donation box,
she says with a grin.
To entertain ourselves
we turn on the wireless,
and a crackled voice
whines through the speakers.
Wearing a white silk gown
and white gloves,
Earhart broke up a dinner at the White House
by inviting the first lady
on a flight to Baltimore
and back.
Earhart was at the controls
of the plane
most of the flight.
Amelia Earhart
and the first lady!
Lara grabs my arm.
A match
made in heaven!
I squeal.
We lean in to listen
as Eleanor Roosevelt’s voice
floats over the airwaves.
I’d love to do it myself.
I make no bones about it.
It does mark an epoch,
doesn’t it,
when a girl in an evening dress
and slippers
can pilot a plane
at night. 21
We both smile,
eyes full of joy and light.
A sunrise, a blessing,
a wide open
horizon.
I spend the next few hours thinking
about flying alone in a plane
while digging my way
through a pile
of random junk.
Some of it
makes me smile.
Some makes me
gag.
I find an itchy pair
of woolen pants
with a pair of soiled underwear
still attached.
A hat
with an entire pheasant,
its teal and rust
wing
stretched
across the brim.
Plastic waders
for fishing in deep water.
A brassiere
with padded cups
as large
as two elephant feet.
I hold it up to my body
and dance.
Lara starts giggling.
She puts on
a pair of Coke-bottle glasses
and pretends to use
a pair of dentures.
The other girls go bananas.
At the very end of the day
I see something
peeking out
from a pile of gray.
A swath
of emerald green
silk.
I pull
and pull and pull
and it keeps coming
like a silk scarf
being pulled
out of
a magic hat.
It’s an evening dress
Sleeveless,
bias-cut, and soft
as the inside
of a rabbit’s ear.
It must have been
worn once.
It’s perfect
except for a tear
running
all the way down
the seam.
I bring the dress to Clarabelle
secretly
hoping she’ll
think it’s unfixable
and throw it
away.
Instead she takes it,
turns it inside out,
and runs it through
the sewing machine.
The needle
bobs efficiently along
the silky fabric
like she’s mending
a muslin
housedress.
That’ll probably do.
Now that I look at it,
it’s about your size, Mary.
so I can see if
it needs any other mending?
I try to contain my excitement
as I duck
behind a changing screen.
Slip my legs through
the glossy fabric.
Come out
and present myself.
She looks at me
with a pained expression.
Oh, Mary.
What’s wrong?
It looks like it was meant for you.
She lifts the zipper
and turns me
toward the mirror.
All the other volunteers
gather to look.
I look at myself
in the mirror,
covered in soft green silk.
The color
bounces off my dark hair
and light eyes.
I’ve never felt
so beautiful.
You must take it home!
One of the women says.
What shoe size are you, Mary?
Will these fit?
Lara hands me
a pair of
silver T-strap high heels.
I slip my heel
into them
and they fit.
Ooooo! What about this?
Yet another volunteer
rummages
through her piles
and produces
a silver and pearl hairpin
in the shape of a star.
And this!
Another woman
produces a silvery ribbon.
Pins the star to it
and strings it
though my black, curly hair.
I couldn’t possibly
take all this.
I’ve never worn
anything this nice.
I stare in the mirror.
Could this really be me?
Clarabelle hugs me tight
around my shoulders.
Consider it a thank-you
for all your hard work.
Then she pats herself on the chest
and smiles.
How do you think
I got this fancy apron?
Giorgos (Gio)
Ellis Island, New York
1917
I feel the sting of the handcuffs
as I stare through the gray fog
at the Statue of Liberty.
I am in the land of the free,
but I am in chains.
We wait and watch
the mass
of ticketed passengers
disembark.
The attendants sit at tables,
take names,
write them into ledgers,
sort people
into groups.
After the crowd clears,
an armed marshal
barks orders at us.
We line up.
They march us off the boat.
Directly
into a jail cell.
I lie to the guards
I tell them that I am an orphan.
I tell them I am seventeen.
They can’t understand
what I’m saying.
They pull up
eyelids
with a buttonhook.
They examine:
mouths
nails
ears
teeth.
They pull a woman from the group,
mark her with chalk.
The letter H on
her sleeve.
They take away one man
with pink eyes.
They sequester
a sallow-skinned girl,
who pinches
her cheeks
to make them appear
rosy, healthy.
The prisoners of Ellis Island
are Italian, Russian, Slavic,
Arabic, and German.
We do not speak to each other.
We do not want to be sent back. 22
They slide porridge
under the bars
of the cell.
It’s swimming
with mealworms.
One of the inmates gags
and slides it back.
I spend an hour
picking the
sleek, brown
bodies
out of the oats
so that I can eat.
I wake early in the morning
There is a man in a uniform
standing above me.
They tell me you want to be
a citizen of the United States
of America.
Is that right, boy?
I don’t quite understand.
I hear the words
citizen of the United States
of America.
I nod yes.
Well, I have
a pretty good idea
how we can make
that happen
for you.
He leaves
a pressed and folded
U.S. Army uniform
at the foot of my bed.
They wait two weeks
and then load me onto
a ship.
This time with a ticket
to France.
Jeanne
Saint-Malo, France
1917
I teach Vera
how to pry
small, black mussels
from the gray boulders
next to the salty sea.
Just like my father
taught me.
We search the sand
for tiny bubbles
rising from
the razor clams
buried deep
within the silt.
Vera looks out
at the green water.
I want to know
what she knows,
the world beyond
this harbor.
We fill our baskets
with black and gray jewels.
When they are full,
we strap them to our backs,
wade in the shallow water
and splash each other.
Mouths wide open
with laughter.
Our freckled faces
kissed by the sun.
At my mother’s house
we rinse sand
from the shells.
Our maid, Anne,
helps us
mince garlic
and shallots.
We cook them in a large pot
with white wine
until the lovely smell
of cooking garlic
rises through the house,
seeps out of the windows
and onto the street.
The people
passing by
stop to close their eyes
and think about
all the beautiful meals
they have eaten
throughout their lives
and the friends
who have sat at their
tables
after a perfect day
at the beach.
Mary
Detroit, Michigan
1933
Letter #12
November 1, 1918
When did you know that you loved me?
When you first heard my voice?
When you first saw my face?
When your lips touched mine?
Come back.
There are many more first things to experience.
Forever yours,
Petit Oiseau
On Sunday
we kiss things.
The icons
at the entrance
of the nave.
Theotokos,
the Mother of God.
We cross ourselves.
The thumb
and two fingertips
pressed together
for the Holy Trinity.
We kiss
the priest’s hand.
We kiss
each other
before communion.
Christ is in our midst.
He is and shall be.
We place the chalice
to our lips, and we drink.
Leave the church
walking backward,
bow and cross ourselves
again.
Grateful.
The service is done.
As usual
after the liturgy,
Dimitris
is waiting for me.
The women
swirl
as they fetch coffee
and biscuits
for their men.
That coffee smells good.
He motions to the table.
Empty handed.
I am expected
to serve him.
I walk up,
pour a cup
from a bronze urn.
I turn toward him,
hold my pinky up.
Take a slow sip,
not taking my eyes
from his.
You’re right, Dimitris.
The coffee is good.
I walk away
to find my sister.
My shy sibling
is surrounded
by old women.
Her eyes say, Save me.
I pull her away
from the crowd.
Thank goodness.
Mrs. Manikas was talking
about her gout.
Let’s leave before anyone
starts talking
about needlepoint.
Or lower-back pain.
Or your
future marriage
to an eligible
bachelor
in the community.
Let me grab my coat.
On the walk
I prepare myself.
We stop walking
in front of Sacred Heart.
Will you tell Mama
that I’m working
at the clothing drive tonight?
I thought
we were walking home
together.
They need me.
I’ll be back late.
Don’t forget
to tell Mama where I am.
I open
the heavy side door
and slip inside
before
she can say
another word.
I lied to my sister.
I lied
to my best friend.
For a boy.
The last time I was here
I stashed my dress
in a paper sack
hidden
behind a heavy
potted plant
in the ladies’ lavatory.
I sneak
through the dark corridors,
barely breathing.
The door creaks
as I open it.
It’s still there.
I’ve always imagined
what it would be like
to act in a play.
To wear a costume
or a mask.