Having left
Ana Doina
Leaving
is a matter of suitcases, plane tickets,
farewell parties, and a sudden atmosphere
of drama, when the distance I am becoming
comes into focus in the present tense.
Having left changes the brand new pair of slippers
Mother packed for my departure into an absence.
Leaving turns maps into daydreams about places
that shall soon be greeting me. Having left
brings a craving so deep I would offer my soul
for Aunt Rada’s schnitzels, knowing it would come
with her morose nagging. Back home she remembers me
lighter than leaves, imagines I move
like a swift, shapeless wind in a labyrinth.
Leaving
I take with me notes, addresses,
expect that news of me would be spread
from Mother and Father to cousins and friends.
Having left I discover how postcards falsify
images, cleanse them of the sounds never heard
and of the smells never smelled elsewhere.
Leaving I promise a reunion—in a future I dare
plan for. Having left turns me into a fable
they tell to the young, while I try to keep
those left behind in the same plot
with that which I am becoming.
Back home
they place my framed picture next to an icon
and toast to my health every Sunday, while I
forget their secrets and send them letters
to keep them abreast of the narrative shape
of my days as if a well-kept ledger were the only way
I have to remind them I am as real
as a swift, shapeless wind in a labyrinth.
is a matter of suitcases, plane tickets,
farewell parties, and a sudden atmosphere
of drama, when the distance I am becoming
comes into focus in the present tense.
Having left changes the brand new pair of slippers
Mother packed for my departure into an absence.
Leaving turns maps into daydreams about places
that shall soon be greeting me. Having left
brings a craving so deep I would offer my soul
for Aunt Rada’s schnitzels, knowing it would come
with her morose nagging. Back home she remembers me
lighter than leaves, imagines I move
like a swift, shapeless wind in a labyrinth.
Leaving
I take with me notes, addresses,
expect that news of me would be spread
from Mother and Father to cousins and friends.
Having left I discover how postcards falsify
images, cleanse them of the sounds never heard
and of the smells never smelled elsewhere.
Leaving I promise a reunion—in a future I dare
plan for. Having left turns me into a fable
they tell to the young, while I try to keep
those left behind in the same plot
with that which I am becoming.
Back home
they place my framed picture next to an icon
and toast to my health every Sunday, while I
forget their secrets and send them letters
to keep them abreast of the narrative shape
of my days as if a well-kept ledger were the only way
I have to remind them I am as real
as a swift, shapeless wind in a labyrinth.
Ana Doina, a Romanian-born American writer living in New Jersey, she left Romania during the Ceausescu regime. Her poems appeared in numerous print and online magazines, anthologies, and textbooks. She won Honorable Mention in the Anna Davidson Rosenberg Awards for Poems on the Jewish Experience contest in 2007, and three of her poems were nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2002, 2003, and 2004. Her chapbook, The Later Generation, is scheduled for publication by Alabaster Leaves/Kelsay Books in 2024.
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