A poem written in response to an oil spill years ago.
It felt like a dream.
The utter hopelessness
of the seal,
drenched in black muck
that clung to her
without consent.
A few attempts to be the one she knew
then the finale:
A deathly dive into the oily slime
never to surface again.
Later the professor showed me
boxes of books.
They all told about creation
and destruction.
How absolute it all is, I thought in wonder.
He said: "And in the midst of all this,
the trees go on breathing."
December 7, 2007
Cloudberries
There was a Russian poet
named Mayakovsky who called
himself cloud in pants.
He spoke of his velvet voice,
so I wanted to make
love to him.
And I think of Bruce Chatwin,
who died too young
of a disease
that invaded him
in China.
He brought songlines to the world,
and I dream that I lend him one letter
of my alphabet
to use at his discretion.
I would become invisible
and enter his bloodstream.
Was his gait confident and grounded,
like that of a real estate agent?
Or did his steps sway and give,
like a sailor?
named Mayakovsky who called
himself cloud in pants.
He spoke of his velvet voice,
so I wanted to make
love to him.
And I think of Bruce Chatwin,
who died too young
of a disease
that invaded him
in China.
He brought songlines to the world,
and I dream that I lend him one letter
of my alphabet
to use at his discretion.
I would become invisible
and enter his bloodstream.
Was his gait confident and grounded,
like that of a real estate agent?
Or did his steps sway and give,
like a sailor?
Being German in America
The first time I came to this country, I was an exchange student at 18. That year I felt at home on this planet for the first time. The spaciousness, incurable optimism, and hospitality of America touched me. It took me a few more visits, until I came for good 15 years later. I am European at heart, and some things here baffle me.
I arrive at the brink
of womanhood.
Skinny body,
bra-less breasts,
unshaven legs and armpits.
In the school cafeteria kids stand up
and touch their hearts
at breakfast.
I have to keep the door open
when a boy
is in my room.
People smile with their mouths
when their eyes tell a lie.
They ask how I am
when they don’t have time
to listen.
Loud, happy, blond faces.
Homemade pumpkin pie.
Cocaine and watching “Apocalypse Now.”
Circumcised penis
in the back of a ‘62 Ford.
In school one morning
a stupid guy
stretches his stiff arm
to the sky,
clicking his heels,
hailing a salute.
Shame floats me
through the long, yellow hallway.
The German in me
shrivels
to speechlessness.
Seven slices of buttered toast for breakfast,
piled, and tablespoons of peanut butter
from a secret bucket in the pantry.
So much food. So much
everything.
So much space. So much
freedom.
I come from a country without cake mixes.
A country of trauma, sadness,
and dark memories.
A country of stiff bodies
scrambling for too little space.
A country of poets,
and survivors.
I left my country many years later
to live in America
with my down comforter,
and books,
and my still German daughter,
who for weeks kept saying to everyone
for lack of other language
“How are you?”
I arrive at the brink
of womanhood.
Skinny body,
bra-less breasts,
unshaven legs and armpits.
In the school cafeteria kids stand up
and touch their hearts
at breakfast.
I have to keep the door open
when a boy
is in my room.
People smile with their mouths
when their eyes tell a lie.
They ask how I am
when they don’t have time
to listen.
Loud, happy, blond faces.
Homemade pumpkin pie.
Cocaine and watching “Apocalypse Now.”
Circumcised penis
in the back of a ‘62 Ford.
In school one morning
a stupid guy
stretches his stiff arm
to the sky,
clicking his heels,
hailing a salute.
Shame floats me
through the long, yellow hallway.
The German in me
shrivels
to speechlessness.
Seven slices of buttered toast for breakfast,
piled, and tablespoons of peanut butter
from a secret bucket in the pantry.
So much food. So much
everything.
So much space. So much
freedom.
I come from a country without cake mixes.
A country of trauma, sadness,
and dark memories.
A country of stiff bodies
scrambling for too little space.
A country of poets,
and survivors.
I left my country many years later
to live in America
with my down comforter,
and books,
and my still German daughter,
who for weeks kept saying to everyone
for lack of other language
“How are you?”
December 4, 2007
Freckles
I woke up one morning with this poem on my tongue. It was one I did not have to work on. It was published in Main Channel Voices, December 2006.
I stepped into the night,
my belly full of your love,
and picked the stars
one by one
off the sky.
I laid them
onto your sleeping face
to be your freckles.
I stepped into the night,
my belly full of your love,
and picked the stars
one by one
off the sky.
I laid them
onto your sleeping face
to be your freckles.
Threshold
I still get a kick out of the visuals accompanying my memories of “the first time.” His name was Albrecht. One of his eyes always looked tired.
Once I was in love with a blond angel.
His curls almost hid his tired eye.
Before I knew his caresses,
I was suspicious
of touch and saliva,
of hands on my breasts and thighs,
of the scent reminding me of pulsing death.
His casual love, insisting to be unimportant,
opened the first waves of woman love.
My indigenous inner girl stood by watching shyly,
with a dirty face.
Mute, with a hollow space to throw words into,
she watched as this ancient ache arose, quivered,
and broke to pieces.
How did it all begin?
In a sunlit, apricot-colored room
with the silhouette of an African tree
above the desk.
Church bells next door.
A baking house across the street.
Many women arrive with balls of dough,
marked by a symbol of ownership.
Man in blue
hacks wood for the stone oven,
with two front teeth missing.
Orderly bookshelves and an heirloom rug,
too expensive to throw away,
too ugly for the main house.
We had tongued each other for weeks,
then laid down on the quilt
mom had made for my 21st birthday.
He moved on top of me,
as I searched for feelings.
Am I a woman now?
Once I was in love with a blond angel.
His curls almost hid his tired eye.
Before I knew his caresses,
I was suspicious
of touch and saliva,
of hands on my breasts and thighs,
of the scent reminding me of pulsing death.
His casual love, insisting to be unimportant,
opened the first waves of woman love.
My indigenous inner girl stood by watching shyly,
with a dirty face.
Mute, with a hollow space to throw words into,
she watched as this ancient ache arose, quivered,
and broke to pieces.
How did it all begin?
In a sunlit, apricot-colored room
with the silhouette of an African tree
above the desk.
Church bells next door.
A baking house across the street.
Many women arrive with balls of dough,
marked by a symbol of ownership.
Man in blue
hacks wood for the stone oven,
with two front teeth missing.
Orderly bookshelves and an heirloom rug,
too expensive to throw away,
too ugly for the main house.
We had tongued each other for weeks,
then laid down on the quilt
mom had made for my 21st birthday.
He moved on top of me,
as I searched for feelings.
Am I a woman now?
On his white T-shirt,
a blond Viking smiled confidently at me.
His halo read:
“Virgin maidens register here.”
Is it allowed to laugh during sex?
a blond Viking smiled confidently at me.
His halo read:
“Virgin maidens register here.”
Is it allowed to laugh during sex?
Sex was so serious that my mother's eyes
always looked wounded
when she came out of her bedroom,
bravely resuming her chores.
My stepfather appeared shortly thereafter,
adjusting his leather belt
in a triumphant gesture.
I run into the kitchen
looking into my mother's gray eyes.
I must look different.
She has to notice.
I am a woman now.
always looked wounded
when she came out of her bedroom,
bravely resuming her chores.
My stepfather appeared shortly thereafter,
adjusting his leather belt
in a triumphant gesture.
I run into the kitchen
looking into my mother's gray eyes.
I must look different.
She has to notice.
I am a woman now.
Vaccination Day
One evening I sat in my garden with a glass of wine reviewing my life. I wondered what my greatest pain slash regret was. I let my mind wander, expecting it to settle on the day when my fiancé told me he had found someone else (on the phone for crying out loud!) and my heart splintered in thousand pieces; I thought my mind might settle on the unspeakable things that happened when I was a little girl and learned the handy skill of leaving my body. But it didn’t. Like it did not have a doubt, my mind came to rest on the day when my little daughter had another vaccine and was changed forever.
You are two years old,
and our white kitchen walls are filled
with your color drawings.
You can be happy for hours
with your big markers and pencils.
Red, yellow, and blue balloons
in geometric constellations
striving towards the sky.
You draw everything flying,
like birds and kites.
On a bright September day
we take the subway to see Dr. Osang.
There is a gentle breeze
as I push the stroller towards his office.
Your brown ringlets bounce gently
And I notice how small your feet are.
You have another vaccine for
Poliomyelitis,
Diphteria,
Tetanus,
and Pertussis.
Names like beautiful orchids
growing in foreign lands.
The next morning you go to
the kitchen table to draw
just like any other day.
You sit on your knees on the bench
in knitted garments of purple and green
and pick up a marker.
I put a load of whites in the washing machine.
And you pause.
I turn the knob to hot.
I get a cup from the shelf.
Your face says: I don’t understand.
I pour myself a cup of coffee.
Your face says: I don’t know this anymore.
There is an empty sound in my stomach.
You sit for a long time
holding the green marker.
The washing machine says swoosh, swoosh,
as it turns your little shirts and underwear.
A cold flash of fear crawls into my spine.
Then you give up and walk away.
I watch you go.
I slowly slide down onto the floor feeling
the vibration of the washing machine
in my back.
I hold my cup with both hands
and sit for a long time.
After that day there are no more balloons.
No more birds, kites,
or anything flying.
You are two years old,
and our white kitchen walls are filled
with your color drawings.
You can be happy for hours
with your big markers and pencils.
Red, yellow, and blue balloons
in geometric constellations
striving towards the sky.
You draw everything flying,
like birds and kites.
On a bright September day
we take the subway to see Dr. Osang.
There is a gentle breeze
as I push the stroller towards his office.
Your brown ringlets bounce gently
And I notice how small your feet are.
You have another vaccine for
Poliomyelitis,
Diphteria,
Tetanus,
and Pertussis.
Names like beautiful orchids
growing in foreign lands.
The next morning you go to
the kitchen table to draw
just like any other day.
You sit on your knees on the bench
in knitted garments of purple and green
and pick up a marker.
I put a load of whites in the washing machine.
And you pause.
I turn the knob to hot.
I get a cup from the shelf.
Your face says: I don’t understand.
I pour myself a cup of coffee.
Your face says: I don’t know this anymore.
There is an empty sound in my stomach.
You sit for a long time
holding the green marker.
The washing machine says swoosh, swoosh,
as it turns your little shirts and underwear.
A cold flash of fear crawls into my spine.
Then you give up and walk away.
I watch you go.
I slowly slide down onto the floor feeling
the vibration of the washing machine
in my back.
I hold my cup with both hands
and sit for a long time.
After that day there are no more balloons.
No more birds, kites,
or anything flying.
In the Hills of Yugoslavia
I met my father for the first time in 1998, after having imagined him my entire life. I was 36 years old. My body knew him immediately. His laughter, vanity, and gait were eerily familiar. I have not seen him since.
His gait and strong, vital belly
welcome me into his world,
checkered shirt flapping.
He laughs with his goats,
and mocks old grandmother in black,
tiny as a shrunken bird.
She chills the milk
in the light of dusk,
swooping the ladle up and down.
Chin resting in her palm,
she watches the white liquid
that has been with her all her life.
On the second day
he slaughters “Milosevic.”
Her goat guts are spilling out of the branches
she hangs from.
In the evening I eat her flesh
with cheese, homemade and
white as a virgin,
tomatoes,
red as first blood,
and cucumbers,
green as Eden.
My father and I
have known one another
for four days.
His gait and strong, vital belly
welcome me into his world,
checkered shirt flapping.
He laughs with his goats,
and mocks old grandmother in black,
tiny as a shrunken bird.
She chills the milk
in the light of dusk,
swooping the ladle up and down.
Chin resting in her palm,
she watches the white liquid
that has been with her all her life.
On the second day
he slaughters “Milosevic.”
Her goat guts are spilling out of the branches
she hangs from.
In the evening I eat her flesh
with cheese, homemade and
white as a virgin,
tomatoes,
red as first blood,
and cucumbers,
green as Eden.
My father and I
have known one another
for four days.
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