Two Poems by Margaret Duda

 

The Chaos of Butterflies

 

What if this child

had never been born

to an unwed governess

in Budapest in 1906?

 

What if she had not

been left in an orphanage

as her mother fled to America,

promising to send for her?

 

What if she had not raised

her arms begging to be loved

and held as Rozsa walked by

her metal crib beneath a cross?

 

What if her foster mother

had not seen this as a gift

from God, taking her home

to raise with three others.

 

What if her mother had not

sent her a ticket to join her

in America at the age of 17,

then died before she arrived?

 

What if she had not met

my father on a church cruise,

married him, and had lost me

the way she lost two others?

 

What if I had not been raised

by immigrants who adored me,

and taught me Hungarian customs

with love and kindness?

 

What if I had not decided to be

a writer, met my love in college,

married and had four children

who gave us seven grandchildren? 

 

 So many lives and so much love would

not exist today, if a four-month-old,

a new life ready to take wing, had not

raised her arms, reaching for love.

Above the Old County Jail

 

It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.

                                    Charles Dickens

 

 

I remember it still, Larry, sixty years later.  A block

from campus, bars covering the upstairs windows,

peeling paint, old jail cells turned into apartments.

 

Only eighty dollars a month, even married students

could afford one.  Your hundred-sixty a month stipend

left us eighty for food, clothing, gas, bills, and books.

 

We took the last apartment on the third floor, sharing

a vent in the bathrooms of three others, leaving nothing

private. “Maria” from West Side Story flowed from 3B.

 

We had my bedroom set and desk, and our savings bought

an old Amish dining set, an easy chair and floor lamp,

a daybed for a sofa, a used grey carpet we cleaned by hand.

 

You were a grad student in chemical engineering and I was

an undergrad in English.  Soon my classmates sat cross-legged

on our grey carpet, listening and sharing snacks they brought.

 

We enjoyed free concerts, plays, lectures, art show openings.

On sunny days, we often drove to a clearing next to a stream

to read our favourite poets aloud in one another’s arms.

 

After dinner, you worked in the lab until three and I woke

at five to study, listening to bats flying home in droves

and scampering along the floor in the attic before daylight.

 

My parents visited Sundays, bringing bags of food and taking

us to lunch.  They knew our diet consisted of Ramen noodles,

spaghetti, chicken soup, and my homemade pies you devoured.

 

We set a limit of $5 each for Xmas and we made ornaments

for the sixteen-inch Christmas tree a vendor threw in the trash.

We managed five presents each, exchanging hints for weeks.

 

I made pea soup in the pressure cooker, which exploded, painting

our kitchen green.  An alcoholic below us dozed off baking a chicken.

Smoke filled our lungs as we broke down his door and rescued him.

 

For your birthday, I bought you a copy of the Divine Comedy

with Durer prints, $7 on sale, and blew our budget for months.

You hardly spoke to me until we started reading it together.

 

My English professor urged me to enter my story in a contest.

I won the engraved Penwoman’s Bowl and called to tell you.

Back in our apartment, I found a parcel wrapped in newsprint.

 

Inside, I discovered a paperback of Dubliners, fifteen short stories

by James Joyce.  It cost $1.25, a fortune for us.  Inside you wrote:

 “For Manc, a start—love, Larry” using your nickname for Mancika.

 

Our twins were born in November.  Soon, a teething twin frayed the cover.

Considered my real prize, the book remains on my nightstand, reminding

me of a time when we felt we had nothing, but in fact, had everything.

Margaret Duda - Pushcart Prize nominee poet, short story writer, non-fiction author of five books, playwright, and journalist, Margaret Duda's latest book is entitled "I Come from Immigrants" and was published in July of 2023 by Kelsay Books.  The 122 page book includes 26 poems, some of her Hungarian immigrant parents, are over 100 years old.  The cover is a mourning portrait of her paternal grandmother.  Her fine art photographer son Paul designed the cover and prepared the photos for publication.