Monica Cure

A Country of My Mother

These narrow streets are the hallway
to the kitchen. Sarmale—steam
from ground pork wrapped in
cabbage, the scent mixed with lemon-
bleach and the feeling of grownups
I was told to come downstairs to meet.
Bay leaves from the soup that had
to be eaten first. I run past
a whiff of baked stuffed peppers,
the dish at the edge of my limits.
An old woman stops to chat
at a neighbor’s half-opened gate—
knowing what Bună means
is like being able to read minds.
I’m heading to the closest
office-supply store, a small
cramped room where
I have trouble telling
which boxes are holding things
and which ones are for sale.
All I need is an envelope
to mail a card I’ve held on
to for too long. They only
come in two sizes, too big
and too small. My card is
non-standard. Last week a mailbox
here disappeared without warning,
but I will keep looking for
an envelope that fits. I squeeze
past cars parked on the uneven
sidewalk, under ornate old
buildings that are crumbling
but proud. They put up signs:
The plastering is falling
so if a chunk brains you,
you have only yourself
to blame.

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Monica Cure is a Romanian-American poet, writer, and translator currently based in Bucharest. She is a two-time Fulbright grantee and her poems have appeared in Plume, RHINO, Rust + Moth, UCity Review and elsewhere. Her poetry translations have appeared in journals such as Modern Poetry in Translation and Asymptote, and her translation of Liliana Corobca’s novel The Censor’s Notebook was published by Seven Stories Press. She can be found on Twitter @MonicaCure or www.monicacure.com