—Romania 1986

The last day she ever played soccer,
Kati traveled on foot
from the children’s hospital
to the adult hospital, dribbled like
a ball between them—not young enough,
nor old enough, and more a Hungarian.
Her right knee twisted, sinews torn,
white bone nearly bare, she hobbled
on the arm of Rabbit, who bore
her weight with effort,
though Kati was much lighter
then. Telling the story, Kati
glances up, glancing just within,
not bothering to wish that the nurses
had done their duty—repaired her
flat-out run, her deft and clever kick,
what she had loved more than
onions or Christmas—she just
wished she’d had a chicken to bribe them.
Like butter and blue jeans, whole birds
came with difficulty then. Every few weeks,
eating their tongues about the government,
her family would line up in shifts.
First Grandma, then Grandpa, Kati,
her mother, waiting for the sack of
beaks and knife-toed feet packed tight
in ice. “Chicken Surprise,” they called it.
There wasn’t much meat, she says,
decades from home, home in my arms
in the kitchen—but it did make decent soup.