Poems of the Week by Frankie McMillan

By: Phantom | 26 May, 2010
26 May, 2010

Frankie McMillan is a Poet from Christchurch, New Zealand.

 

No money in Hungarians
 
 
My mother fills the house with foreign men. Their names, Laos! Stefan! 
Joshka! are the startled cries of birds, they throw back their heads,
showing gold fillings in their back molars. I will teach you English,
she says. I will find you beautiful wives. But first a few things.
 
She empties a bag of potatoes. Like this, she runs the tap.
Like this, she scrapes a long peel into the sink. This is the man’s job.
 
The Hungarians arm wrestle on the living room floor
one man lined up against the other, their elbows
sharp as a cow’s bony hip. Stefan remembers to spit
on his palm, hands lock, how they push and grunt.
 
New Zealand women will be happy with you, my mother calls. She cuts
lunches, complains they never bring their wrappers home for re-use.
 
*******************************************
 
 
 
Borders, 1956
 
The Hungarians come off the plane in white T-shirts and shorts.
They push the single beds together in the spare room.
They teach my mother Hungarian.
She teaches them English.
There are big dictionaries on our kitchen table.
At night the Hungarians cry.
They say bad men are at the border.
I look for the Communists out the window.
I look for the Communists out the back door.
Marry me, say the Hungarians to my mother.
The war is over, she says.
Now we will shop for long trousers for you.
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