One last journey
Maria Cohut
in memory of my paternal grandmother, Silvia, who as a young woman fled the Soviet army’s invasion of her hometown, Chernivtsi (now part of Ukraine), in 1940
On the train, she checks her luggage once more -
of her mother, only memories remain,
scattered about her suitcase, folded with the laundry.
They had said their goodbyes long before,
her mother headed on a longer journey
to a place of permanent refuge, far
from sleep-devouring malignancies, far
from news of deportations, far
from what was left of her daughter’s
life, tightly packed between leather covers,
on a train to
maybe future,
what if no future,
certainly hunger, new borders, ancient cruelties.
Much later, flight, loss, and fear will become
her permanence, etched deep into her brain,
deeper than husband, son, and safety,
deeper than love.
She does not know this now, on this train,
clutching the suitcase still smelling of her mother.
She does not know that life is worth living,
only hopes it is, so when the train grinds to a halt
between stops she forgets to be scared for a moment.
Later, she will take refuge in forgetting,
she will wipe slates clean with caustic soda,
wear her raw skin as some might wear silk gloves.
She will curse trains out of habit, forgetting why.
On the train, she checks her luggage once more -
of her mother, only memories remain,
scattered about her suitcase, folded with the laundry.
They had said their goodbyes long before,
her mother headed on a longer journey
to a place of permanent refuge, far
from sleep-devouring malignancies, far
from news of deportations, far
from what was left of her daughter’s
life, tightly packed between leather covers,
on a train to
maybe future,
what if no future,
certainly hunger, new borders, ancient cruelties.
Much later, flight, loss, and fear will become
her permanence, etched deep into her brain,
deeper than husband, son, and safety,
deeper than love.
She does not know this now, on this train,
clutching the suitcase still smelling of her mother.
She does not know that life is worth living,
only hopes it is, so when the train grinds to a halt
between stops she forgets to be scared for a moment.
Later, she will take refuge in forgetting,
she will wipe slates clean with caustic soda,
wear her raw skin as some might wear silk gloves.
She will curse trains out of habit, forgetting why.
Maria Cohut is a writer of Romanian origin who adopted Britain as her second home well over a decade ago. She is haunted by questions of identity, belonging, displacement, and what makes us human. Her first poetry chapbook, Spatter Pattern (back room poetry, 2023), explores the issue of gender violence by reimagining detective fiction tropes.
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