down the road.
The rest of us
getting covered
in dust.
When we get to school
two boys
are dragging each other
through the yard.
Gus climbs on top
and pulls them apart.
He winds up with a bloody lip
before the bell rings.
We file into
the classroom.
I hear Evie Williams
talking about me.
Two sizes too small!
You can see EVERYTHING!
Her friend Fay
looks at me
and mouths
an apology.
Evie stares
at the popping buttons
on my dress.
Eyes wide
like the barrel
of a gun,
loaded
and ready
to fire.
My whole body
feels hot
and panic
swells my brain.
I am a sack of grain
with a target
painted
on my chest.
I settle on a bench
between Marguerite
and Elena.
Elena’s parents
are from Romania.
She was born
in America
just like us.
Elena’s cheeks
are ripe, round
plums.
Her black, straight hair
smells like cooked
cabbage.
We link
our elbows together.
If our school
were a garden,
I think Elena,
Marguerite, and I
would be growing
on the very same
vine.
We rise and pledge
allegiance
to the flag
of the United States
of America.
We all speak
in different accents.
Our voices ring
in unison.
Liberty and justice
for all.
For a brief moment,
it feels like
we might
have something
in common.
Then I see Evie
sneering at me again.
CAREER
Our teacher, Mrs. Patterson,
scribbles the word
on the blackboard.
Asks us to write
a paragraph about what
we want to do
when we graduate.
What are your dreams?
My brothers
start writing immediately.
John wants to be a pilot.
Gus wants to be a soldier.
Jim wants to build skyscrapers.
Marguerite wants to be
a homemaker.
I don’t write anything.
Good Greek Girls
know better than to dream.
Good Greek Girls
never speak before spoken to.
Good Greek Girls
never ride bikes.
Good Greek Girls
marry at a young age.
Good Greek Girls
take care of the babies at home.
Good Greek Girls
don’t have jobs.
Good Greek Girls
don’t dance and smoke and drink.
Good Greek Girls
never complain.
I don’t know if I want to be
a Good Greek Girl.
My mother calls her daughters
to the kitchen.
We carry serving dishes
filled with
stuffed tomatoes and peppers
and large bowls
of cucumber salad.
We eat outside
in my father’s garden
under the climbing grapevines.
Amidst the aroma
of the blooming roses
and carnations
planted
to remind him
of Greece.
My mother loves
when we eat and drink
and laugh together
at the table.
After dinner,
she serves
the bright-red cherries
that we canned
last fall.
She ladles them
into small crystal bowls
with silver spoons
souvenirs
memories
from her life
in France.
I saw a fight in town
my brother Gus says
from the corner of a full mouth
as he reaches
for a second helping
of cherries.
My mother glares at him.
A real doozy.
The whole works.
One guy was calling
the other guy names.
He didn’t like it much.
Pulled out a blade.
The crowd gathered in a circle
around them.
I didn’t stay
to see how it turned out.
He shovels more fruit
into his mouth
and doesn’t notice
the bloodred juice
staining his chin.
My father holds his worry beads
clicks them
between his forefinger
and his thumb.
Too many men
out of work.
His voice
accents each word
like the beads
on the string.
The factories
were the only thing
keeping peace
in this town.
My mother puffs air
out of her mouth
in exasperation,
Now everyone is praying
that the immigrants
will go home.
This is our home.
What would it feel like
to have blond hair and blue eyes?
My sister asks
with a dreamy voice.
I look at Marguerite’s
big, beautiful, black, curly hair.
Her amber eyes
and olive skin.
I can’t help laughing.
What would it feel like
to have a name
like Smith or Jones?
I retort.
What would it feel like
to have great-great-grandparents
who arrived on the Mayflower?
she giggles.
What would it feel like
to drink Coca-Cola
at the beach
under an umbrella?
I act like I’m opening
a parasol.
What would it feel like
to not speak Greek,
eat Greek food,
go to Greek church?
Normal?
my sister asks.
“Normal” is not a word
I have ever used.
I say with a flourish.
I take her hand
and spin her
ar
ound the yard.
There’s a pharmacy and a soda shop
on the corner.
Marguerite and I
don’t have the ten cents
to buy a copy of
Ladies’ Home Journal
so we stand in the aisle
and suck
penny candies
and read the articles,
“Keep That Wedding Day Complexion” 5
“A Man’s Idea of a Good Wife”
“Hints and Suggestions for Helpful Girls”
Just as we are about
to dig into
a particularly juicy story,
“Promiscuous Bathing” 6
Mrs. Banta,
the owner’s wife,
finds us huddled
in the corner whispering.
She sweeps us out
of the doorway
with her broom.
We look into the shop windows
to examine ourselves.
Dab our lips and cheeks
with red rouge.
We pose like starlets
in the magazine.
Jazzy flappers.
Imagine
we have short, cropped curls
and flasks
tucked into
our knee-highs.
Girls who drive
in cars with boys
and dance.
Come look!
I pull Marguerite’s arm
until we’re standing
in front
of a dress shop.
A mannequin
with a surprised expression
gestures
toward the heavens
like she just felt
the first
drop of rain.
An emerald green
evening dress
draped
across her form.
Rose beige
patent leather
T-straps.
A gardenia
in her hair.
Oh, Marguerite!
Isn’t she divine?
She’s beautiful.
I wish
we had matching dresses
just like this
and a place to wear them.
I wish we had new boots.
I look down
at our worn boots
and my dreams
fizzle.
The clouds turn gray
and disappointment
falls
from the sky.
Our boots are practical
Black.
Sturdy.
Thick soles.
They’re meant to last.
We will wear them
until the thread unspools
and the leather cracks.
Until the rainwater
soaks through
and our bones
are cold.
We will stuff them
with newspaper.
It won’t make a difference.
Only then
will we beg our mother
for a new pair.
She will look
at all of our shoes
and decide.
Whose feet are the coldest.
Whose lips are the bluest.
Who needs the warmth
the most.
After church on Sunday
there is a man waiting
at the carved doors
of the entryway.
My father embraces him.
Dimitris takes my hand
and brushes it
with his dry lips.
His striped vest
bulges
with his belly fat.
Dimitris tells me
he owns a shop,
a haberdashery.
He sells men’s clothing.
Silk and felt hats
of all shapes and sizes.
Fabric and thread
ribbons and zips
buttons and clasps
and small notions.
Dimitris lives alone.
In a sad house
that smells like
soup.
I tell my father
comes in the front door,
I will go out
the back.
My mother yanks me
into the kitchen.
Control your temper.
My sister
is peeling carrots
at the table.
In my frustration
I blurt out,
What about Marguerite!
Why doesn’t she
have to get married?
As soon
as the words
come out of my mouth,
I feel sorry.
Marguerite
looks up from
her work
with a panicked
expression.
A fox
caught in a snare.
I am more concerned
about you, Mary!
my mother snaps.
What man
would choose a girl
like you?
I imagine the day of my wedding
I walk down the aisle
toward a man
I do not love.
Surrounded
by hallowed images.
The priest blesses us
as the chorister chants,
Ησαϊα χόρευε,
η Παρθένος έσχεν εν γαστρί.
(Isaïa chóreve,
i Parthénos éschen en gastrí.)
Isaiah dance,
the Virgin is with child.
He signs the cross
and lays a wreath
of flower buds
on my black curls.
Another
on the gray hair
of my groom.
Entwined together
by the Father, the Son,
and the Holy Spirit.
We drink from one cup.
Servants of God.
Marguerite is lying on her back
in the garden.
Her arms and legs
spread like a starfish
on a rock.
I lay down beside her.
We look like stars
in the same constellation.
I don’t want to leave.
I don’t want to get married.
I’m happy in this home
with you.
She holds my hand
and says,
It can’t stay the same forever.
Even if
we wish it could.
I feel like someone
has thrown a stone
into the heavens
and smashed the stars.
We are falling
from the sky.
I lie for a long time in the grass
even after Marguerite has gone.
I turn on my shoulder
and spy a shovel
lying on the ground.
I stand and pick it up.
Walk down the cellar steps
to return it to where
it belongs.
The cellar smells
of the dark, moss, fungus
that lives
in the packed dirt f
loors
of this subterranean space.
Shelves hold
boxes of potatoes,
garlic, apples, and onions.
I lean
the heavy shovel
against the wall
and it falls
with a loud crash
onto a shelf.
Boxes topple down.
Heads of garlic
fly across the floor.
I groan and bend to gather
the rolling bulbs
when I notice
an ancient wooden box
covered in dust.
The clasp sprung open.
A stack of letters
tumbling