MAGGIE SAWKINS

American Wake


At the boot-hollowed threshold
seventeen miles from Skibbereen
I listen for my grandfather’s
by God I’ll make you skip boy
sing-song voice.

At the farmhouse table
where he might have planned
his American dream,
I trace the wood as if I could find
the whorl of his fingerprints
somewhere in the grain.
Then in a tin box I see
the photograph –
his flock of children left
to fend like babes in the wood.

And the tales my mother told me
that once seemed as distant
as the furthest planet,
flash the room – whiting her eyes
like lightning on a star starved night.

Alina Roxana Chirila

Maggie Sawkins
 

Veghea americana

Din pragul adancit de pasi
la saptesprezece mile de Skibbereen
astept sa aud vocea melodioasa
a bunicului meu:
“Pe toti sfintii, o sa te fac sa sari, baiete.”

La masa casei de tara
unde se poate sa-si fi planuit
visul American,
pipai lemnul de parca i-as putea gasi
liniile fine ale amprentelor sale
undeva in nervuri.
Apoi vad intr-o cutie de tinichea
fotografia –
droaia de copii lasati
sa se descurce precum pruncii in padure.

Si povestile spuse de mama
ce odata pareau atat de departe
precum cea mai indepartata planeta,
lumineaza incaperea – strafulgerandu-i privirea
ca fulgerul intr-o noapte
ce tanjeste dupa stele.