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 Olimpia Miron

Maggie Sawkins
 

Priveghi american

La pragul scobit de ghete
la saptesprezece mile departare de Skibbereen
astept sa aud vocea taraganata a bunicului meu
Pe Dumnezeu daca nu te fac sa o-ntinzi baiete

La masa de la ferma
unde si-ar fi planuit
visul american,
ma uit pe lemn ca si cum as putea gasi
spirala urmelor degetelor sale
undeva in fibra.
Apoi intr-o cutie de tinichea vad
fotografia-
sleahta sa de copii a plecat
pentru a se descurca asemeni pruncilor.

Si povestile spuse de mama
care odat’ pareau asemeni
celei mai indepartate planete,
au luminat brusc odaia-stralucindu-i ochii
precum fulgerul intr-o noapte instelata.