Oh, my children
each time the tide crashes
wood-and-sand fence
falling into the sea.
Black Grass
Anastasia didn’t wrap the fruit trees, windows low to the ground … abandoned izba, peasant house, in Zalesye village, near Chernobyl …
The Dressmaker
My mother Magda has me fitted at the seamstress. Die Schneiderin measures my waist, the length of my arm. The hemline. Buttons. Belt. “White for a First Communion dress. And a short-sleeved summer dress.”
Father’s Wake
FATHER’S WAKE Yesterday, we buried apa, my father. Today, I sit with people I do not know. Attend a Mother’s Day brunch at the Hungarian Church hall. Courtland township beside Lake Erie. Muddy, unpaved roads: listening to the cimbalom. The zither. Only yesterday we were singing a requiem to him. “Your father bought the tickets,” […]
Nanna (Sister)
NANNA: (SISTER) I am blind. I cannot help my mother. My husband left food out for us this morning. The social worker said I should place mother. She fell out of her chair, dozing. I tried to feel where she was. Didn’t know where her head or her buttocks were. The social worker is the […]
MAGDA
MAGDA Marionettes carved from wood. Chimney sweeper. A girl, Magda— Nut trees and pines. Carpathian Mountains. Blueberry picking in August. In the days of tallow candles, walls hung with hand-loomed tapestries. Flat weave kilim rugs. My mother’s childhood house: one low window, attic rooms. Red mud of the Maros River, Grandmother Mariska picks wild sorrel. […]
GIPSPUPPE (GYPSUM DOLL)
A beautiful poem about uprooted refugee children raises awareness of war affected and traumatized children
THE GUITAR PLAYER
Guest Author, Ilona Martonfi, provides a window into her world, her daughter’s world and the world of so many women who need to find a place that will help to ease their suffering and get them off of the streets.
The Women’s Shelter: Day 16
Guest Author, Ilona Martonfi, shares a poem about domestic violence, safe houses and the ability women have to change their lives.