I don’t see why not.
I look at my mother.
She smiles and pats
my trembling hand.
Mary
Detroit, Michigan
1933
Letter #8
October 25, 1918
Let us start a life together.
Build something new.
Find joy.
A place of peace in this war-torn world.
Yours always,
Petit Oiseau
Billy circles around me
both hands
above
the handlebars.
I can’t help
but tease him.
You look like
a circus performer!
He slows the bicycle,
balances on his left foot,
swings his right leg
over the bar,
and trots alongside.
An acrobat
hopping
on and off
a trained
white horse.
You should try it.
I bet you think I won’t.
Oh, I know you won’t.
You’re chicken.
He flashes
a daring smile.
The hairs
on back of my neck
stand straight.
Hold this for me, sister.
I shove
my stack of books
into Marguerite’s
arms.
Mary, no!
Marguerite,
do we really
have to be good
all the time?
I mount the metal beast
My skirt is in the way.
I tie the extra fabric
in a knot
exposing my legs.
Marguerite gasps.
I place both feet
on the pedals.
As awkward
as a bear on a bicycle.
In a moment
of quick defeat
I tumble
to one side.
You gotta move
before you start pedaling.
Let me help you.
Billy puts one hand
on the handlebars
and one hand on the seat.
His entire body
touches mine.
Electricity
runs up my spine.
He begins to push me.
Pedal, Mary, pedal!
I force my legs up and down.
Push and pump.
Billy runs beside me.
A tuft of wind
escape his lips
as he gives the bicycle
a mighty shove
I am
wheeling and turning
spinning.
Under the big top,
on my own.
I feel elated
all the way home.
Marguerite,
you can’t imagine
how it feels!
Like you’re flying!
She smiles a half-smile,
but I know
she’s concerned.
Have I embarrassed her?
Is she ashamed of me?
What?
My sister
won’t look at me.
She takes a big breath
and finally says,
I saw John
in the square.
He’s going to tell
father.
My father slaps me
My head whips sideways.
The imprint of his hand
blooms
on my cheek.
Why?
I brush the hair
Stare him down
hard
with my green eyes
so that he cannot
hold
my gaze.
It was only a ride
on a bicycle.
I am your father.
I need to protect you!
From others and yourself!
I know what can happen.
I have seen . . .
He stops,
unable to complete
his sentence.
It is my duty
to make sure you are safe.
I can see us both from above.
A father
who is afraid
for his child.
A daughter
who is beyond saving.
Call me Athena
The girl
who should have been born
a boy.
I wake, and it’s warm
and sticky beneath me.
I think
I’ve wet the bed,
then I realize
I’m bleeding.
The emotions
of the night before
grip my insides,
wring them
like a sheet.
Everything
in my life
seems harder
than usual.
Even the wild things
that cannot
be controlled.
I roll Marguerite
to the other side
of the bed
and peel the covering.
I wish I could
hide the soiled cloth,
my shame.
There’s no hiding
in our tiny
apartment.
My mother’s face
at the door.
My mother heats three kettles
Pours the boiling liquid
into the porcelain bath.
Mixes
water from the tap
until it is steaming
and warm.
I enter slowly.
Settle down
into the deep.
The water turns pink.
I shed a month
of pain.
My mother leans
my head back
pours water
over my unruly hair
and says,
Someday, you will love your body
and the way it works.
It is miraculous.
It can grow a child.
She lathers soap
and pours another pitcher
over my head.
I close my eyes
and imagine her saying,
Then you will understand suffering.
I know I was wrong
I shouldn’t
have ridden a bicycle.
My mother clears
her throat.
And?
I shouldn’t
have ridden a boy’s
bicycle
because it sends
the wrong message.
And?
And I won’t do it again.
But it makes me
so angry
that John told Father!
My mother
looks at me.
She kisses my forehead.
It wasn’t John.
How could she?
My sister.
My twin.
Weren’t we
once
radios
tuned to the same
frequency?
Now, I feel
my dial
spinning.
I cannot find her.
Giorgos (Gio)
Komnina, Central Greece
1917
Everything is breath, everything is heartbeat
I run as fast as I can.
I hear men shouting and dogs barking.
Do you see him? Where did he go?
I know this land.
I find the opening of the cave
where Violetta and I used to explore.
Don’t breathe. Don’t move.
I wait.
Stay hidden. Stay silent.
Even after
the sound of the dogs
and the men are gone
my heart beats like a battle drum.
I follow the shadows home
my steps
soft and light.
I hide in the
bushes
check to make sure
no one
sees me.
A barn owl calls out
a warning
as I enter our yard.
I see my unfinished
kaiki.
The smooth boards
that I have sanded
for hours.
I do not have
the wood and resin
I need
to finish the hull.
Without it
I will not be able
to navigate
across the water.
My mother is asleep
in her bed.
My heart aches
at the thought
of saying goodbye.
I sneak around the house,
try not to wake her.
Find a sack
and stuff it with figs and tomatoes,
then fill a sheep’s bladder
with water.
Pack matches
and a warm sweater.
Roll a thin wool blanket
and tie it to my sack.
If I don’t leave now,
I will go to prison.
I open the door
of my childhood home.
My mother rises.
From her face,
I know that the men from the village
have told her.
I cannot open my mouth
to say goodbye.
She holds my shoulders
as tears stream down my face.
Finally, she looks me in my eyes
with love, sharp as
an eagle’s talon.
Go, my child,
and never come back.
In a blur
of hunger and pain,
I climb onto
the donkey’s back
and lean my face
into its hide.
The sky is filled with indigo light.
I fall asleep
to the rhythm
of the hooves
hitting the dirt path.
With a jolt,
the donkey stops.
I lay my blanket down
in a field.
The dry grass
slices into my back.
My cheeks are burning.
My mouth dry.
Over and over,
I see Costas fall.
I hear my sister weeping.
Jeanne
Saint-Malo, France
1917
Madame Leroux
inspects
our starched
white uniforms.
She leads us
through
l’hopital du Rosais,
instructing us
with a crisp,
clear voice.
I feel confident
until we reach
the surgical unit
where the air is thick
with blood
and pus-soaked
bandages.
We hesitate at the door
and see a doctor
sawing the leg
of a screaming
soldier.
I grab my stomach
and vomit
into the closest
bedpan.
Leroux points to the pan
Around the corner
to the right.
Bring it back, clean.
I run down the hall
and locate
the metal hatch
for the incinerator.
I empty the pan
quickly
into the fire
below.
The smell catches me.
I’m going
to be sick again.
I wipe my brow
and bump into a soldier
on a gurney.
Help me,
he whispers.
He grabs me,
trembling,
his hands covered
in blood.
Please.
Please.
He closes his eyes,
his breath labored.
He places his palm
on his breast pocket.
Please.
I find a small
photograph.
A woman
with light eyes
and yellow curls.
Eyes full of love.
I wipe the blood
onto my apron
and place the frame
in his hand.
Who is she?
I ask.
His eyes
stare straight ahead.
The picture
has fallen
out of his hand.
My new
white uniform
stained red. 14
What did you learn today?
my mother asks me
as our maid, Anne,
ladles creamy asparagus soup
into a china bowl.
She places a shiny silver spoon
on my napkin
and lays a plump cut
of roast beef
dripping
with sauce
onto a plate.
What should I say to her?
Can I describe
the wounds from the mustard gas,
the bubbled skin,
the yellow eyes?
The sound of more
than one
wounded soldier
screaming for help?
It is only
a twenty-minute walk
from my house
to the hospital.
The difference
between them
makes me feel
like I have traveled
many hours.
Between
the land of plenty
and the land
of the forgotten.
Mary
Detroit, Michigan
1933
Letter #9
October 27, 1918
I wish I could feed every starving child I see.
I do not have enough to give.
I pray for a time of peace and sustenance—when families can keep the wheat they grow and children can, once again, grow plump from their mother’s milk.
I am done with the ways of men and the suffering that comes with
war.
Yours forever,
Loup
I take the trash
to the alleyway behind the store.
I hear crying.
Peeling paint.
Gray stone.
The wind is howling,
an alley cat
scratching its back
on the iron rods
of barred windows