You Held Poziomki
and introduced me to the country of your youth. We heeded her greetings
—her fields of poziomki: strawberries, sweet and wild.
You dropped them onto my palms and pointed at the stems,
which bent and coiled to tuck their divine ornaments into themselves
like umbilical cords desperate to delay severance. Patrz tam,
you whispered,
waiting for tethering to become birthing and birthing to become fleeing.
All was still. We watched the white-petal newborns and their yolk centers
bulge into buds. We watched them grow ready to resist their mother’s
protection from pickings. We were witnesses to the magic of ripening, and
I was a witness to you, sweet and wild, picking poziomki,
licking your fingers to savor our saccharine bounty,
sitting around the fire with your siblings and parents and me.
I met who you were before you became a mother.
I met a child sinking into the couch and laughing with one sock on,
her skin raw from bumping bark and foraging for mushrooms in the forest.
I met who you were when you could afford restlessness. Patrz tam,
I thought.
Was it a mirage in Poland’s summer heat,
just light rays twisting over hot gravel? Maybe,
but I keep it with me. I need to believe you were a child
before your body held a child. I need to believe you had time to be
sweet and wild without thinking of me.
Victoria Martynko is a writer based in Minnesota. Her work has previously appeared in publications such as The Tower and Silly Goose Press. Her poetry grapples with the whimsy in the tragic, unapologetic joy, and the heritage of guilt, religion, and resilience. She spends her days reading or searching for inspiration by observing nature and her two cats.