I can imagine,
to anyone who might
hear me,
Please don’t let my mother die.
The midwife
makes my brothers
leave the room
but lets me stay.
I hold my mother’s hand
as she tries
to squeeze her pain
into my body.
I put my face close to hers.
I don’t want her
to suffer alone.
My mother screams
like a banshee
and then she is silent.
Just when I think
she won’t ever
take another breath—
I hear a baby cry.
My mother is a flower
that has been drenched by a storm.
All the women
climb onto the bed,
a lifeboat floating
on a turbulent sea.
All eyes are
on the small creature
lying on my mother’s chest.
He suckles at her breast,
surveying
his brand-new
world.
Eleven Greek superstitions for a new baby
1
Give a spoonful of honey to the baby
when you visit the house for the first time.
The baby will have a sweet life.
2
Never wash the baby’s clothing at night.
Bad spirits or the devil will come.
Wash them during the day and hang them in the sun.
3
Don’t let the baby look in the mirror
or his soul will slip away.
4
A new mother must not be seen
in public for forty days.
This is because people are jealous of her.
5
Babies are named after their grandparents.
6
The godparents should buy the baby
the first pair of shoes.
7
The baby’s hair should not be cut
before the baptism.
8
If you put money under the baby’s pillow,
he will have a prosperous life.
9
Spit to avoid the evil eye.
For example:
Your baby has beautiful cheeks.
Ptu, Ptu, Ptu.
10
Put a gold pin with a blue eye
on the baby to keep him safe.
11
If you do all of these things,
your baby
will be blessed. 27
This baby is called Pierre
But I call him my baby.
I am the one
who holds him.
I am the one
who changes him.
I am the one
who comes
when he cries.
I am not old enough
to have a child
of my own.
I will practice
with Pierre.
He is almost
mine.
I wish Marguerite could hold him
In my mind,
I tell her about his tiny toes
and his little smile.
She would love to see him grow.
He is beginning
to hold his head up
by himself.
His cheeks are fat
with milk.
My father wanted to give Pierre
a Greek name.
My mother said,
We speak your language,
we eat your food,
we live in a country
of your choosing,
but I am FRENCH.
This baby
is going to have a
When my father protested,
she slammed her broom
to the floor.
You’ve named all the boys.
Augustus after your father.
John after Yiannis, your priest!
I want to honor my family.
It is my turn to name a son.
She named Pierre
after her father,
who was a doctor.
I wonder
if he would like to know
that our new baby
has his name.
I wonder
if he would have known
how to make Marguerite
well again.
Uncle Pete and Aunt Irma
arrive
on Christmas Eve
carrying dishes
filled with hot food
bottles of wine
loaves of bread.
Hugs and kisses for all of us.
It is the role of the youngest daughter
to greet guests at the door
with a glass
and offer them a drink
and say the blessing
of the household:
May our relationship
be as sweet as honey,
as strong as salt,
as clear as water.
Marguerite and I used to argue
about who would greet
the guests.
Now, I am the only daughter.
The one to say the blessing
as the people in our lives
come and go.
When Greeks have known a friend
for a very long time, we say:
We have eaten bread and salt together.
That is how my father feels
about Uncle Pete.
He also fought
in the war.
When Uncle Pete leaves,
he puts his forehead
to my father’s forehead
his hands
around his cheeks
like a brother.
They are not twins,
but they look
like they know
what the other one is thinking
without words.
After his friend has left
my father puts his arm
around me.
His voice softens.
Many things have happened
over the course of my life.
Sometimes I feel
like I have lost all of my eggs
and also the basket.
I am thankful
for all that we still have.
He hugs me
for the first time
since I was
a young child.
I am so angry with him.
I want to scream.
Why can’t he accept
the life I want.
The man I want.
I can’t.
I am too tired.
All I can do
is lean in and receive
his love.
I imagine Billy and his parents
in my home.
The vast chasm
between our two worlds.
In my mind,
my mother
serves spanakopita
and olives.
Billy’s mother asks
if there is any meat
and potatoes.
My father offers her ouzo
and she holds
her palm up.
She
belongs
to the temperance movement,
fighting to keep
prohibition alive.
His father is an engineer.
My father
never went
to high school.
Billy’s mother is a
Daughter of the American Revolution.
I am the daughter of immigrants.
How can I
build a bridge to join
our two families?
Ask them to travel
such a distance?
At night
I quiet all the static.
I tune my brain,
my radio,
toward my sister’s
frequency.
Can you hear me?
Who
will melt this crust of ice
in my veins?
Start my pulse.
Help me to breathe.
Who
will plant a bulb in the frozen earth?
Push and pulse
under
the snow.
Who
will puncture the land?
Where it seems
nothing
will ever
grow.
Giorgos (Gio)
Saint-Malo, France
1918
Early in the morning
I open my eyes.
Clear the sleep
from my vision.
Focus and blur.
I watch Jeanne
without her noticing.
She walks
around the room,
attending
to all the patients.
She comes to my bedside.
I pretend I am asleep.
She stays with me.
Feels my forehead,
strokes my hair.
Gently nudges me awake.
I open my eyes
and focus.
She’s looking at me
with kindness
and concern.
Her cheeks pink with heat.
Each evening, I feel
my body improving.
Each morning,
I wake
with new pain.
It feels
like I am running a race
with a chair
tied to my leg.
Moving farther
down the road,
slower
than I want.
My body’s entire weight
rests on the cane.
I move one leg,
then the other.
Every muscle in my body
searing in pain.
Jeanne supports me
as I slowly hobble
around the room.
The patients cheer.
Up and at ’em, soldier!
Atta, boy, Gio!
You got this, brother!
I try to write a letter
to my mother and Violetta.
I write a sentence
and then scratch it out.
I finally decide on
one line:
I am alive.
Jeanne
Saint-Malo, France
1918
In the hospital
time is slow and sticky.
Each day
filled with broken
bodies.
Bodies that weep,
and ooze,
and shake.
Bodies that heal
and are sent back
to the front.
Bodies that are buried
in the graveyard
behind the chapel.
Some of the bodies
don’t even
have a name.
Those are the most difficult.
Their mothers
don’t know
where they are.
I spend time
with each patient.
I try to give them
the care they deserve,
but I always find my way back
to Gio.
No matter
how hard I try
to turn away.
I am
a compass needle
spinning north.
Gio’s arm linked
to mine.
We take a short walk
around the courtyard.
He closes his eyes
and sucks
the fresh air
greedily
into his nostrils.
His chest fills
like a hot air balloon
and it seems
as though his feet
might lift off
the ground.
We sit by the pond
and take turns reading from
a book of John Donne poems.
Learning
English together,
giggling
at our mistakes.
Gio takes the book.
He reads well
for someone just learning.
His voice smooth
and his face is calm.
I close my eyes and listen
silently to the words,
until he reaches a poem
entitled
“To His Mistress
Going to Bed”
and begins to blush
and hesitate.
I snatch the book away
and tuck it under my apron.
I can’t look at his face.
We fall into laughter.
Maybe not that one!
Every moment of each day
staring out of my window
lying in my bed
combing my hair
putting on my uniform
tending to my mother’s garden
walking on the beach
before work begins
no matter what
I am doing
I am thinking about him.
I take Gio to the cemetery
and tell him
this hospital was built
by the King of France
for les corsaires
of Saint-Malo,
who stole ships and jewels
for the crown.
I’ve always been afraid
of privateers and pirates,
I say, shy to admit
my childhood fears.
He sits on a bench
next to a grave
and hangs his head.
If you are afraid of thieves,
you should be afraid of me.
I hold his hand
wait for an explanation.
I killed a man.
Mary
Detroit, Michigan
1933
Letter #18
November 7, 1918
I get so frustrated—thinking I can do nothing.
Sitting here.
Staring out a window, while others fight for personal freedom and human decency.
What can I do?
I am a young woman—without money, without power.
I must do something.
Start small.
Study. Write. Believe in change.
Yours,
Petit Oiseau
On Christmas morning
there is
a dusting of snow
on the ground.
We wake
to the early morning light,
pull our woolen