and gated doors.
I hear something
whimpering.
Look around
and see no living
creature.
The wind lifts
the tips of newspapers
strewn across
the muddy lane.
They flap in a rhythm.
I follow the sound
to the street.
I see a large basket
filled with laundry
tucked into
a storefront.
A small foot
pushes out
of the white
cloth.
I dig into the basket
gingerly
with two fingers.
It’s an infant.
Lips blue.
There is a note
attached to her dress.
Please,
help my child.
I have no money
to support her.
Forgive me.
The child emits
a terrible screech.
Hunger.
I unbutton my coat
and my dress.
I press the child
to my skin
for warmth.
She opens her mouth
sucks hard
on my neck.
Milk.
She breathes
in shallow
spasms.
I have nothing
to give her.
Help!
I tuck the child
into the basket
and begin to run
toward
the firehouse.
I see a woman
pushing a pram with a tiny infant
tucked warm inside.
Please!
This baby is starving!
She looks at me
like I am vermin.
What am I supposed to do about it?
She walks on.
Please! Help!
She’ll die!
I look around the square
for another adult.
My desperation
growing.
I feel someone pull me
from behind.
I turn and see a young woman
dressed in clean clothes.
Her blond hair
a glowing lantern
against
the gray stones.
I have an infant at home.
She takes the child
from me.
I can help you.
She sits on a stoop
shielded from the street
behind a low bush.
She wraps
the blanket around her
like a shawl
and holds
the infant to her.
The child latches.
I hear
famished
frantic
gulping.
Shhhhh.
There.
Shhhhhh.
I look away,
overwhelmed
with emotion.
Someday,
I pray, I will grow
into the kind
of woman
who will give
everything she can
to a child in need.
My name is Lara
she says and smiles.
We walk to
to Sacred Heart Church
around the corner.
Weave through
the lines of people
waiting for food
and donations.
I know they will help,
Lara says.
She finds a nun,
who leads us
to a white-collared
priest.
His eyes drop
with pity
and sadness.
He embraces the child
and disappears
into the crowd.
Lara and I
hesitate
outside of the church.
Our arms feel empty.
Throngs of people waiting
in line to be fed.
Well, don’t just stand there.
Grab a ladle and help!
A woman,
wearing an apron
decorated with huge red flowers,
hands me
a giant spoon.
I don’t work here.
You do now!
She pushes us
behind the table.
That’s the problem
with doing one good deed.
You get roped into another.
Her round belly jiggles
when she chuckles.
I’m Clarabelle.
I’m in charge
of charitable donations
at the church.
She tells Lara
to tear chunks of bread.
Place them
on the side of the bowls
I’m filling
with thin
vegetable soup.
We feed the homeless drifters.
Mostly men
with dirt under
their nails
and mud
on their boots.
Finally, a mother
and her three
children.
Her oldest daughter
drops to her hands and knees,
crawls under the table
to kiss my feet.
After an hour
I excuse myself.
Clarabelle
shakes my hand
and thanks me
for my help.
Her red-flowered apron
soaked
with sloshed broth.
Come back next week
for the clothing drive!
We could use
all the hands we can get.
I’ll be there.
You should come!
Lara says,
as she squeezes me
into a hug.
Walking home,
I pass by the shop window
with the emerald-green dress
that I will never own.
I see women
strolling down
the avenue.
Fur coats flow
around their ankles.
Necks wrapped
in knotted strings
of pearls
and beaded scarves.
The parade of hungry
hollow faces
still sharp
in my mind.
Grateful
for my family
and the simple meal
waiting for me
at home.
Giorgos (Gio)
Komnina, Central Greece
1917
I dream of the gods
of my ancestors.
Superhumans
who swoop down
from Mount Olympus
on swift chariots
pulled by powerful horses.
They know I am suffering.
The gods of wine and beauty,
the harvest, and the sea.
I pray they will help me.
Shower me with
bolts of lightning
that
will pierce the heart
of anyone
But I am afraid,
that the ancient immortals
have vanished.
And we are left with one god,
who has turned his back
on me.
I sell the donkey
to a fat farmer
for almost nothing
and hitch a ride
on a horse-drawn cart
on its way
to Athens.
The miles
rattle through my bones.
When we get closer
to the city,
I see the ruins
of the Acropolis
poised high
on a limestone bluff.
Bright-blue sky
peers through
the gleaming white columns
of the Parthenon.
I feel the power of the stone
pulse into me.
We weave south
through the streets
of Athens
heading to
the Port of Piraeus.
The harbor looks like
the gates of hell.
Factories fill the skyline.
Smokestacks cough
black sludge.
A huge steamship
looms above
like a mountain
of welded steel.
I have always known.
I have to get on that ship.
The farmer slows
and I hop off
while the wagon
is still moving.
I run at a full sprint.
I hear the whistle blow
and push my legs farther.
Don’t leave.
Don’t leave without me.
Hundreds of passengers
swarm the gangplank,
pushing and shoving to get on.
I get close and watch
a small boy drop his toy.
I crouch next to the child
and talk to him in a soothing voice
like a brother or a friend.
The parents
hand their bundle of tickets
to the attendant.
I walk up the plank
behind them.
There is a crowd on the deck
I blend into the gray jackets
and caps of the gentlemen,
the swirling chaos
of luggage and limbs.
I listen for shouting.
Wait for a hand on my collar.
No one comes.
I resist the need
to drop to my knees
in exhaustion
and relief.
I lean against the railing
and hear the rattling
of a heavy chain.
Feel the anchor lift.
My boat
steers toward
the open sea.
Jeanne
Saint-Malo, France
1917
We don’t hear exact
numbers.
We just hear the words
full train.
We know
there will be hundreds
on stretchers,
caked
in dried mud.
I help
the walking wounded
to their beds.
Cut the bloody
shreds of uniform
from their bodies.
Wash their limbs
and faces,
black and pocked
with gun smoke
and shrapnel.
They chatter to themselves.
Nonsensical
strings of words.
Names of boys
who were wounded,
boys
who were left
behind.
Where is . . . fallen . . .
now . . . gone . . . help . . .
Wounds
crawling with maggots.
Stinking and tense
with gangrene.
One boy
won’t stop screaming.
For a moment
I think,
He will drive us all mad.
And then I hate myself.
One poor lad,
eyes shot through,
calmly asks me,
Shall I need a surgery?
I can’t see.
I cannot bring myself
to tell him,
Poor boy.
You will never see again. 14, 15
Death walks the halls
a feeling, a smell.
It lures
the last oxygen
from lungs.
Coughs out
promises
of freedom.
Through the window,
past the city gates
to the deep waters
below.
Death walks the halls
naked,
without pride,
asking for his mother.
He is angry.
He is blind.
He is shameful
and alone.
Death walks the halls
not as a cloaked
demon
but as a nurse
with a clipboard
who closes
a young boy’s eyes
and marks the time
his heart
stopped beating.
Death walks the halls
as a child
with his pockets
full of tin soldiers
his eyes wide open,
his head full
of dreams.
Death walks the halls
as a doctor
who says
to the mothers and the fathers
There was nothing more
we could
do.
Mary
Detroit, Michigan
1933
Letter #10
October 29, 1918
The weather turned today.
I wrapped myself in a shawl and stood at the doorway and watched the first snow.
There among the crystals and cold, I saw lilting white wings flying higher, the opposite direction as the falling flakes.
It was a snow-white moth. Trying its hardest to fight the frost.
Yours,
Petit Oiseau
Mrs. Patterson lectures
about the Ford Hunger March.
My class
leans forward.
We rest our chins
on our knuckles
and listen closely.
One year ago,
six thousand men marched
from downtown Detroit
to the River Rouge factory.
Sixty men were wounded
and four were killed
on that day.
Dearborn streets were littered
with broken glass and
automobile wreckage.
Nearly every window
in the Ford plant
broken. 16
Elena’s father was there
He sits on a stool
at the front of the classroom.
Tells us of the men
who marched against
the bitter wind
on March 7, 1932.
The Ford Massacre.
We marched
from Detroit
to the River Rouge Plant
with demands
for Henry Ford.
We held signs that read,
“Give us Work”
“We Want Bread Not Crumbs”
“Tax the Rich and Feed the Poor”
As we got closer
to the plant,
Ford’s hired goons
attacked us.