Wrapped in practical furs,
she waits.
The flat black cap
makes her face severe.
She stands by herself
in the old photo
with a dog at her feet.
It's winter,
Latvia,
a land she's losing.
She doesn't wave.
I dream of a witch
who has captured me,
forcing me to drink
pure lemon juice.
It's too sour,
but I get used to it.
I drink it all.
She disappears.
In class we watch the movie
seen before so much
that no one notices--
Dorothy trapped,
the green-faced witch,
with only red dust to offer.
The men sneer at this story
as I glance around,
this stepmother too silly
in her over-crafty power.
For years she kept a cow for us,
when the wagons left her behind.
"I'll stay and watch things until you get back."
Already a widow,
the second wife,
my grandmother's stepmother,
was the only one left at
Kanapeni, the family farm,
or as I later learned the
translation, Marijuana Patch.
She tried to keep the houses,
but neighbors carried one away
for firewood one cold winter.
She wrote to us regularly
until the cow died.
Then the letters were fewer,
finally none.
Then news of her death.
In the photo
she is villainess--
the one without children,
taller than the first wife,
the one alone finally
keeping the place.
Author Bio:
Skaidrite Stelzer spent the first four years of her life in a refuge camp in the foothills of the Alp mountains. After immigrating with her family to Kalamazoo, Michigan, she spent her formative years as a displaced person, literally a woman without a country. Poetry always seemed the most natural language to her, since it allows the freedom to cross many linguistic and cultural barriers. Her work has appeared in many literary journals including, Eclipse, Baltimore Review, Glass, Fourth River, Georgetown Review, and The Third Coast. She currently lives in Toledo, Ohio and teaches writing at The University of Toledo.
she waits.
The flat black cap
makes her face severe.
She stands by herself
in the old photo
with a dog at her feet.
It's winter,
Latvia,
a land she's losing.
She doesn't wave.
I dream of a witch
who has captured me,
forcing me to drink
pure lemon juice.
It's too sour,
but I get used to it.
I drink it all.
She disappears.
In class we watch the movie
seen before so much
that no one notices--
Dorothy trapped,
the green-faced witch,
with only red dust to offer.
The men sneer at this story
as I glance around,
this stepmother too silly
in her over-crafty power.
For years she kept a cow for us,
when the wagons left her behind.
"I'll stay and watch things until you get back."
Already a widow,
the second wife,
my grandmother's stepmother,
was the only one left at
Kanapeni, the family farm,
or as I later learned the
translation, Marijuana Patch.
She tried to keep the houses,
but neighbors carried one away
for firewood one cold winter.
She wrote to us regularly
until the cow died.
Then the letters were fewer,
finally none.
Then news of her death.
In the photo
she is villainess--
the one without children,
taller than the first wife,
the one alone finally
keeping the place.
Author Bio:
Skaidrite Stelzer spent the first four years of her life in a refuge camp in the foothills of the Alp mountains. After immigrating with her family to Kalamazoo, Michigan, she spent her formative years as a displaced person, literally a woman without a country. Poetry always seemed the most natural language to her, since it allows the freedom to cross many linguistic and cultural barriers. Her work has appeared in many literary journals including, Eclipse, Baltimore Review, Glass, Fourth River, Georgetown Review, and The Third Coast. She currently lives in Toledo, Ohio and teaches writing at The University of Toledo.
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