Poem

Mihaela Moscaliuc

Teen Jesus under the Grapevine

Wary of yet another sleepless night,
you switch off the light while I retreat to scroll,
midnight our time, the Morning News of my hometown
and tap into my parents’ ritual—
the second charge of coffee, darkest roast,
fighting the whiffs of pickled cabbage and sewer, 
mother stacking crumbs on the windowsill,
waiting for father’s “Listen,” as he clears
his voice to fill her in—  

Like this one, “Dark Ages Return to Our Town”—
the editorial on the nameless couple
garbed in blankets holed to allow
scabbed arms their nightly errands
into festering garbage bunkers.
Nobody’s seen their eyes.
They shack in a mess of tin and random waste
behind the only privatized restaurant in town.
When they were young, he told the journalist,
his wife had been a wet nurse for baby Jesus,
and he, Mary’s gardener. What was she like,
the journalist had asked, smiling.
Tall and dark and terribly quiet.
She couldn’t bake and only liked dandelions.
Her fingers were always blistering.
This was a long time ago—before Jesus, turning twelve,
took off with the caravan, and She changed her name to Sara.

I abandon my parents to coffee and smoke
and tiptoe back to undo your sleeplessness with my hometown tale.  
That wedding gift shipped to us last summer—
“Teen Jesus under the Grapevine” four of my orphans painted on wood,
the one we lowered then lifted above cocked heads for hours
that Sunday afternoon, seeking the spot that claimed it
—chubby, smirking Jesus red-toweled crookedly below the waist,
sitting cross-legged, nonchalant, under a fiery sea of blue
punctured by giant sweltering grapes,
            the one we finally abandoned, for the time being, 
propping it against the fireplace bricks —
just fine where it is, baby, perfectly fine where it is.

Mihaela Moscaliuc writes because otherwise she would be staring at the moon trying to figure out who else is staring at the moon that very moment asking the same question. She also writes out of guilt, especially when she's appropriating other people's lives while sitting at her laptop, drinking starbucks coffee and crunching single origin coco beans. She still loves breaded cow brains, she thinks, but hasn't dared eat them in a while. She is hoping some day someone will offer her the ideal job: professional chocolate taster. She believes her grandmother is right (best way to keep your kidneys happy: unpasteurized beer), and so is her husband (best way to keep yourself sane: move to an island).
mmoscaliuc@hotmail.com

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