I feel the weight
of the nickel.
The warmth of it.
All good shop owners know
we buy with our eyes
then our hands.
Feel the cold
pleasure
of a voluptuous grape
pinched between
our fingers.
Admire an apple
that’s impossible
to indent.
Weigh
the smoothness
of a scrubbed potato.
Press
the thick skin
of a ripe melon.
Choose
what our hands
and our minds
want.
Giorgos (Gio)
Komnina, Central Greece
1916
The ground is covered
with pine chips
and tools.
I sand
the wood smooth.
Cut and curve
the long strips of pine.
Create a frame.
With each
movement,
I think about the day
when I will be able
to stand on the deck
of my own
wooden boat,
my kaiki.
Just like my father
and his father
before him.
I will feed my family
with the fish I catch
from the cerulean waters
of the
Aegean Sea.
Violetta’s betrothed
invites her to take a walk.
He is twice her age.
He arrives with flowers
and a jug of wine
he has made
from the grapes
that he grows
on his land.
My mother tells me
to walk behind them
at a distance.
I clench my teeth.
Try to concentrate
on the birds
and the blue sky.
Think of stories
about how I will
stop the wedding
just in time.
I notice Violetta
smiling.
She even laughs
once.
When we return
she tells my mother
she will marry him.
Maybe
she will be happy.
Maybe
Costas will love her
and not be
the kind of man
who throws
stones.
It takes a moment
for my eyes to adjust to the dark.
The air is thick
with frankincense
and beeswax.
Every surface in the church
is painted.
Icons glimmer above
a red velvet carpet.
The dark-blue ceiling
is covered
in golden stars.
The dome of heaven.
Father Yiannis
appears
from an arched door.
His black robes
and Orthodox cross
swing back and forth
as he walks.
His furrowed brow
softens.
Giorgos! I’m so happy to see you!
He immediately puts me
to work.
I gather branches and leaves
and sweep the courtyard.
When I finish my chores
Father Yiannis
teaches me to read
from his bible.
The old man
sits beside me.
Folds his hands
and closes his eyes
in prayer.
I break
from my work.
Father,
will my sister be happy
married to Costas?
Will she still . . .
my voice cracks,
need me?
He sighs deeply.
It is a brother’s duty
to always protect
and watch over
the life of his sister.
Jesus Christ laid down his life for us.
And we ought to lay down our lives
For our brothers and our sisters. 9
Then he stops
and sticks one finger in the air.
Life is work. Life is duty.
The important part
is to enjoy the small pleasures.
He stands up
and pours himself
a small
glass of wine
from the decanter
behind the altar.
His eyes twinkle.
Don’t tell the women!
I walk down the stone steps
and almost collide
with Violetta’s friend,
Mariana.
Her arms full
of folded
embroidered cloth
for the church.
Underneath
her white headscarf
I can see
there are red ribbons
woven
into her hair.
My mother and Violetta
walk behind her,
arms loaded with flowers
and Violetta’s
linen wedding dress.
My mother scowls at me
and hisses,
She has been promised
to another!
She does not belong to you!
Violetta will have a life of her own
What will I do?
The weight of loneliness
is an anchor
pulling me
toward
the bottom
of the sea.
It feels like I cannot move.
The promise
of the current
tugs at me.
The night before the wedding
Costas arrives
with a present for Violetta.
It is a bundle
wrapped
in the soft white skin
of a lamb.
Violetta opens the package.
She runs her hands
over yards
of dark pinstriped
cloth.
Costas sits beside her.
We will wrap
the lambskin around
our first child
to keep him warm.
The fabric is for you.
You can make
a pair of pants,
and we can work
in the fields
side by side.
Violetta’s eyes fill
with tears.
What will the village say?
Costas takes Violetta’s hand.
I’m not marrying the village.
I’m marrying you.
The leaving ritual
Violetta kneels in the dust
in front of Alethea.
She feeds the goat a coin.
If we give away
our most precious things,
it will bring us wealth.
We will have everything we need and more.
She feeds the goat a flower.
It will spread the flower’s seeds into hills
beyond our home.
We will bring beauty to the lives of others.
She feeds the goat a ring.
A circle with no end
We will always be family.
On the day they marry
Costas wears a gray suit.
Violetta wears an embroidered red dress
with a belt made of coins.
Her head covered by the same scarf
our mother wore at her wedding.
I give Violetta to Costas.
Father Yiannis chants
and swings a golden bowl
filled with incense
blessing them both.
After the ceremony,
I cradle our goat, Alethea,
in my arms.
I thank her for her cheese
and mischief.
Soothe her
as I run the blade
along her throat.
She struggles and finally
gives her life to me.
We feed both families, our only gift.
The music begins.
One man strums a λαούτο (laoúto)
a long-necked lute,
while the other keeps beat
with a νταούλι (daoúli) drum.
We dance into the dark-blue night
in a circle
holding hands.
Jeanne
Saint-Malo, France
1916
After my father leaves
my mother
takes to her bed
and cries
for two days.
We both know
life must go on.
She spends hours
in her garden
tending the sweet-smelling
roses that climb
the trellises
on the side of our house.
She clips lavender
and delphinium
and my favorite
marguerites, white daisies
with a bright-yellow
center.
She places them
in a vase
by my bedside.
She lies next to me
and curls her body
around mine.
Je t’aime, chérie.
We will survive this.
Papa is not the only one
to leave his family
behind.
There are no more men.
All of them
have gone to war.
Women drive the boats
in the harbor.
Women
butcher the meat
and run the factories.
Women
grease the rails
for the trains
at the
Gare de Saint-Malo.
Some women like the change.
They are even
wearing their husbands’ suits
and ties
and smoking
thin cigars.
Not my mother.
She puts her hand
over my eyes
when they pass us
on the street.
I want to look.
I think they
are beautiful
in their pinstriped
pants.
We go for a picnic
in the country.
Lay out a blanket
in a green field.
Eat cold chicken
drumsticks
and thick slices
of Camembert cheese
smeared onto
a baguette.
My mother
takes off her shoes
and rests her head
on my lap.
For a second,
she looks like a child.
On the drive home
I see three peasant women.
They are hitched to a plow
like horses.
They pull the heavy equipment
through the fields,
carving
lines in the dark earth.
Their husbands are gone.
Their horse is gone.
But they still
need to eat.
Days pass
and leaves drift
to the ground.
The first snow falls.
Maman and I
decide to stay
on the sofa,
protected
by a warm blanket.
Instead of joining
our friends and neighbors
for la fête de Noël.
We both realize,
but we do not say it
aloud.
Papa has been gone
a full year.
Mary
Detroit, Michigan
1933
Letter #5
October 18, 1918
Mon Petit Oiseau,
Missing you is like missing a season.
I would like to lie in the grass, eat a peach, swim in the ocean,
but the gray days of winter won’t leave me.
The sun never shines.
In the morning I wake, hoping for your warmth once again.
Your ever loyal,
Loup
Letter #6
October 19, 1918
I read fairy tales as a child—and I swore I would never be the damsel in distress.
The problem is this: I am alone and I miss you.
I am worried you need rescuing too.
Please come back.
I am in my tower, overlooking the ocean.
I will leave the light on so you can find me.
A meeting is arranged
My mother rakes
a comb through
my unkempt
black, curly hair.
A trainer, combing
the barn
and dust
out of a horse’s
mane.
Marguerite
stands in the doorframe
looking sympathetic.
She knows
my mother’s comb
is coming for her
next.
I want to lift both
my legs
and kick
like a stubborn
mule.
Not the prized
sleek
racehorse
my mother is grooming
me to be.
Why can’t I choose
to marry
a man that I love?
My mother stops
brushing my hair.
She looks around
our tiny apartment,
throws her hands
in the air.
Look where that got me.
Mother slices the cake
Father pours
sour cherry liqueur
into small glasses.
Mary made this herself,
he says
and pats my arm
with pride.
Dimitris takes a sip
and smiles politely.
They leave us alone
in the parlor.
Golden icons
of Mary and baby Jesus
look down at me
from high
on the shelves.
Dimitris scoots next to me.
The side of his body
is touching mine.
You are a beautiful young girl,
he says as he takes
a lock of my hair
and twists it around
his finger.
His breath smells
like death
and onions.
Who is this wicked old man?
He wants a child.
I want
to grow the claws