August 2018
Evie Groch
egroch@comcast.net
egroch@comcast.net
I come to writing late in life, but with as much enthusiasm and vigor as are possible. Although I’m into memoir and short stories, poetry remains number one in my heart. I travel widely and invite my journeys to color my poetry and bring out the senses I experienced.
A Coat of Many Collars
Pathways of pain spin
with strands of fear,
weave together, create
a mantle I wear upon my shoulders
with a stiff upturned collar
more priestly than canine
that reflects the ages of angst
and stages of doubt
that etched their traces
into my face and mind,
sank deep my eyes,
stooped my posture –
this mantle, an artifact
of a life endured,
accepted with spoonfuls
of equilibrium and resignation.
The time is right
for a wardrobe change,
for a cape soaked in salve,
a collar soft and smooth,
that cradles, comforts,
lies gently on the slopes.
A cape threaded with intermittent
joys peeking through seams,
worn as a healing cloth
to smooth over the jagged edges
of a profile shattered in free fall
and pieced together with intention.
Mendocino Farms Sandwich Market
A young, olive-toned dark-haired hostess
rings up our order here in Burlingame
with a warm smile.
She belongs on the cover of Vogue.
Her perfectly white teeth dazzle us;
we can’t help but stare.
So much beauty arresting us at lunch,
so much kindness, real or affected.
I notice her tanned forearm – a tattoo
in stylized Arabic.
May I ask what it says?
She reads it aloud, and I repeat it
as she patiently corrects me.
And its meaning?
-I am at peace with myself.
And so she was.
Amira on her nametag.
Feminine of Amir, I ask.
She nods and smiles.
I am Palestinian, she shares.
I smile and walk away,
wondering if she saw my
Hebrew necklace. I turn back
and say shukraan. She smiles
and says, very good.
She and I so far from home,
polite and civil in our exchange,
wondering what the other thinks.
I smile and walk away, fearing
we could never be close friends,
but neither do we have to be
enemies.
Braiding Memories
Which strand of challah is she?
Which strand am I?
Sometimes three strands,
sometimes four, never more.
Is my bread baking her technique
or my own?
Who once spoke Russian?
Was it me? Maybe her.
So many languages spoken,
even more understood.
My experience or hers?
Is it her memory of fleeing
persecution or mine?
Did I own my measles
or was it her memory
of them I recall?
Where do I get my distrust
of eastern nations? Did she
feed me the hatred they
showed her? Was I the victim
or was she? I can’t recall.
Is it her narrative of a hard
landing here or mine?
Which one of us
raised my little sister?
Two siamesed memories
coalesced and manifested
for decades produced a
perception that overrides truth.
Is it her angst I’m channeling now
or my own? Who owns this depression?
An ancestry test cannot resolve ownership.
Knots will stay tied.
A Coat of Many Collars
Pathways of pain spin
with strands of fear,
weave together, create
a mantle I wear upon my shoulders
with a stiff upturned collar
more priestly than canine
that reflects the ages of angst
and stages of doubt
that etched their traces
into my face and mind,
sank deep my eyes,
stooped my posture –
this mantle, an artifact
of a life endured,
accepted with spoonfuls
of equilibrium and resignation.
The time is right
for a wardrobe change,
for a cape soaked in salve,
a collar soft and smooth,
that cradles, comforts,
lies gently on the slopes.
A cape threaded with intermittent
joys peeking through seams,
worn as a healing cloth
to smooth over the jagged edges
of a profile shattered in free fall
and pieced together with intention.
Mendocino Farms Sandwich Market
A young, olive-toned dark-haired hostess
rings up our order here in Burlingame
with a warm smile.
She belongs on the cover of Vogue.
Her perfectly white teeth dazzle us;
we can’t help but stare.
So much beauty arresting us at lunch,
so much kindness, real or affected.
I notice her tanned forearm – a tattoo
in stylized Arabic.
May I ask what it says?
She reads it aloud, and I repeat it
as she patiently corrects me.
And its meaning?
-I am at peace with myself.
And so she was.
Amira on her nametag.
Feminine of Amir, I ask.
She nods and smiles.
I am Palestinian, she shares.
I smile and walk away,
wondering if she saw my
Hebrew necklace. I turn back
and say shukraan. She smiles
and says, very good.
She and I so far from home,
polite and civil in our exchange,
wondering what the other thinks.
I smile and walk away, fearing
we could never be close friends,
but neither do we have to be
enemies.
Braiding Memories
Which strand of challah is she?
Which strand am I?
Sometimes three strands,
sometimes four, never more.
Is my bread baking her technique
or my own?
Who once spoke Russian?
Was it me? Maybe her.
So many languages spoken,
even more understood.
My experience or hers?
Is it her memory of fleeing
persecution or mine?
Did I own my measles
or was it her memory
of them I recall?
Where do I get my distrust
of eastern nations? Did she
feed me the hatred they
showed her? Was I the victim
or was she? I can’t recall.
Is it her narrative of a hard
landing here or mine?
Which one of us
raised my little sister?
Two siamesed memories
coalesced and manifested
for decades produced a
perception that overrides truth.
Is it her angst I’m channeling now
or my own? Who owns this depression?
An ancestry test cannot resolve ownership.
Knots will stay tied.
© 2018 Evie Groch
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