Crossings DRAFT (1991)

This is a poem that written after I crossed the border from Hungary into Romania on the slow train -- not the famous Orient Express!  In 1990, my Hungarian friends warned me of the perils of visiting Romania for a holiday.  This was a land where, just after the execution of Nicholae Ceausescu, visiting foreigners were still assumed to be spies.  Stubbornly, I waited in a long line outside the Romanian embassy, passing forward my precious dollars and passport, to obtain the required visa.  After the rough border crossing I began to wonder if the Hungarians were correct:  perhaps a Western woman traveling alone was unsafe as thousands still fled westward.  And I did see the border fires of gypsies, of ethnic Hungarians, of ordinary Romanians.  One image of an actual caravan with a group of people round a campfire still warms my imagination. 

Crossings (1991)

Old

fat

babushka ladies –

maybe szekelys –

pack their petticoats

with

videosausages.

Brand new

Adidas

embracing and encasing their

already ample bosoms.

Not even

a carton of Marlboros

can mute the

luggage looting

by border guards. 

Rough hands

targeting

a dark, tense woman –

Triumphantly

find

her smuggled coffee. 

(Fines payable in forint or lei)

Young guards exchange grim for nervous expressions –

My passport sounds an alarm.

An American woman

inconceivably 

rides the local, alone. 

The conductor is gone

But for how long?
Til they reach an accord.  

Politely

they escort me away

my bag barely 

glanced at.

No Western eyes

will be allowed on board

to witness

the continued

appropriation

of innocent yet

undeclared

consumer goods . . .

Much later . . .

A lone chestnut is tossed back

to burn

on the

Rhythmic smoky fire. 

Seat lost

Perching on a backpack

In a stifling sea of

    sulfurous aisle dwellers.   

On the window

    waiting watchers

    are reflected.

Just beyond –

a fleeing bonfire

lights               

the edge of darkness.