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.

Anamaria Comes

Maggie Sawkins
 

Trezire americana

Pe pragul de cizme tocit
La sapteprezece mile de Skibbereen
Ascult un
Doamne, o sa te fac sa zburzi, baiete
e vocea monotona a bunicului.

La masa de la ferma
Unde si-ar fi faurit
Visul lui american
Caut in lemn, de parca as putea gasi
Spirala amprentelor sale
Undeva in nervuri.

Apoi vad intr-o cutie de tabla
Fotografia –
Ceata lui de copii plecati
Sa apere
precum naivii.


Si povestile spuse de mama
Care pareau candva distante
Ca si cea mai indepartata planeta,
Brusc lumineaza camera – albindu-i ochii
Ca fulgerul intr-o noapte de stele infometata.