Lore
Wring seven shriveled petals
from the tintinnabulum of foxglove,
digitalis in its second year.
Steep an infusion to quicken the pulse
or stop the heart
in its mad assent.
Pull the root of wild licorice
from the mud
along a river bank
beloved by the lacewing
and her deadly neighbor, wasp.
Chew it, spit the pulp
into a glass. Brew it. This alterative
will steady the nerve
and sweeten the spirit,
a tooth-sized stone for flavor
or a child’s tooth for luck.
By the feral eye of Mars
day-warmed blackberry
in its bramble wrap,
tangles the understory
of these woods,
a lash to strip the innocent.
It’s good for heartache,
the leaves beat to pulp
will poultice the wound.
A night wind cools the thicket
while the part of you that burns
burns brighter.
Eliana
I was married off at 12
to a boy I never met.
My mother knew his family
and they paid a fair price.
I didn’t like him,
but my mother said,
you’ll learn.
I saw him on our wedding day.
He ran the pitch,
kicking football with the boys.
His father clamped a hand
around his shoulder,
and stood him sweating
next to me,
my pudgy groom, before the priest.
I didn’t dance.
I held the melmac
wedding plate til it was full
of coins and rings and bills.
I keep it wrapped in its red lace
up on the wall.
Now all the work is mine,
but his mother
shows me her way:
how to wash the floor
and toss the trash.
I cannot brush my hair
past noon.
I cannot cross the path
of any man.
So I don’t have to take the bus
every morning into town
like the other children.
I don’t have to hang around
the plaza and the banks,
waiting for an open pocket,
a backpack hanging low,
careless gadjo at the conto,
for the flip of 20 Lev notes
like the 47 kids
my uncles keep
locked up in the dorm
at night when they return,
their pockets full.
I have a mother and a father.
Nicu
Stacked families warren
a crippled highrise.
From gone through rooms
dewalled, unpiped, dewired
they strip the copper,
rip the fixtures off the wall
and cash in the porcelain,
trading up for food.
Soda cans and water bottles
decorate a shoulder of the road.
A few pennies,
each one isn’t much,
but he can crush
these unlovely amulets
and link a bracelet of charms
to call up luck or money,
piled in a wheely cart.
Clutches of the young boys
run indifferent to wreckage
piled up the crumble walls
of handmade brick and cinder block.
They play their toyless games.
Feathers from a football bird
the boys have kicked around
blow in fits across the pitch.
The older ones like Nicu
thrust and wave their wooden dowels,
long as an arm,
and thick as a wrist.
They play at being mean.
Nicu beats the plastic,
smashing bottles down
to fit more in the cart.
As he hauls the cache
his friends knock him
about the back and shoulders
with their sticks,
taps to tease the envy out.
He walks the cluttered highway,
thinking of dead birds
and what he had for breakfast,
while the phone lines listen in,
magnetically.
Once they grab his thoughts
and turn them into sparks
to run on down the wire
what’s to stop the politsiya
from knowing everything
he wants, or thinks, or does?
