,
I thought the silver change was so much more;
footnote ingrained by life on accents, in tones; dolls,
cradles, symbols of love; collection of weddings;
grapes swollen into wine to flower on Mother’s
outgrown wedding dress, on Father’s faithlessness
hemmed with mistresses sleeping in his dreams;
home
with children spread like ivy on the family tree;
furniture moved with divorces in a step-by-step
dance toward acquired brothers and cousins;
aunts reciting gospels of childhood wrongs;
the wrinkles Mother’s hands turned into
my growing; a womb that defies
the peeling of time;
home
ceremonial lies said
to plaster good mornings on top
of good nights; family secrets mentioned
only in gestures cast over growth, grievances,
treasures; a hug before sleep, and a gaze
walking me over crossroads; conversations
left unfolded to finish when older;
home
a perpetual door
I could open without any resistance,
even if behind it the air was heavy
with contradictions and crystal vases
shattered after a fight; bruised knees,
and the fences I stubbornly broke through
to steal sweet cherries, sensual
like the month of July;
the place I come back to, expecting
grandparents’ features repeated on youngsters,
and a chocolate cake baked to honor my return
to the grief of departures;
the trees I’ve planted and the ones
I’ve used to fence rituals holding together
the silver coins returned as change.
Home.
Want to learn more? Go here to download the sample and view purchase links.