The orchards of her home
Still blossom in her glances
And in her dreams great flocks
Of geese are feathered;
She used to drive baby geese
To the pond every spring
And guard them from the
crows and owls but now
for days she walks around
bewildered and her whole
body greedily drinks in
the fragrance from the new-cut
wood piled up by the stove
ready for burning.
Her faraway home was so
Beautiful but it was a small
Farm poor and rocky and
There were seven mouths
To feed so she the oldest
Came to the city and here her two hands are now the oars
which row her life through
dark and steamy kitchens
When she gets a letter
From the neighbor’s son
She runs to strangers
Hanging on their glances,
First she reads their faces
For goodwill then begs them
Quietly to read her letter, to tell her all they
must tell all that
he has written! Then she
sees their scornful smiles
at his loutish crudely formed
letters which for her contain
the alphabet of love,
and she blushes, hides her face
for shame.
All week long her heart
Composes answers until
At last it’s Sunday and
The words are put down
Beside each other like
Invalids on pink paper
Decorated with doves
And wreaths of roses.
Her girl friend scribbles
The words in a hurry then
Reads out whatever was
Dictated ending with
kisses and respectfully
yours; she smiles fleetingly
and in the corners of her mouth
lurk the shy love words
she has nursed all week
and there they hover
captive and unspoken.
Sometimes in an hour of rest
She opens her old prayer book
With a gold cross embossed
On its black cover; with awkward
Hands she caresses the strange
Letter, words full of G-d
And love and mercy and her eyes
Grow dreamy thinking about
The miraculous world of A B C.
The world she knows
Is tied in a thousand knots,
Even in the world her prayer book
With its circles and lassos
Is like some Judas: treacherous:
Ready to sell her in a minute
For thirty hard days
Of labour every month.
(Rachel Korn)
More Poetry from Rachel Korn:
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