and straighten my skirt.
Reach for my glass
and look Dimitris in the eyes.
I pour
an entire glass
of sour cherry liqueur
over his head.
Call me Athena
I live on Mount Olympus
and you
are only a mortal.
My father cuts a branch
from the weeping
willow tree.
I sit in the snow
to ease the pain.
Not a single tear shed.
It was worth it.
The next night
my father stumbles
though the door.
He weaves
through the hallway.
Calls me
and my mother
to his side.
Belt loose.
Shirt hanging.
Hair sticking up.
We can all smell
the firewater
on his breath.
His slurred words
ring through the house.
That man is an outrage!
No daughter of mine
will marry that beast.
Giorgos, what happened?
My mother
talks to him
in calming tones.
Smooths his hair.
He insulted me!
He insulted our family!
He would be
LUCKY to have Mary.
Such a smart girl.
A loving girl.
LUCKY to have us.
He deserves to marry
a goat!
I don’t wait
for him to change his mind.
I run
to embrace him.
Mama
comes closer.
Baba teeters
on his toes,
puts his arms around us,
and kisses the top
of my head.
You are my only daughter
It is my job to protect you.
I need to find a husband for you.
Don’t I?
Don’t I?
We let the question ring in the air,
a bell tolling.
A sunrise.
A prayer.
An announcement.
A new day.
Emboldened
I tell my mother
I want to own a business
someday.
She laughs in my face
and tells me
to change Pierre’s
dirty diaper.
Giorgos (Gio)
Saint-Malo, France
1918
On your feet, soldier!
I look up and see an officer
standing over my bed.
I wipe the sleep
from my eyes.
You’re shipping out today.
What are you talking about?
I can barely walk.
He looks at me
with steely reserve.
Orders.
Pack your bags.
Departure at 7:15.
I look at the clock
on the wall.
The hands read
seven o’clock.
Fifteen minutes.
Are you crazy?
Pack your bags, private!
Unless you want
to be court-martialed
instead.
I scramble to write Jeanne,
but there’s no time.
I’ll send a letter
from the road.
I feel the breath of the wolf
smell
the foul stench
from his jaws.
snarling behind me.
I must return
to the front.
The hair
on the back of my neck
rises
in fear.
Jeanne
Saint-Malo, France
1918
I sit naked on a chair
cover my breasts
with my hands.
A nun stands above me
with a knife
in her hand.
She begins to saw
the silver blade
through my long braid.
My aunt has given
all of my father’s money
to the church
to ensure my care.
I have nothing.
It wasn’t so long ago
I was playing
with dolls
on a balcony
overlooking the sea.
Now,
our house on the hill
is gone.
My parents
are gone.
I will live in the convent
where my aunt resides
and wear the
white veil
of a novice nun.
I return to my cell.
My body shivering
on a small cot,
covered
in a thin blanket.
I do not want this life.
I do not want this life.
I feel like a silent scream
I wake.
I pray.
I work.
I pray.
I eat.
I pray.
I sleep.
I pray.
And then
I do it all
again.
The aging priest motions
for me to sit
on the scarlet sofa
in his office.
I stare at the ornate
gold frame
holding a photo
of Pope Benedict XV.
His wire-framed glasses
almost hide
his sad eyes.
Jesus looms above me,
blood seeping from the wound
on his side.
The priest sits
behind his heavy black desk.
His robes
the color of heaven.
Are you ready to say your vows,
my child?
I look down,
my hands folded
in my lap.
Yes, Monsignor.
Good.
We will set a date
for the spring.
That night, I dream
that I am naked.
Handcuffed and chained
in the town square.
Heretic!
The villagers
gather in a circle
around me.
Nonbeliever!
They jeer
and throw objects.
Witch!
A man pulls me
onto a platform.
He ties me to a wooden pole.
There is kindling beneath
my feet.
He lights a torch
and holds it close.
Save me from the fire,
I whisper.
The platform slowly
begins to burn.
There are quiet moments
that break through
the ice
of grieving.
Moments
when I feel
in
the hallway
as my robes brush
against
the stone floors,
when I close my eyes
and hear all of the women
singing
in unison.
Moments
when I climb to the top
of the bell tower
and look at the sea.
Moments
when I wake
in the middle of the night
and feel that my parents
are very close.
Moments
when my only task
is to sit and read
and fill my mouth
with hot barley soup
and buttered bread.
Moments
when I walk in the graveyard
and the sun is setting
and I remember
the way my life
used to be.
When I miss Giorgos
my white veil
feels like a noose
around my neck.
The more
I struggle,
the tighter
it gets.
Mary
Detroit, Michigan
1934
Letter #21
November 10, 1918
Dearest Petit Oiseau,
When I walk through the villages, I see all the damage that has been done.
Bombed churches and schools and homes.
When I think about the repair that will happen—when the war is over—it gives me hope.
I build towns in my mind.
Replace glass and repair fences.
Plant the window boxes with red flowers.
I imagine men and women working together to rebuild their towns and restore beauty with layers of plaster and paint.
Your loyal and loving,
Loup
Billy takes me to see
Diego Rivera’s
commissioned murals
at the Detroit Institute of Arts.
The garden courtyard
opens up
with arches and columns.
We gasp and hold hands
as the light
floods in
from the ceiling
windows.
Shines
on the colorful images.
In each direction,
a progression.
The history
of science and technology.
We study
each of the four walls.
Spin in a circle.
East, north, west, south.
Each direction
describes
the history of our town
in images.
We turn to the east
where the sun rises,
a beginning.
An umbilical cord
runs from the earth
to the mother
to the child,
held in the bulb
of a plant.
The midnight swirl
of clouds.
The blood
of a new generation
works its way
into the soil.
Grows
like tuliped ears
of corn
bursting from its silk.
The mother holds
golden blue
apples
to her breast.
The mother braids
wheat flowers
into her amber hair.
There is growth
beneath
the surface.
The fruit is full.
Harvested
on the table.
Plenty for all.
We turn to the north
in the direction
of darkness.
The interior of things.
Mining of
coal and diamonds,
sand and limestone.
The motor assembled.
The blast furnace
glows orange
in the background.
Molten steel
poured into molds.
Men wearing gas masks
isolate substance
and dream.
A child in a manger
receives medicine.
Engineering.
Precision.
Invention.
We turn to the south
wall of light,
exterior of things.
The assembly
of the body.
Maintenance
of the body.
The goddess,
creator and destroyer of life,
maintains balance
and demands sacrifice.
Buildings
cobbled over
the extinctions
of past life.
Women organize.
Men calculate.
Humans watch
as the story unfolds.
Ford himself
stands over
the toil.
Push and pull
of the factory line.
We turn to the west
where the sun sets.
Endings
and judgment.
Passenger planes
and bombers.
Technology.
Destruction.
The hawk and the dove.
On either side
of history. 32, 33
The men and women around us
whisper
under their breath,
shield
their children’s eyes.
blasphemous
pornographic
foolishly vulgar
a slander to Detroit workingmen
coarse in conception
un-American. 34
I see none of this.
I see my town.
Races working side by side.
Industry and history.
Medicine and religion.
Fertility goddesses,
giving birth to life.
Billy buys
a box of popcorn
from a vendor.
It’s a sunny day.
We sit on a bench
and eat
the warm, crisp kernels
sprinkled with salt.
After we’re done
his lips are shining
with butter.
He puts
his hand on the small of my back
and draws me closer
to him.
He kisses me.
And I feel it
everywhere.
After a moment, he pulls apart.
I saw an advertisement for a job
that I think
would be great for you.
He hands me
a square
cut from the newspaper.
I squeal
and grab for the scrap.
I press my lips
to his
and won’t let him
come up for air.
I let Billy drive
me home.
He opens my door
and I sink
into the leather seats.
For months,
I’ve wondered how
it feels
to ride in this car.
Billy steers
with one arm around me.