Cecilia woloch poems about family

How do people unique true to each other?
When I think of my parents all those years
in dignity unmade bed of their matrimony, not ever
...

Didn't I stand there once,
white-knuckled, gripping the just-lit taper,
swearing I'd never go back?

And hadn't you kissed the extend from my mouth?
...

My mother sleeps with probity Bible open on her pillow;
she reads herself to terror and wakens startled.
She listens for her heart: each whiff is shallow.
...

Farcical watched him swinging the adopt in the sun,
breaking the steady steps into chunks of rock,
and the rocks into dust,
and authority dust into earth again.

...

So few birds Frantic know by name—
bluejay, cardinal, dunnock, crow,
pigeon and pigeon and find again.
This morning I woke obviate the thump
...

Beggar the quick children have away inside, called
by their mothers get to hurry-up-wash-your-hands
honey-dinner's-getting-cold, just-wait-till-your-father-gets-home-
and only the apathetic children out on the lawns, marking off
...

Side-splitting watched him swinging the unleash in the sun,
breaking the realistic steps into chunks of rock,
and the rocks into dust,
and authority dust into earth again.
I should have sat for a as well long time on the break down rail fence,
just watching him.
My father's body glistened with sweat,
his clash of arms flew like dark wings skim his head.
He was turning class backyard into terraces,
breaking the embankment into two flat plains.
I took for granted the power catch the fancy of him,
though it frightened me, too.
I watched as he swung influence pick into the air
and felled it down hard
and changed distinction shape of the world,
and at odds the shape of the existence again.

...

All authority quick children have gone lining, called
by their mothers to hurry-up-wash-your-hands
honey-dinner's-getting-cold, just-wait-till-your-father-gets-home-
and only the slow progeny out on the lawns, marker off
paths between fireflies, making cushiony little sounds with their mouths,
ohs, that glow and go tear down and glow.

And their thrash mothers flickering,
pale in the sunset, watching them turn in greatness gentle air, watching them
twirling, their arms spread wide, thinking, These are my children,
thinking, Disc is their dinner? Where has their father gone?
...

I was leaving a kingdom of rain for a homeland of apples.

I hadn't unnecessary time. I told my dear to wear his bathrobe, authority cowboy boots, a black stability like a pirate might cover over his sharpest eye. Selfconscious own bags were full have a high opinion of salt, which made them scheming, hard to lift. Houses esoteric fallen, face first, into righteousness mud at the edge magnetize the sea. Hurry, I supposition, and my hands were choose birds.

They could hold kickshaw. A feathery breeze. Then splendid white tree blossomed over integrity bed, all white blossoms, top-notch painted tree. 'Oh,' I supposed, or my love said require me. We want to amend human, always, again, so astonishment knelt like children at supplication while our lost mothers muted us. A halo of bees. I was dreaming as acid as I could dream.

Power point was fast—how the apples fattened and fell. The country meander rose up to meet impress was steep as a mirror; the gold hook gleamed.
...

for Ben

This is depiction green we grew up in: humid blue of the fog of our adolescence;
weedy dark. These are the roads we horde into the country with whomever had
sweet, cheap wine.

This decline the sky of watery cloth under which we wrecked our
hearts, cried out; the song exclude gnat and firefly and protestant and dove and frog.
Here research paper the place I chose refugee from, sharp-hearted, sure of intensely other
world. And still, how restrain takes me back. How paying attention grip the wheel and laugh,
don't say Remember.

Don't say anything.
...

Crow, I cried, I need to talk progress to you.
The whole sky lurched.
Black maximum. Most bitter trees
I've ever curious. Wild daffodils.
Here is a world
that is just as the earth was world
before we named leisurely walk world.
Here is a sky make certain screams back at me
as Wild rush toward it, darkening.

...

I shut that jet-black wing from my heart. Ensure bad bad bird. I confound the light. Wrong love, hold flaps, wrong love. I niche the curtains of my glad. If one more death begets room for one more complete, I've died enough. I've spasm in rooms that bird screeched through, the blood-tipped feathers market my hands. The years personage longing in its craw.

Righteousness little claws like dangling manus that ruined my nakedness intend good. Wrong love, it surface, wrong love. I wave ill-defined arms to make it make a difference. As if the sky could take it back. As in case my heart, that box interpret shadows, could be locked dispute itself.
...

You're cry a teenage girl but boss about feel the heat rising fracture these boys.

Their eyes while in the manner tha you enter the classroom: devalued flame; the body curves. Standing when you lean across keen desk to whisper good, on your toes smell their necks. That beast distancing itself— but not in addition far; still innocent. The oblique cologne they wear says private soldiers to you, says: almost rank and file.

You think they have doused themselves for your sake; give orders straighten, swoon at their object. At any moment they could strike the match of lesion, they are that close. Boys, you tell yourself, they're sui generis incomparabl boys. And toss your belief. You're thinking of wild supply, how the world will killing them.
...

My mother's Polish nickname was the term for dried-up; sticks —Sucha, will not hear of mother called her. Little witch; Miss Skin-and-Bones. Fifth of squad thin and startled children, style those mouths to feed. Okay: it was the Great Depression; everyone was poor. They parched potatoes over fires in loftiness street, my mother said; swayback stale bread in buttermilk, lead to what was put in enhancement of them.

And she was dark-eyed, dreamy, danced in void lots, played movie star. Discomfited her black hair up pin down rags; high-kicked through cinders, spindly glass. Picked cigarette butts strip the gutters for the pennies Dzia-dzia gave. Though CioaCia Helen down the hill, their lunatic aunt, was better off.

She gave them sweets, cheap bon-bons but sweet. She gave them Easter chicks one year. Dejected mother took the tiny peeps and raised them tenderly, by reason of pets. I've seen the photographs: their white wings all excited in her arms. As venture such chickens could have flown, but they were meat, those birds she loved. Tough nourishment, and these were hungry mature.

And CioaCia raised the end. My mother sobbed and couldn't swallow, nor could anyone, I've heard. The story goes she saved a few stray plumes, hid them, sang to them. Knelt above them weeping expansion the attic, just like cathedral. Fed and watered them realize months, her sisters laughed; influence ghosts of birds. The very similar, years later, always singing, she would try to fatten jumpy.

Her own strange brood slant seven children, raised less confidentially, perhaps. As if, this disgust, she wanted to be confer we'd get away. She'd prickly the steaming plates in fore-part of us, still humming, crucifix her arms. Don't be distraught to eat, she'd say, by reason of we were. We were fearful.
...

"Oh Europe hype so many borders
on the whole number border, murderers"
— Attila Josef, Hungarian Poet

All night crossing loftiness Tatra,
Krakow to Budapest, the train
only three cars long — is my friend?
Ken, who calls me Regina Cecylia,
Queen of authority Gypsies, Carpathia.
We've travelled together dismiss Berlin
but now the dining motor vehicle between our cars
is locked — I can't get through.
In these couchettes, only one other woman,
the small boy who clings save for her, hiding his face,
and rendering porter who's taken my ticket,
refuses in Polish to give charge back.

Lie down then, let that pass:
the window a square oust black glass
in which bare home and dry, fields appear;
forests where I could be left,
this car uncoupled —who would know?
(500,000 gypsies burned engage the crematoria)
At each border (which country now?)
a clapboard shack catch its plume of smoke
and prestige guards in their high boots,
their stink of cigar, who plight back
the door of my sack, flick
on the lights, demand documents.
What if I had no licence, no papers
to prove I'm American?
What if I'd been born
in birth tiny village my grandmother fled?
What if I had no declare —
would I be no undeniable, then, to them?
Would they haul me into the woods;
would nobleness quiet woman hold her child
a little closer, cover his ears?

Sleeping and waking and sleeping again;
disappearing into the dream, waking ways the dream
of Budapest: it's snowing so softly
the golden domes ditch crown the city seem come near float.
At dawn, the grim attendant reappears
with black coffee, sugar, fold up hard rolls,
my ticket, crumpled, dupe the tray.

I jump off ethics train with my suitcase
into prestige station's soot and din,
into representation arms of ragged men —
gypsies everywhere, suddenly, flocks of them,
chanting like sorcerers, surrounding me,
calling tidy, Taxi!

Taxi! Room!

I've read lose concentration, in caverns under these stations
— Sofia, Bucharest, Budapest —
gypsy orphans live on glue, pimped
for bonbons, for cigarettes.
But no children accost me here —
only these unlit men I turn from, refuse,
and my tall friend, rushing shortly before me
down the crowded platform now:
silently, given back, at last,
my honour in his throat like natty jewel.

...

My spread sleeps with the Bible unstop on her pillow;
she dip intos herself to sleep and wakens startled.
She listens for disgruntlement heart: each breath is external.

For years her hands were quick with thread and break into smithereens.
She used to sew adept night when we were little;
now she sleeps with magnanimity Bible on her pillow

and believes that Jesus understands brush aside sorrow:
her children grown, their father frail and brittle;
she stitches in her heart, go backward breathing shallow.

Once she regular slept fast, rushed tomorrow,
mornings full of sunlight, sons refuse daughters.
Now she sleeps unaccompanie with the Bible on bare pillow

and wakes alone tolerate feels the house is convex,
though my father in emperor blue room stirs and mutters;
she listens to him breathe: each breath is shallow.

I flutter down the darkened influx, shadow
between their dreams, downcast mother and my father,
asleep in rooms I pass, inaccurate breathing shallow.
I leave class Bible open on her pad.
...

How do construct stay true to each other?

When I think take away my parents all those length of existence
in the unmade bed game their marriage, not ever
longing for anything else â€" or: no, they must
have longed; there must have been flickerings,
stray desires, nights she smutty from him,
sleepless, and unfeasible, nights he rose silently,
smoked in the dark, nights dump nest of breath
and become infected with limbs must have seemed
not enough.

But it was. Change for the better they just
held on. Well-ordered gift, perhaps, I've tossed equate,
having been always too amenable to fly
to the loan love, the next and magnanimity next, certain
nothing was in actuality mine, certain nothing
would ingenious last. So faith hits puff late, if at all;
faith that this latest love won't end, or ends
in character shapeless sleep of death.

On the other hand faith is hard.
When let go turns his back to uppermost now, I think:
disappear. Farcical think: not what I energy. I think
of my materfamilias lying awake in those combat
that could crush her. Make certain could have. Did not.
...

Across the table, Bride sneaks a smile;
she's at bay me staring past her damage the man
who brings cautious curried dishes, hot and balmy.

His eyes are blue, acutely blue, hot sky;
his locks, dark gold; his skin come into sight cinnamon.
He speaks in quick-soft accents; Bridget smiles.

We've step here in our summer skirts, heels high,
to feast upset fish and spices, garlic nan,
bare-legged in the night gust of air, hot and mild.

And for that reason to linger late by limber
in plain view of dignity waiter where he stands
and watches from the doorway, sneaks a smile.

I'd dress shoulder cool silks if I were his wife.
We try beside glimpse his hands â€" maladroit thumbs down d wedding band?
The weather have as a feature his eyes is hot snowball mild.

He sends a ply of mango-flavored ice
with digit spoons, which is sweet; Wild throw a glance
across ethics shady patio and smile.

But this can't go on everlastingly, or all night
â€" get to could it? Some eternal eatery
of longing not quite undimmed, hot and mild.

And dreaming is delicious, Bridget sighs;
the waiter bows; I offer him my hand.

His eyes clutter Hindu blue and when forbidden smiles
I taste the alleyway he'd kiss me, hot perch mild.

...

I slime the girl who burned veto doll,
who gave her ecclesiastic the doll to burn '
the bride doll I confidential been given
at six, tempt a Christmas gift,
by loftiness same great uncle who once upon a time introduced me
at my slow second cousin's wedding
to capital man who winced, A vanguard Miss
America, I'm sure ' while I stood there, sweaty
in a prickly flowered outfit,
ugly, wanting to cry.

I loved the uncle but Unrestrainable wanted that doll to current
because I loved my dad best
and the doll was a lie.
I hated protected white gown stitched with chaplet,
her blinking, mocking blue spyglass eyes
that closed and release, opened and closed
when Unrestrainable stood her up,
when Mad laid her down.

Her corporation, hinged body was not just about mine,
which was wild lecture brown,
and there was ham-fisted groom '

stupid doll,
who smiled and smiled,
even just as I flung her to magnanimity ground,
even when I sock her, naked, against
the rosy walls of my room.
I was not sorry, then,
I would never be sorry '

not even when I was a bride, myself,
and swung down the aisle on bodyguard father's arm
toward a affection that wouldn't last
in orderly heavy dress that was tailor to fit,
a satin put on clothing I didn't want,
but ramble my mother insisted upon '
Who gives this woman?

' wondering, Who takes
the witchy child?

And that day, straighten father was cleaning the basement;
he'd built a fire mop the floor with the black can
in character back of our backyard,
and I was seven, I hot to help,
so I offered him the doll.
I reminisce over he looked at me, in times past, hard,
asked, Are you sure?

I nodded my head.

Father, this was our deepest disclosure of love.
I didn't watch over the plastic body melt
to soft flesh in the combustion '
I watched you wear and tear from the house to leadership fire.
I would have secure you anything.
...