Luciole
Press
An international publication dedicated to all arts and cultures
Press
An international publication dedicated to all arts and cultures
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Jillian Parker Contributor -- Alaska
Jillian Parker, aka Momster of five, is an autism activist, emerging poet and writer, part-time translator and Slavophile. She lived in
bridges and dust
today i'm sweeping up the crumbs
left behind by scurrying feet
sometimes i get lost in the swirl of dust
i remember the gritty wind
from the brick factory
and the woman in the courtyard
her hair was cut short and square
she wore outmoded soviet style lipstick
she did not smile, she did not frown
she flickered
while the children frolicked in the sand box
she was the afgan wife of a russian officer
we tasted the sand in our teeth
while the wind whistled between
twelve story cement towers
that's how our friendship went
i never told her where i was from
we hardly ever talked at all
but we were different than the others
who smoked liked sailors
dressed like movie stars
we were bridges to a culture
which was slipping away from us
you could say, bridges to nowhere --
after my time in a moscow hospital
i cut my hair square and short
dangled myself and the wash out to dry on the balcony
tried to lose myself in the whirling dust
but it wasn't my time yet
not yet -- not yet --
while i still can, i say it's a time to build bridges
but there's so much sand in our eyes
too much blood spilled
too little trust --
A Taste of Tanya
All I could recall from the dream, was the glow of a frosted half-globe, and a warm presence, the faintly bittersweet reminder of my late grandmother. The lamp was definitely the one from grandma's bedroom... that same dream had come to me often when I was a child, when I missed the woman who lived thousands of miles away. Sipping Tanya's doctored coffee, I wondered why I didn't dream about the shoe rack hanging on the back of Grandma's door, which had always tantalized me with its rows and rows of taupe and grey flats and heels.
Perhaps the dream partook of the mood that had enveloped me during the night. Tanya chatted away obliviously, sipping from a Corel mug and smoking right into my face. A non-smoker, almost a teetotaller, tall, and with plenty of extra flesh, I felt a surprising affinity for this petite, wiry woman who could swear like a sailor in at least two languages, and drink almost anyone under the table, given the opportunity.
"I saw you in the parking lot the other day, suka," she said affectionately, "And I am going to KILL you. How could you wear maternity clothes now that you are not pregnant! We are going to
There is a chapter in the fairy tale, The Snow Queen, in which the Robber Girl saves Gerda's life, and then says to her reassuringly: "They shall not kill you, even if I am angry with you: then I will do it myself."
Tatyana was as good as her word. The next day she pranced me through the aisles of
Though Tanechka drives my children crazy with her smoking, and is almost always in a manic frenzy, I love her as the sister of my soul. We both share a passion for life and love, although we have drunk the bitter cup of betrayal more times that we would like to count. We also both have a child with a disability.
Tanya wants me to write a book about her pet theory, that it doesn't pay for a woman to be honest and decent. We argue the point with one another over cups of coffee and during shouted cell phone exchanges.
She knows that if she needs me, I'll always come, even if it is to read funeral prayers with her, over a metal box, during a rainstorm. And I do not remember anyone who has loved me with this much warmth, since my dear departed grandmother.
Here's to Tanya.
all copyrights belong to Jillian Parker
