Assume
the personality
of another.
Feel the applause
from an audience
that adores you.
As I walk down
the street toward
the ferry dock,
I feel like everyone
in the world
is looking.
They see me.
Admire me.
This different version
of me.
I arrive early
circle the landing,
try to find Billy.
He’s not here.
I close my eyes
and take a deep breath.
Mary.
I open my eyes.
He’s standing in front of me.
Wearing a black suit,
white shirt,
and a black bow tie.
His eyes are wide.
He’s holding
a white gardenia
in the palm
of his hand.
He tries to secure the flower
to my shoulder,
stabs himself with the pin
and winces in pain.
It’s ok, I can do it,
I say and take the flower.
His hands are shaking.
I pin the corsage
above my heart and smile.
The smell
hits me,
wild
and sultry.
I take his hand.
We board the ferry boat
Sappho.
The sun sinks
lower,
creating a golden pathway
over the water
as the sky above us
turns pink
and orange.
La Belle Isle
feels like another world.
Across the river,
the skyline
in the distance.
My home
so close, so far.
Throngs of wealthy,
pink-cheeked
men and women,
dressed in their Sunday best,
stream off the ferry.
The weather has turned
and the first shades
of red
tip the leaves.
Partners
huddle together to stay warm.
I shiver.
I’m ashamed
to cover
my dress with my
well-worn
black
wool coat.
Billy puts his arm
around me and asks,
Should we go
into the conservatory? 23
It’s warmer in there.
We walk toward
a huge glass dome
and enter a steamy haven
of green.
The plants make me feel
like a stranger.
Wendy
in Neverland.
We walk though
a room filled with
palm trees.
I’ve only seen their shape
in books
and drawings
of faraway
desert islands.
Then a dry,
hot room with cacti
as tall as the roof
and blooming flowers
the size of my hand.
Underneath the glass dome
the showroom
holds flowers
of all shades of red,
open and bold.
Then the tropical house
filled with orchids
and ferns,
a statue of a little girl
pouring water
from a bowl.
Each room
more spectacular
than the last.
We are greedy.
Laugh
as we nudge
our noses into every flower,
gather
all the sweetness.
Before we enter
the dance pavilion,
I can hear
the orchestra playing.
We walk
from the darkness
into a brightly lit room,
stand underneath
a gigantic crystal chandelier.
The perimeter
of the hall
lined with tables
covered in white linen
and candles.
We settle at a table.
Billy orders us both
prime rib
and mashed potatoes.
The meat arrives
covered in juices,
so soft
it cuts with a fork.
I think of the meat
we eat at home,
boiled for hours.
The dessert arrives.
Berries dripping
over a crisp
whipped meringue
pavlova.
It disappears
in my mouth,
a heavenly cloud.
I pull Billy
onto the dance floor.
He holds me close
and puts his cheek
next to mine.
The lead singer moans
into the microphone.
Billy moves slowly
around the floor,
guiding us
through other couples
in their own trance.
I close my eyes and stop thinking.
Everything moves slowly,
sweet and viscous as honey.
My feet glide,
trusting
we will move together.
We sink deeper
into the velvet notes
of the music.
Eventually
the sound of the band
is replaced
by the piercing
staccato
of couples clapping.
Billy and I,
nose to nose.
Still breathing together
on the dance floor.
The wind is blowing
as we board the ferry.
My eyes
start weeping.
I want to tell him
about Dimitris,
my father’s failing store.
The words are frozen.
The lies I have told.
I wish
I could make him understand
this can never be.
It starts to rain hard
We run
to the corner of the boat,
behind the stairwell
to hide.
He squeezes me
into his chest
with just the right
pressure.
He tips my head up
with two fingers.
He looks worried.
You’re crying.
I can’t stop
weeping.
He’s so close.
Closer than anyone
has ever been.
Both hands on my face,
wiping my tears,
his entire body
covering mine.
Still moving around me,
dancing.
He touches
his forehead
to mine.
Mary, please.
He does not know
my yearning.
He does not know
there is no need
to beg.
On Sundays
we kiss things.
The golden chalice
of his lips.
When you finally have your first kiss
you may feel slightly dizzy.
You may feel
like you’ve been lifted
by a gust of wind.
You may feel
so full of air
that you can’t breathe,
and you may
have to let it out
slowly
all the way home
like a balloon.
Squealing
as it floats
and flies.
You may feel
deflated.
When you realize
even balloons
have to come back
to earth
sometime.
Mary! Where have you been?
My mother
is standing in the doorway.
All of the lights are on.
Giorgos (Gio)
U.S. Army, Northwestern France
1917
How did I get here?
An accident.
Two boats
across the Atlantic,
a U.S. Army
uniform,
and now I am
in the middle of nowhere
with people
who don’t speak
my language.
I miss
the teal green waters
of my homeland.
Why am I fighting
a war
that I don’t
understand?
For a new beginning.
For possibility.
For freedom.
In my dreams,
the olive groves
call for me
to return.
We walk across France
in formation.
Our boots stomp
into the mud.
Our guns rest
on our shoulders.
The barrels point
toward the sky.
It feels like
we have been walking
for years.
My feet are blistered,
wet from the rain.
They smell
like rotten meat.
One of the soldiers in my company
helps me learn English
before we go to sleep.
His name is Pete.
He is kind and patient
but laughs
when I struggle
to make the sounds.
My mouth feels like
it is chewing
on a tough piece
of leather.
A soldier hands us blankets.
If the Germans don’t get you,
the flu will.
I wrap myself in green wool
like a caterpillar
encircling itself
in a cocoon.
The cold night air
reaches its fingers
through
the fabric.
I miss my mother.
Out of town a little ways
I find a road lined with apple trees.
It leads to an abandoned house.
Bullet holes
scattered across
the side of the building.
The garden has turned.
The pumpkins
have spilled their seeds
and they are waiting
like soldiers at the front
finally called to duty.
The pigs are starving in their pen.
A porcelain tea set
is arranged on the garden table.
There is room for four.
A girl is walking
the rows
with a bundle
in her arms.
It’s a baby
wrapped in a blanket.
I am afraid
to ask
if the child
is alive.
In my imagination
Violetta holds her new baby
and walks home
through
the olive groves.
The early evening sun
casts a soft light
across the fields.
She wears a billowing shirt
and her pinstriped pants.
The baby is wrapped
in the white lambskin
Costas brought
to our house
so many
months ago.
My mother sets the table.
Roasted meat on their plates.
Baklava swimming
in honey.
They smile at the baby.
The war
has not touched them.
Jeanne
Saint-Malo, France
1917
There’s a stove
in the middle of the room
to keep the boys warm.
A wood pile
on the side of the building,
where I gather fuel.
Each time
I enter the building,
my arms overflow
with logs.
Back busted
from caring heavy loads.
Leaning over beds,
changing sheets,
and dressing wounds.
I check each boy for fever.
Adjust covers and pillows.
It’s my job to make sure
everyone is comfortable
and clean.
To keep
the flames burning.
The more I check
the more I clean
the more I disinfect
the more likely it is
that a boy gets to keep
his leg.
We need blood!
A doctor stumbles
though the door.
I’m O positive.
He pulls on my arm
and takes me to surgery.
An unconscious boy
lying on the table.
I sit on a chair next to him.
Turn my eyes
away from his open
wounds.
A fellow nurse
smiles at me
while she pierces my vein.
Runs a tube
directly from me
to the patient.
I think about my father.
Imagine him
in a land far away.
Trying to help
one soldier
at a time.
My blood flows
from my arm
into the wounded boy.
I know
my father
would be proud.
Mary
Detroit, Michigan
1933
Letter #13
November 2, 1918
My love,
I pray I can be the person you want me to be.
This fire, this anger, feels like it is consuming me.
I have done things for which I am asha
med.
How will the guilt and grief ever stop burning?
How can I be anything else?
How will I be able to go home?
I want to be yours forever,
Loup
My mother grabs my dress
holds
the green silk fabric
in her hand.
Her face
full of disappointment
and disbelief.
Marguerite went to Sacred Heart.
It was locked.