We know
you weren’t there, Mary.
Your sister
walked in the storm
for hours
searching for you.
She’s in bed with a fever.
Where were you?
I was safe.
Where?
I took the ferry to Belle Isle.
To go dancing.
Enough!
My father holds his head
as if
I am splitting him
in two.
You will marry Dimitris
as soon as we work out
the details.
But Baba!
I am almost done with school!
I could graduate!
And get a job!
Nonsense!
A girl doesn’t need
a job.
Especially
when her husband owns
a successful business.
It’s over, Mary. Stop fighting!
Your sister is ill
because of you.
I met a boy, Baba.
He cares for me.
His family has money,
and he’s very sweet
and kind.
Who is this boy
who lives outside of our neighborhood?
Who doesn’t understand our culture?
He takes you dancing
but makes no promises!
Doesn’t he know
that lying
is not the best way to gain
a father’s approval?
Baba, I think you would like him.
I have already found you a man, Mary.
A man of substance.
A man who understands our family.
He has made a proposal.
I have accepted.
I will not go back on my word.
The next day
my father closes the store.
He looks at me
like a dog
that cannot be trained
as he places
a FOR SALE sign
in the window.
They say
God gives you only
what you can
handle.
Why
did God
give him me?
Marguerite’s fever
is high,
and her throat hurts.
Mama gives
her warm honey water
and lets her stay home
from school.
I walk to school
with my brothers.
John shakes his head.
I’ve never seen
Baba so angry.
You’re making
the rest of us
look like angels.
Gus swats John
in the stomach
and says,
It’ll get better.
They can’t stay angry forever.
Jim puts his hand
on my shoulder.
I don’t feel comforted.
Will Marguerite
forgive me?
Giorgos (Gio)
U.S. Army, Northwestern France
1918
A foxhole
sounds so calm.
A den carved into
a mound of dirt.
A safe space
for animal babies
to sleep.
This hole
that I am digging
for myself
feels like a grave.
At night, we sit in the trenches
and tell stories.
It helps with the waiting.
Some of the lucky ones
talk about their girlfriends.
They show letters
covered in red lipstick kisses
and perfume.
Pete has a girl, back in Detroit.
He tells me
her lips are soft
as a ripe nectarine.
I keep her letter right here,
close to my heart,
he says as he pats
his breast pocket.
Maybe you should keep it in your pants!
shouts one of the boys.
Laughter erupts
all around us.
I light a cigarette,
and then help Pete
light his.
We never light three cigarettes
in a row.
Not when it’s dark.
One, they spot you.
Two, they sight you.
Three, they kill you.
Snow
We have entered
a fairyland.
The world is covered
in white.
The water is frozen
and so are our feet.
Frost,
with a hand in the air,
waves his wand
and invites the wind
to dance around
our sleeping bodies.
Everything is cold.
I can’t fill my lungs
with air.
I dream that my father
is standing over my bed,
watching me sleep.
He has a worried expression
as if he has lost a lamb
in the hills
or there’s a snake
next to his foot.
He reaches out his hand
to touch my shoulder.
Giorgos, you need to wake up
now.
My eyes snap open
I grab my rifle.
There are firebombs
bursting
all around me.
Faceless men are everywhere.
The horses are screaming.
I hear the moan
of fighter-bombers
overhead.
I don’t know
in which direction to run.
There’s not even a moon.
A corporal yells,
Shoot, for God’s sake!
Shoot!
I plant my feet
and hold my gun tight
against my shoulder.
I fire as many bullets
as I can
into the men
running toward me.
I don’t know
who I have shot.
I see a man writhing in the mud
He’s holding his belly,
crying for help.
I rush to him
and struggle
to put his arm
around my body,
to pull him up
from the ground.
I can’t see anything.
I wipe
the mud
from my eyes.
There’s a letter tucked into his breast pocket.
I grab the gasmask
hanging on his chest
and place it over
his face.
You’re going to be OK, Pete.
We’re going to be OK.
The land smells like
gun smoke,
blood,
and urine.
I hear a crack
and a buzz.
We fall
to the ground.
Then nothing.
Jeanne
Saint-Malo, France
1918
Nurses run down
the hallway
giggling,
rushing
to make it
to the impromptu
performance
of Shakespeare’s
Midsummer Night’s Dream
in the mess hall.
Someone
blows a toy horn.
Two sheets are drawn
to create a stage.
Vera and I
circle around each other
dressed like
the Fairy King Oberon
and his Queen Titania.
Flowing robes
and flower garlands
in our hair.
Unable to stop
laughing,
we recite our lines
from a shared script.
Our audience,
mildly amused patients,
slump in their chairs.
One boy drinks
loudly through a straw.
Milk dribbling
down his chin.
Another farts in his sleep.
Quiet!
a fellow soldier
elbows him awake.
The doctor
playing Lysander
consoles
his beloved Hermia,
The course of true love never did run smooth.
We hear a siren blaring
and glimpse the lights
of an ambulance
shining
in the courtyard.
Our jovial moment
broken.
The doctor
playing Lysander
sheds his costume
and sprints
toward the siren.
We gather the patients.
Is it over?
one boy mumbles
in his sleep.
I help him
back to his bed.
If only
I could convince him
the night,
his injuries,
the war
were all
just a dream.
Mary
Detroit, Michigan
1933
Letter #14
November 3, 1918
This war feels like a virus.
No medicine can cure it—only patience—while we wait for the sickness to run its course.
I will do my best, as a nurse, to help heal the wounded and my country.
I pray that we will all be well soon.
Yours,
Petit Oiseau
When we get home from school
Marguerite’s cheeks
are white
and she has a scarf
around her neck.
I try to cozy
next to her,
real close,
so I can whisper
into her ear.
But Mama
starts yelling,
Don’t you go close to her!
I give her a kiss
on her cheek.
That night,
I get the fever too.
Everything is blurry
My mother
places a cold cloth on my forehead
and sings to me
in French.
Celui que mon coeur aime tant
Il est dessus la mer jolie
Petit oiseau tu peux lui dire
Petit oiseau tu lui diras
Que je suis sa fidèle amie
Et que vers lui je tends les bras. 24
The air feels
as thick as
black tar.
I cannot move.
The one my heart loves so much
He is above the pretty sea
Little bird you can tell him
Little bird you will tell him
That I am his faithful friend
And that toward him I extend my arms.
My mouth is sticky
and words won’t leave
the tip
of my tongue.
Marguerite is beside me
moaning,
saying my name.
I cannot even reach
I dream
that I’m dancing
under the crystal chandelier.
His hand presses
into my back.
His eyes say,
Come closer.
His cheeks say,
Soft. So softly.
His lips say,
Please.
My sister and I
are two sides
of a coin
molded
of the same
metal.
One head,
one tail
tossed
into the air.
We hold our breath.
Wishing,
praying.
The doctor marks a big, black X
on our front door.
Everyone in the house is quarantined.
Scarlet fever.
Our throats sore.
A bright-red rash
across our chests.
I stay in bed for a week,
sipping broth
and slowly get better.
Marguerite does not.
Giorgos (Gio)
U.S. Army, Northwestern France
1918
I wake in a field
ears ringing.
My fingers
shake up and down,
tapping
the moist earth.
I am alive.
My vision is blurry.
I can see shapes
coming in
and out.
I see a pile
of bloody soldiers.
My eyes focus
on a boy rifling
through pockets.
He finds
a pack of smokes
and some coins.
He sits
on the mound
of bodies.
Places coins
in his breast pocket
and lights
a smoke.
I hear gunshots
nearby.
They’re killing
the wounded.
My eyes lose focus
my head slides back
to the earth.
Where is Pete?
A boot
kicks my leg.
I wince in pain.
Wait
for the gunshot
to my head.
A host of angels
lift me,
place me
in the hull
of a wooden boat.
I’m home again.
Bobbing
in the waves.
Silver fish glinting
underneath
the deep-blue water,
just waiting
to be caught.
A person hovers
over me.
Mouth opens,
mouth closes.
My eyes blur.
He pulls out
a roll of bandages,
circles them around
my head
until the world
is covered.
Where is Pete?
The
armored truck
speeds along
a gravel path.
I feel the rhythm
of my sea
rocking me.
My boat.
I hear the bells
of heaven.
Ringing.