{"id":2326,"date":"2013-10-30T18:20:39","date_gmt":"2013-10-30T18:20:39","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/?page_id=2326"},"modified":"2013-11-01T02:17:10","modified_gmt":"2013-11-01T02:17:10","slug":"rose-mary-boehm-october-2013","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/archives\/rose-mary-boehm-october-2013\/","title":{"rendered":"Rose Mary Boehm, October 2013"},"content":{"rendered":"

Aurora reindeeriensis<\/strong><\/p>\n

The children of Chernobyl
\narrived in Madrid. A busload
\nof albino ghosts. No hair,
\nno eyebrows. They were shown
\non the early evening news. And again
\non the late evening news. In the papers
\nwe could see photographs.
\nGive us today our daily press.
\nThe children smiled
\ninto the cameras.<\/p>\n

Showed off their new clothes. Waved
\nwith their new teddies, rabbits and dolls.<\/p>\n

They will go back. To what?
\nKiev is a ghost town. Not quite without
\npeople, certainly full of shadows glowing
\nin the dark. Remember the radio-active cloud
\nwhich poisoned the moss preferred by
\nreindeer? The winds unfortunately
\nwere not in our favor.<\/p>\n

 
\nBirthdays<\/strong><\/p>\n

The lift opens to the hall of the flat and what seems
\nhundreds of balloons hugging the cream-coloured
\nceiling, their strings an instrument or curtain. A child
\nslides on socks along the marble floor. The one whose
\nbirthday it is receives her parcel wrapped in pink
\nand silver, only another jacket from trendy \u2018peek-a-boo\u2019.
\nNannies and maids busy making the hot chocolates
\nand triangular sandwiches, rinds cut off. Mothers
\nand grandmothers chat about the friend of the cousin
\nof the son of the ex-minister, and where to buy
\nthose retro-design boots, inspired by John Wayne.
\nCari\u00f1o, te voy a llevar<\/em>. I\u2019ll take you there.
\nOutside wait the chauffeurs near the SUVs.<\/p>\n

As I watch and listen, I remember a small brown hand
\nholding a frayed rope on the other end of which
\na llama trots with ill-concealed bad feelings,
\nbrown shiny cheeks painted a blue-red
\nby the extreme cold on the Altiplano. Sandals
\nmade from rubber tires, snow on the pebbled path.
\nThe poncho gives some warmth, the multicoloured cap
\nknitted by Granny with love and intricate patterns
\ncovers his ears down to his chin. He\u2019s bringing the animal
\nto the adobe house where his mother cooks for the tourists
\nwho may just leave a dollar or two. I buy a couple
\nof earthenware bulls, small enough to fit into my rucksack
\nand powerful enough to protect me from evil.<\/p>\n

 
\nGraveyard Celebration<\/strong><\/p>\n

The Goths outshine the Anoraks. But there
\nare more of the latter. Ten ukuleles
\npresented by the local wood-turning
\nworkshop. Raw jazz reverberates
\nfrom ruined wall to crumbling stone: Our darling
\nEmma sleeps here. Followed by the dates
\nwhich make me hold my granddaughter tighter:
\n11th April 1856 to 15 May 1860.
\nMy granddaughter
\nis almost three.<\/p>\n

We sit around a large table making
\nnew friends. The graveyard empty
\nof ghosts and full of children\u2019s laughter.<\/p>\n

Near a slippery log of wood a poster
\nnailed to a tree: this pond is deep.<\/p>\n

 
\nMr Mukherjee is Dead<\/strong><\/p>\n

Wore a blue and white striped apron,
\ncame after us with the wooden spoon,
\ncarried it like a warrior\u2019s sword,
\nraging in Hindi.<\/p>\n

We provoked him into action
\nwith great hilarity, splitting like
\nfast mice. We always knew how far
\nMr Mukherjee would follow us, his tormentors.
\nHe would not leave the shop long enough
\nto suffer further humiliations.
\nHe\u2019d probably hear our laughter bouncing
\nback from the walls of the old parking lot.<\/p>\n

Never any other name but Mr Mukherjee.
\nSometimes his quiet wife would
\nbe behind the counter, colourful sari,
\nbindi, and deep-red, broken finger nails.
\nShe hardly ever looked up.
\nShuffling in worn-out slippers
\nacross the shop floor,
\nshe never spoke.<\/p>\n

Someone told me later that Mr Mukherjee
\ndid not allow her to learn the language
\nof their new home. Full of rage, he\u2019d pulled her
\nby her hair from a reading and writing class
\ngiven free to immigrants.<\/p>\n

Someone told me later why they\u2019d
\nleft their home. Mr and Mrs Mukherjee\u2019s
\ntwo small children were clubbed to death
\nin some unpronounceable border town
\nbetween India and Pakistan.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm, after traveling widely settled first in London, later in Madrid, now lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels and a poetry collection (TANGENTS), her latest poems have appeared or are forthcoming in US poetry reviews. Toe Good Poetry, Poetry Breakfast, Burning Word, Muddy River Review, Pale Horse Review, Pirene\u2019s Fountain, Other Rooms, Requiem Magazine, Full of Crow, Poetry Quarterly, Punchnel\u2019s, Avatar, Verse Wisconsin, Naugatuck River Review, Boston Literary, Ann Arbor and others.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Aurora reindeeriensis The children of Chernobyl arrived in Madrid. A busload of albino ghosts. No hair, no eyebrows. They were shown on the early evening news. And again on the late evening news. In the papers we could see photographs. Give us today our daily press. The children smiled into the cameras. Showed off their […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":934,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-2326","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"yoast_head":"\nRose Mary Boehm, October 2013 - Full Of Crow: Poetry (Archives)<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/archives\/rose-mary-boehm-october-2013\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Rose Mary Boehm, October 2013 - Full Of Crow: Poetry (Archives)\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Aurora reindeeriensis The children of Chernobyl arrived in Madrid. A busload of albino ghosts. No hair, no eyebrows. 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