Leaving Czechoslovakia, 1964

 

When we reached the border

in her small red Trabant

our cases were lighter: the pleated dresses,

jeans we’d given to aunts and nieces;

our footsteps behind us on the mountain

where we walked with her family

up towards the border with Poland,

our plimsolls wet, our hair lank from drizzle;

sweet and savoury Knedlicky we’d eaten;

songs we’d sung, drunk on vodka,

already flown, small skittering birds;

the yellow Objizdka sign in Prague diverting us

into the path of a funeral, black plumed horses.

The border guards with their guns gather

around us as we try again to open the boot,

our stiff smiles telling us not to think

of the airmail letters for America

hidden under the back seat.

 

 

 

The twins have set up a tattoo parlour

 

Some say it was self-inflicted;

he was tired of his demanding job.

Cosmas says he lost the right arm

in an accident at sea. He asks

me to sign a short disclaimer.

Damian is upstairs doing admin.

Cosmas pulls out a handful

of small beetles, insects, dragonflies

from the pockets on his legs.

I find it hard to choose among

swirling grey wings, shuttling black.

I thought a swift or starling?

Cosmas looks doubtful. He can

do a crow from memory. Yellow

eyes, curved beak, he says,

plucky legs. I can only nod.