and wings
of a Gorgon.
Feed his eyes
to the hungry
creatures
that live
in the depths
of the swamp.
Turn him into
stone.
When I was twelve
my mother and I
embroidered
a soft white gown,
two sheets,
and two pillowcases.
Every single piece
decorated
with pink
and yellow flowers.
We folded them
carefully
into my cedar dowry chest.
I imagined
with each stitch
how excited
I would be
to wear a nightgown
in front of a man
for the first time.
Now, I know
I have sewn
the bed
that I must
lie in.
These linens
will be my prison.
For our birthday
Mama has a surprise
for us
downtown.
As we turn the corner
we see a lighted sign:
The Showplace of Detroit
Fox Theatre
Most Magnificent Temple
of Amusement in the World
We enter the movie palace.
Carved golden columns
and two winged lions
guard the door.
The orchestra plays and the choir sings.
The red velvet curtain pulls aside.
The words
Le Passion de Jeanne d’Arc
scroll across the screen. 10
Mama and Marguerite and I
hold hands and cry.
As we watch
Joan of Arc
kneel
before her accusers.
She listens
to the voices.
Listens
to the spirit she can feel
but cannot name.
Listens
to the ringing
in her ears, her heart,
her throat.
Not to the men
who are sworn to protect her.
Not to those
who would manipulate
her power.
Not to the judge
who sees her fire
burning
her strength
building
her understanding
growing.
Not to the bishop
who with a clear conscience
sends her
to the pyre.
I have always felt close to Jeanne d’Arc
my mother tells us
as we ride the streetcar home.
I wanted to be her
when I was young.
Why?
asks Marguerite.
She died
the most horrible
death!
Yes,
but she had
the most powerful
connection
to the world
beyond.
We women have so few choices.
There was a time
when I thought I could be brave
like her . . .
She falls silent.
Then her eyes fill with light.
She holds both
of our hands
and says,
It is silly, but I believe
she watches over
all the women
in our family.
Then looks
directly at me.
Even when we must endure
that which we cannot choose.
When we arrive home
my brothers
are playing baseball
in the street.
Gus hands me the bat.
John lobs a ball.
I swing
and hit the edge,
ground it
and barely
make it
to first base.
Marguerite whoops
with excitement.
Mama! You try!
I squeal, as she heads
toward the apartment.
To my surprise,
she turns around.
Grabs the bat
and slings it
across her shoulder.
She bends her knees.
Ready.
John tosses the ball
and it connects.
It flies over all of our heads.
She smiles
as we all cheer.
She waves
to her adoring crowd
then heads up the stairs
to make dinner.
I walk toward the store
to make sure
everything is secured
for the night.
There’s a piece of paper
jammed
into the door.
It has my name on it.
Marguerite and the boys
climb the stairs
to our apartment.
I call to them
as calmly
as possible,
I’ll be right up.
I’m just going to check
on the shipment!
Close the door.
Sink to the floor.
I hold the letter
to my chest.
My banging
heart.
Breathe.
Open the note.
Mary,
Meet me
at American Coney Island 11
after school
on Thursday.
I’ll get us a table.
Billy
I stare at the paper
shaking in my hands.
This is not
a note from a lost time.
A note of war and sorrow.
Separation and longing.
This is a note for me.
From a real, live boy.
Who knows my name.
Giorgos (Gio)
Komnina, Central Greece
1916
I help Costas
harvest olives.
We lay thick nets
beneath the branches of the trees,
then raise our rakes
and rattle them through
the sage-colored leaves.
The purple ovals
fall to
the ground.
Costas looks
across the field.
I see my sister
walking toward us.
The sun on her skin.
Her long, black hair tied
in a red scarf.
A white, billowing shirt
tucked into her new pair
of pinstriped pants.
She helps
to gather the corners
of the net
and work the fruit
to the center.
We sort the olives
from the fallen branches,
load them
into burlap sacks
ready to take
to the oil press.
At the end of the day
C
ostas unveils a bottle of wine
and three small glasses.
We raise a toast to the harvest.
Στην υγειά σας!
(Stin ygeiá sas!)
To our health!
We take a sip.
When can I help you
finish your boat, brother?
A smile spreads
across my sister’s face
as wide
as the Aegean Sea.
Soldiers have entered our village
I am worried for our safety.
They sit in the square and drink
strong coffee
and cloudy ouzo.
Their rifles
resting on the table.
They think they are here
to protect us.
The captain watches
the young girls
at the fountain.
The hungry eyes
of a wolf
who has been
trained to hunt.
No goat, no milk
no feta.
Prices are soaring.
The stores have no bread.
Our village is hungry.
I feel the desperation
and anger
bubbling up.
A kettle
held over a flame.
I take our donkey
and follow the switchback trails
down to the shore.
Maliakos Kolpos, our green-blue
bay, wrapped by a belt
of land.
The fishermen dock their boats.
They empty their nets.
Hundreds of silver fish,
alive and thrashing,
spill onto the dock.
We sort the fish by size,
toss them into wicker baskets.
I load them onto the donkey.
The baskets hang
from my trusted friend
who will heft my load
through the steep hills.
The fishmongers wait
in the village square.
The women
push and elbow each other
to snatch the best catch
of the day.
They take the silver bodies
in both hands
and inhale deeply.
The smell of the sea clings
to the glinting scales.
The fishmongers pay
three salted fish
and a few coins
for my help.
Someday, I swear,
I will not be a boy on a donkey.
I will be a man in a boat.
As I walk home through the dust
I think about
my unfinished boat,
my kaiki.
It will be
my donkey
of the sea.
Reliable
and sturdy.
Good
in all weather.
Whatever
Poseidon
sends my way.
I don’t need
a sleek, fast
boat.
I say to myself,
It is better
to get to where
you are going
than to rush
and never
get there at all. 12
The trail is lined with almond trees
and cedar.
I take the air
into my nose and mouth,
breathe the deep scent
of the hills.
Down the path,
I hear men laughing.
Then I hear someone scream.
A group of soldiers
has circled a girl
from our village.
Her dress is torn
and one of her braids
has come loose.
There is a red ribbon
on the ground.
She looks at me
with eyes that say,
Help me.
I break through the circle
and scold her.
Mariana! Your mother is looking for you!
One of the soldiers smirks
and with a high-pitched voice
he teases,
Mariana, your mama is calling!
He lifts the back of her skirt
with the tip of his gun
as I pull her
away from the men.
I swing my leg
over the donkey’s back
and lift her up.
Wrap my arm
tightly
around her waist
and nudge my heel
sharply
into the donkey’s belly.
I look back
and see the soldier laughing.
The gun
still in his hand.
The next day
Violetta bounds
through the doorway.
Her cheeks are rosy
and her eyes are wide.
What is it?
Is something wrong?
I ask.
There is a knife
in my stomach
trying to come
out of my throat.
I will kill
if someone has hurt her.
Oh Gio, she says
as a shy smile rises
on the corner
of her lips.
She grabs my hands.
I’m going to have a baby.
Jeanne
Saint-Malo, France
1917
We ride the train
A pilgrimage
to Mont Saint-Michel.
The sacred cathedral
at the top of the hill.
It rises,
isolated on its own island
in the middle
of miles of salt marsh.
My mother wants to pray
for my father’s
safe return.
After we arrive
at the train station,
we begin to walk.
We see the mount
far ahead,
swallowed by the mouth
of the Couesnon river.
We must wait
for the tides to retreat.
We wait until it is safe.
We bare our feet
to the soft wet silt
of the channel.
Each step takes us closer
to the sacred island
cathedral.
Outside the walls
of the commune
the fishermen and farmers
motion and yell for pilgrims
to buy their goods.
We walk through
the barricade.
A drawbridge,
with a large wooden door,
so heavy
it looks like
it could protect the cathedral
from an army of giants.
The streets spiral upward
to the stone ramparts.
I stand
and look out
at the miles of sand
and watch
the tide come in
as swiftly
as a galloping horse. 13
Inside the church
I light a candle
at the altar
of Jeanne d’Arc.
My namesake.
She stands tall and proud,
a warrior,
like a man.
She felt the love
of the spirit
when she rode
on the back of her horse
with her banner
flying
and also
in the heart
of the fire.
I have always felt
the spirit.
It begins with a tingle
then my body feels warm.
Call Me Athena Page 6
