Drawing from memory, and: Cold, and: At the Black Sea

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Drawing from memory, and: Cold, and: At the Black Sea Claudia Serea (bio) Drawing from memory I could draw the details from memory. It would be a very nice drawing,with us kids sitting on the threshold,eating soup, and my grandmother dressed in black,with a black headscarfand her back turned,stirring the pot on the stovewith a wooden spoon. In this drawing,there are chickens shitting solemnlyin the yard,and a sleeping dogwith his huge lion headresting on his paws. See that cross-hatched shapein the background? That's the shedwhere I spent summer afternoonsreading Magellan's Voyageand The Journals of Captain Cook, old books stinking of mice,falling apart. [End Page 172] Cold It was so cold,the war had frozen over. I could see my breath in the classroom,fluffy like cotton yarn,and my teacher's,and my high school colleagues'. At home, I'd place my handsover the reading lampto turn them from blueto red. Mom bought fabrics, lining, batting, and snapsand made my brother and me ski costumesto wear to school. We slept with wool hats,wool socks, wool mittens,and wool sweaters so thickthey were bullet- and moth-proof. My breath turned to dew on the wall,then froze into intricate flowersand vines. It was so cold,the actors on the stage had visible breath,and the theatre audiencebreathed in Shakespeare's verseand exhaled cirrus wisps. [End Page 173] The bride and groom kissed nonstopto keep warm,and the wedding guests spoke white wordsbefore the food arrived. It was so cold,the rocks cracked open. The doctors breathed white gauzeas if ghosts were presentin the operating roomsbefore openingthe patients' steaming bellies. It was so cold,my circus lady neighborbrought home the pythonsso they wouldn't freeze,and kept them in the bathtub. She wore them to work,a tight suitunder her mink fur. For decades, it was cold, cold. Each one of us exhaleda small cloud, proof we were alive. At the Black Sea We stand in front of the seaas in front of a goddess,almost ashamedto undress. [End Page 174] The sea doesn't care. Last night, we hear,some people slipped by the Coast Guardwho had orders to shoot. They escaped into international waters,but the sailors from cargo shipsdidn't see them. The Turkish fishermendidn't hear them. Only the angelswho work the night shift in the shipyardheld their hands a while. From the deep,the storm brings up spoils of warand throws them on the shore: jellyfish, algae,shells, and small bonesof drowned swimmers. In and out.Inand out. In andout. Inandout. Restless.Restless, the sea doesn't care. [End Page 175] Claudia Serea Claudia Serea is a Romanian-born poet who immigrated to the US in 1995. Her poems and translations have appeared in Field, Gravel, New Letters, 5 a.m., Meridian, Word Riot, and Apple Valley Review, among others. She is the author of four poetry collections, most recently Nothing Important Happened Today (Broadstone Books). She co-hosts the Williams Readings poetry series in Rutherford, NJ and is a founding editor of National Translation Month. Visit www.cserea.tumblr.com. Copyright © 2018 University of Nebraska Press