No one ever asks for Matei.
No one ever asks for riveting poveşti
From three generations past
By un scriitor with whom I share blood
Or poezii about some sort of outlook on life
Ending in some sort of punchline that sometimes
I don’t understand
but it still makes me laugh.
No one ever asks for the smoky aroma of Mici,
Or the silver flavor of Caşcaval,
And when they see a gritty Salata de Boeuf
They wince at the peas as I eat,
Or when cottage cheese starts bubbling
Out the sides of a plăcintă cu brânză,
They gag.
I wonder why
No one ever asks for the drive along the Carpathians,
Along the Danube,
To get to the oasis in the middle of the forest
And sit in a gated yard to pick unripe cireşe
And spit out the seeds
For veverițe to nibble on
While diving into that new old-book,
That musty old-book.
They ask for Matthew,
But if they knew Matei,
Would they still ask for Matthew?
In my house,
Where I speak Romanian
But read books in English
And put Ranch on my Mici
And take hikes up a forested hill
To get a view of the waving power lines
that lead to the grey hospital,
Names embrace like brothers long estranged.