onto the ground.
I hold an envelope in my hand
There’s no name
no address
no stamp.
I open
the folded paper
and begin to read.
Letter #1
October 7, 1918
My dearest,
I woke this morning afraid. No one knows where you are.
How can I find you?
I don’t even know where to send this.
I pray you are alive.
Always Yours,
Petit Oiseau
Letter #2
October 10, 1918
Love of my life,
Lying in this field surround by smoke and fire, I feel as if our moments together never existed.
How could I have been so happy? Loved you so innocently?
I am sure by now the bed that I slept in is occupied by another wounded man.
Have you forgotten me?
I am afraid I will become what I most fear.
Le Loup
I read
until my eyes blur.
My skin grows cold
with cellar
darkness.
Who were these people?
Where are they now?
Giorgos (Gio)
Komnina, Central Greece
1915
The church bells chime
through the windows
of our house on the hill.
My mother
hums softly,
a song she repeats night
after night
until it becomes a part of me
and the air we breathe.
It feels as if the wind
might come from the sea
and take me on its back
a white Pegasus
or a boat,
with wings
for sails.
I go to school with the mountains
the rocks
the olive trees
that grow in a tangled grove
next to our house.
My teachers are the lizards
that love the dusty soil
and explore the world
with their flicked
tongues.
I go to school
without books
without the brick walls
of a building
with my fifteen-year-old twin,
Violetta.
Wiry and tough.
Her hair braided
in a black crown.
A sweet-smelling halo
curled around
her head.
Mother asks us
to gather quail eggs
from the low grasses and scrub
on the hillside.
We listen
for the chuck-chuck-chuck
of the hen
as she scratches out
hidden hollows
at the bottom
of a tree trunk.
Startled,
she leaps into the air
in a quick burst
of flight.
We see
the brown and white
speckled eggs
camouflaged
against
the undergrowth.
Still warm from
their mother’s breast,
we cradle them
in our palms.
As we walk away,
guilt rips
at my chest.
The thought
of the mother
frantically searching
for what
has been lost.
Giorgos, come quick!
Violetta has found a cave.
There are wild animals,
beasts,
that live in these hills.
Muscled cats, brown bears,
and jackals.
We imagine
the great Spartan warriors
We enter the mouth of the cave.
All we find
is a γίδα (gída),
a small goat.
Her bell jingles
from a leather strap
wrapped
around her neck.
She is staked to the ground.
Miles of wilderness.
No freedom.
A circle of grass
mowed down
around her.
We name the goat Alethea
It means truth.
She is stubborn.
She will eat your clothes.
And also trash.
You have to watch her closely.
She’s always trying
to get away
with something.
I scratch her
and she curls her head closer
to my hand.
When I stop
she stares at me
with her vertical
amber eyes.
A creature
from the underworld
who knows
everything
but will tell me
nothing.
The old men in the village
are sighing
and talking about war.
The elders know what is coming.
Young men puff up their chests.
They will join the army.
I do not want to fight.
Why do I need to carry a gun
to prove
that I love my country
and my home?
Violetta ties her skirt
in a knot between her legs.
She wants to wear
pants instead
of the dress and apron
she must wear
everyday.
She puts on my vest and hat
when our mother is out.
Ώπα! (Hopa!), she says.
I look very brave!
One day, Violetta falls asleep
wearing my clothes.
My mother comes
home.
She spits
in Violetta’s face,
Our house will be shamed
because of you!
I wipe the tears
from Violetta’s eyes.
She would be
a very brave boy indeed.
When my mother’s eyes are red
like the juice of a blood orange,
that is how I know
she has been crying.
She tries to do it in secret,
but we all know it happens.
She misses my father.
She never says
that she loved him,
only that he was good
to her.
Most of the men from the village
are not good to their wives.
One time, I saw a man
throwing stones at his wife
while she covered her head
with her hands.
One day, I will become a man.
I will try to be good.
There are stories
of dolphins
and mermaids
who push
their heads
out of the water.
Offer
their breath
to men
who are
drifting.
Sometimes
I wonder
if this happened
to my father.
Perhaps
they saved him
and took him
to an island
with fresh water
and fruit growing
on trees.
I like to think of this.
Rather than his boat
on the bottom
My sister and my mother
clean the house
bake the bread
feed the animals
milk the goat
tend to the garden.
I am not allowed to help.
If I lift a plate,
my mother slaps my hand
and screeches,
Women’s work!
I hear the crack
of my mother’s voice,
Violetta! Come!
I watch
the anger rise
on my sister’s pink cheeks
like she has been struck
by a willow switch.
My mother has found a match
for Violetta.
She clasps her hands in triumph
and grins as widely
as a fisherman’s net
spread across
a harbor.
He’s from a good family!
I have been listening at the market,
I have been talking to the women.
She will go to a good home
to a man
who will care for her!
We will wait
until you turn sixteen,
my mother says.
Her hands
placed firmly on her hips.
My sister puts her cheek
on the cool
wooden table.
Mother spoons
large portions
of tomatoes, feta,
and beans
onto our plates.
She does not see
that my sister
has completely
lost
her appetite.
I find my sister
in the garden.
She’s holding a small bouquet
of wildflowers.
I don’t know why
I picked these.
They will wilt by tomorrow.
I put my hand
on her shoulder.
Think of all the words
that could comfort.
None of them seems right.
She holds the flowers
out to me.
They would have been happier
staying right where
they were.
My father told me
the three most important
things in life:
the boat, the sea,
the family.
That’s all you need.
My father is missing
My sister is about to leave me.
And I don’t have
a boat.
Jeanne
Saint-Malo, France
1915
The smell of the sea
climbs the walls
of our city
like a salty,
dangerous
pirate
who steals
into my bedroom
and whispers
in my ear.
Come with me.
The night turns me
into a sparrow.
Wings tipped
with golden arrows.
The stars sing
in the firmament
a song that belongs
to me alone.
Come home.
We live in a house
on the top of a hill
filled with beautiful
things
and a maid
to dust them.
We live in a house
with a small black dog
named Felix
who eats
out of a crystal bowl.
We live in a house
filled with visitors
who drink champagne
and dine on oysters
and canapé
in the rose garden.
We live in a house
as old as the cathedral
with a balcony door
that opens
to the emerald sea.
We live in a house
filled with books,
tales of adventures
and voyages.
I wonder
if these stories
will ever be written
about me.
A letter arrives
Papa breaks a government
red wax seal
to open it.
He is needed in the war effort.
They know
he will be a wonderful doctor
in the French Foreign Legion.
It is time
for him to fulfill his duty
to his country.
He will leave
the day after Christmas.
He throws the letter
into the fire.
It crackles and spits
and rises up the chimney,
black as smoke.
It is mid-December
and we gather
with our neighbors
for la fête de Noël,
our winter festival.
It is my favorite day
of the year.
We eat crêpes filled
with sugar and jam
and galettes saucisses,
spiced sausages.
Drink cider and chouchen,
a honey brew.
My father’s friends
pat him on the back,
wish him luck.
Neighbors
thank him for his service.
The music begins.
We laugh and breathe hard
as we dance and sing
in a circled chain
to the bagpipes, the accordion,
the fiddle, and the drum.
Two sisters join the stage
and sing
an a cappella song.
We stop to listen.
Their voices wind
around each other,
a threaded bobbin
whirling inside
a spinning wheel.
They sing le chant des marins.
A sailor’s song
for our people. 7
The Bretons
are wild
like the purple heather
that grows
on our rocky shore.
The Bretons
are sweet
like the gold
we squeeze
from the depths
of the honey’s lore.
The Bretons
are brave
as the northern wind
and we know that
we must pray.
To the Lord, our God
to keep our ships
from that dark
and watery grave.
O keep us from
that watery grave.
O keep us fr
om
that grave.
Maman closes her eyes
I see tears escape.
We listen to the music,
but I know we are both
thinking of the boat
that will take Papa
to a country
far from here.
She hugs me close.
My head fits perfectly
in the curve of her neck.
I can hear
her heart
beating.
A lonely bird
trapped in a cage.
The day before
my father leaves,
the townspeople gather
to see Louis Blériot