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.

Liliana Stefan

Maggie Sawkins
 

Desteptarea americanilor

In pragul adancit de pasi
la saptesprezece mile de Skibbereen
ascult vocea melodioasa
a bunicului meu
pe toti sfintii, te voi face zbir baiete.

La masa fermei
unde poate ca si-a planuit
visul sau american,
pipai lemnul de parca as putea gasi
spirala amprentelor lui
undeva printre liniile sale.
Apoi intr-o cutie de tinichea vad
fotografia –
ceata lui de copii lasati
sa se descurce ca niste necunoscatori.

Si povestile pe care mama mi le spunea
care candva pareau la fel de departe
ca cea mai indepartata planeta,
lumineaza camera – albindu-i ochii
ca lumina intr-o noapte fara stele.