In Kogălniceanu, we saw rows of houses
burned down the summer before,
tents pitched in the yard. A woman
with dozens of reds in her flowered skirt
cooked smoked pork ribs with cabbage
in a simmering cauldron, enough food
to feed twenty. The American woman,
the two Roma guides, and I, were invited
to share the meal. We sat around the cauldron,
embers dying down, each of us holding
a steaming bowl of cabbage, and we
listened.
Someone had stolen a chicken
and then the Romanians burned down
his house. The fire mysteriously spread
and before you knew it twenty houses
were burned down, all in the Gypsy
neighborhood. Some Roma fled,
some stayed to rebuild.
One of our
tour guides was from that town.
We listened. A woman ate cabbage
while nursing her child. She cooled
the bowl with her breath. Wooden spoons.
She told us she decided to stay. All
her family lived here.
Where else would they
go? She pointed to her yard: the lone
locust tree where the fence used to be
somehow survived unscathed, its blossoms
dipping into the sunset. She’ll make us
fried doughnuts with the flowers if we stayed,
she offered, but our guides thanked in Romani,
explained we had miles ahead of us,
stories to untangle, dances to join.
Lucia Cherciu is a Professor of English at SUNY / Dutchess in Poughkeepsie, NY. Her newest book of poetry, Edible Flowers, was published in 2015 by Main Street Rag. Her poetry was nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.