Feel the bandages
covering my eyes.
All of my fear
swims
under my eyelids
trapped
a blanket
of darkness.
I can’t breathe.
Doctor.
Doctor.
Doctor.
I pray
for color, light.
Please, God,
don’t take my sight.
Jeanne
Saint-Malo, France
1918
I walk the ramparts
on my way to work.
The ball of the sun
at the edge of the water.
An egg yolk
breaking
over the white plate
of the sky.
The hospital
is unusually quiet.
Vera and I exchange
une bise sur la joue,
a kiss on each cheek
in greeting.
She tells me
about her dinner.
The first time eating
loup de mer—sea bass—
au beurre blanc.
I could bathe in that sauce!
she squeals.
I try to keep a straight face
as Vera acts
like a fat man
stuffing her face
with fish,
wiping greasy sauce
from her chin
with her apron.
Madame Leroux
glares at us
and hands me clipboards
with charts
to update.
Vera whispers,
Out of all the fish in the sea,
the loup
is clearly the best!
Then gives me
a knowing wink
and blows me a kiss.
From across the room
I hear mon loup
crying out for help.
I run to grab the surgeon.
Several of the trained nurses
come as well.
They close
the circle of curtains
around him.
When they finally
pull the drapes,
his bandages are off.
I’ve wondered
many times
about the shape
of his face.
The color of his hair.
I can’t bring myself to look.
For hours,
I visit each bed
except his.
What am I afraid of?
Mary
Detroit, Michigan
1933
Letter #16
November 10, 1918
How can we risk love—when it can be lost?
It is the most fragile task.
Hold this bubble in your hand. Look at the rainbow globe and how it swirls.
Imagine a perfect world inside.
Then ask yourself, how long will it last?
Yours,
Petit Oiseau
Before my first breath
before my mother held me
and called me
by my name.
Before my body unfurled
like a fern growing
into the light.
Before I spoke
my first word.
Before this, I knew
I was not alone.
There was another body.
Another heart beating
next to mine.
My sister is in a wooden box
I speak to her in a whisper.
There were once
two sisters
who loved each other
so much
they built a sailboat
out of their
aprons
and used
their mother’s broom
to paddle through
the air.
They traveled
way up
into the heavens
so they could live
in the clouds
and eat cake
and chocolate pudding.
Sometimes,
they hurt each other,
but they forgave
everything
because they were sisters.
Always together
in the golden light
of the sun.
Elena holds my hand
for an hour.
She tries to comfort me.
She feels the pain too.
I can’t talk.
I sit and stare.
The light leaves the room.
The guests return home.
Until it is only me.
On the sofa,
staring at the window
wondering
how things
could have possibly
gone so wrong.
I hear my mother weeping in the kitchen
Other than giving birth,
I have never heard my mother cry.
She’s sitting over a wash bin
filled
with the soiled clothing
of her children.
She’s using her treasured
silver
serving spoons
to do the laundry
so her hands
won’t touch
the poisonous,
flesh-eating lye.
Chemicals
to get the sick
out of the house.
I sit in a chair
and wrap my arms around her.
I know she wishes
she could raise her children
in a beautiful house on the ocean
with clean white linens
and crystal vases filled
with lavender.
But all she has left
is a cold house
and a husband without a job.
Her daughter has died.
And the years
of hard work, poverty, and illness
have eroded
the polished silver life
of her youth
into the red, cracked hands
of grief.
My mother is a beautiful person
She is beautiful
when she helps people
in the neighborhood.
She is beautiful
when she makes her children laugh.
She is beautiful
when she stands at the sink
and the light shines
on her hair and she is lost
in her thoughts.
My mother
is also a beautiful writer.
And so she decides
to write to
Eleanor Roosevelt.
She tells her how she loves
this country
even though there are no jobs
and Christmas is coming.
She tells her
she cannot feed her children
and she is watching
their cheeks hollow.
She tells her
she has already lost one child
and she cannot
and will not
lose another.
My teacher pulls me aside
afte
r school.
Mary, I can’t even imagine
how much you must miss
your sister.
I want
to say to her,
I feel like I live
in a glass case.
Sleeping Beauty.
When I see the animals
pressing their faces
to the glass,
I just lie there.
Do nothing.
Say nothing.
While the world
moves around me.
I dream
of children
bobbing up and down
on pink and white
painted ponies.
The carousel spins.
A monkey
in a scarlet vest
dances
as a man
turns the handle
on an ornate music box.
The sound distorted.
Speeding up
and slowing down.
A needle
being adjusted
on the surface of a record.
I see my sister spinning
on the wheel.
No beginning and no end.
She reaches
to capture
a golden ring
from a lion’s mouth.
The scene turns dark gray.
My sister
becomes a shadow.
I see Billy
standing at the gate.
His cheeks shine
pink,
ruby lips,
eyes the color
of robin eggs.
He’s smiling at me,
holding out his hand.
A beacon of color
in a black-and-white world.
Giorgos (Gio)
U.S. Army, Northwestern France
1918
Without my bandages
I can see everything.
Boys crying,
asking for help.
Wrapped severed limb
leaking blood
onto the mattress.
A soldier wanders
between the beds,
speaking to his sister
who’s not
in the room.
I close my eyes.
Cover my ears
with a pillow.
Where is the woman
who smells like flowers
and forest?
Jeanne
Saint-Malo, France
1918
I tell myself
to go to him.
His eyes are closed,
but I sit next to him
and hold his hand
just like usual.
He opens his eyes
and they are black
as storm clouds.
His face looks damaged
and beautiful
a tree struck by lightning.
It’s you,
he says softly and looks at me
with a fearful expression.
Are you well? What do you need?
I feel his head
to make sure
there is no fever.
I didn’t know
you were so beautiful,
he says.
I blush as red as a cardinal
He speaks English slowly
with an accent
just like I do.
I wonder where he’s from,
but instead I ask,
Do you have a name?
He closes his eyes
and for a moment
I think he has fallen asleep.
Then he takes
a deep breath
and says,
My name is Giorgos,
but my friends call me
Gio.
Gio’s face is weary
He needs sunshine.
I wrap a wool blanket
around his legs
and wheel him
through the grounds
of the hospital.
We rest
beside a small pond
which provides
some comfort.
He tells me about
his sister and mother.
I miss the smell of the dry hills.
The warmth of the sun.
I imagine his home.
His land.
The view
of a completely different sea.
He stops talking
when a fleet
of fighter-bombers
buzzes overhead
so low
it feels like they
are coming for us.
Gio jerks and shields
his head with his arms
and shrieks
with the pain of someone
who has been hit.
The fear
of the Western Front
still alive
in his muscles.
I think about the plane
my father took me to see
so long ago.
The beautiful,
fragile
invention
built to give
mortal men
the power of the gods
has now become
a machine of war.
He shudders
with cold and fear.
Reaches
for the blanket
but can’t manage
to grab the corner.
I fold it over his shoulders
and tuck it
into the corners
of the wheelchair.
I want to make him warm
and calm.
I’ve always wanted
to have an adventure.
To leave
these granite walls.
I’m envious
of what you’ve seen.
He looks at the pond.
Eyes black, round stones.
He does not look at me
when he says,
I’m glad
that you have not seen
what I have seen.
He tells me
he will begin a new life
after the war.
In the United States
of America.
A country
with so much land
they give it away.
A country
filled with large cities,
factories,
and smokestacks
and jobs
for strong, willing
men.
Mary
Detroit, Michigan
1933
Letter #17
November 6, 1918
My dearest love,
When I think I cannot endure another moment of this awful war, I think about our future children.
Well-fed and strong.
As many as possible.
I think they will be our greatest joy when we need it most.
Always and forever yours,
Loup
My boots
are made of concrete.
My lungs can’t hold breath.
I’m scared
I’m not going
to reach her in time.
I knock
loud and hard
so
she can hear me.
The midwife answers the door
with disheveled hair
and sleep in her eyes.
The baby is coming!
We run through the alleyway
and climb the stairs
to our apartment.
My mother is lying in her bed
screaming.
My brothers and father
are gathered
at the door
with scared looks
on their faces.
I pray to every god
Call Me Athena Page 15
