Roses Full of Bullet Holes
*For Vladko & Vera Kurelic
Wind shifts that your lives endured—
one day, one hour, millions down to zero signs.
The subject isn't dollar bills, but dignity.
In native Yugoslavia, worshipped for
the pumping heart behind a phrase,
you became a fervent lexicographer
defining and embossing words like liberty.
Yes, you had a mansion on a hill with servants.
Scores of roses flanked the driveway to your home.
Rooms and rooms of fine antiques—
your wife, a goose down comforter,
who muffled fears of Hitler's minions
moving through the border towns.
Ruthless and relentless tanks of Nazi steel
arrived in thick despotic gray parades.
You watched each peace rose paper-shredded
into bits of fragrances lost inside the livid smoke
of rifle fire. Each and every friend you had—
stood beside you 'til they died—
died inside this rush of freedom's massacre.
You stood your ground until the earth
just disappeared. Swam the river in the night
with nothing but your clothes on backs—
Vera in a negligée—the current stole her robe and sash.
You wandered through the unfamiliar streets
and masses—unaware they were watching royalty.
Finally, a ship that had an arrowed message: Headed for America.
Somehow, someway (I have holes, forever holes in history),
you grew acquainted with my aunt, a woman
who could find a cause and give it breath.
She got you settled, taught you English, welcomed you.
I was just a little girl tagged upon the wagon wheel.
The three of you bonded so, I'd never see a knot this size in real life.
Every visit, every day, you opened up your arms for me:
Here comes my Botticelli Angel now!
There you were a king of sorts.
Here you were the mailman. A mondigreen,
misunderstood by people who weren't listening.
I've saved your letters all these years—
proud to be a simple portrait on your wall.
by Janet I. Buck
*For Vladko & Vera Kurelic
Wind shifts that your lives endured—
one day, one hour, millions down to zero signs.
The subject isn't dollar bills, but dignity.
In native Yugoslavia, worshipped for
the pumping heart behind a phrase,
you became a fervent lexicographer
defining and embossing words like liberty.
Yes, you had a mansion on a hill with servants.
Scores of roses flanked the driveway to your home.
Rooms and rooms of fine antiques—
your wife, a goose down comforter,
who muffled fears of Hitler's minions
moving through the border towns.
Ruthless and relentless tanks of Nazi steel
arrived in thick despotic gray parades.
You watched each peace rose paper-shredded
into bits of fragrances lost inside the livid smoke
of rifle fire. Each and every friend you had—
stood beside you 'til they died—
died inside this rush of freedom's massacre.
You stood your ground until the earth
just disappeared. Swam the river in the night
with nothing but your clothes on backs—
Vera in a negligée—the current stole her robe and sash.
You wandered through the unfamiliar streets
and masses—unaware they were watching royalty.
Finally, a ship that had an arrowed message: Headed for America.
Somehow, someway (I have holes, forever holes in history),
you grew acquainted with my aunt, a woman
who could find a cause and give it breath.
She got you settled, taught you English, welcomed you.
I was just a little girl tagged upon the wagon wheel.
The three of you bonded so, I'd never see a knot this size in real life.
Every visit, every day, you opened up your arms for me:
Here comes my Botticelli Angel now!
There you were a king of sorts.
Here you were the mailman. A mondigreen,
misunderstood by people who weren't listening.
I've saved your letters all these years—
proud to be a simple portrait on your wall.
by Janet I. Buck
