True story of my best friend's mum.


Fingers

She had
No fingers.

Frozen off
In Siberia,
As she escaped
From a death camp.

She always wore
Clean, white gloves,
Like the Queen,
But to hide her
Stumps.

And no one knew,
Except us.

She loved me
Like her own,
Stroking my face,
And calling me
Essinka,
In her native Russian.

And I sat
In her kitchen,
Gleaning
The art of food,
How to love
Avocados,
How to saute
Mushrooms
Bubbling in butter.

The scent of the
Good life.
Her suffering
Made her love
Life,
Even more.





Poetry by Esti D-G
Read 825 times
Written on 2006-04-26 at 12:38

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Amanda K
this poem opened the door to how others do suffer.thx for showing that picture.

all the best,
Amanda
2006-06-08


Lourdes
wow,wow,wow...!!
how to love avocados..mmm
this work is my new beloved!
2006-04-27


Christian Ward
A beautiful and poignant poem. I love the details you've put in, such as

'And calling me
Essinka,
In her native Russian.'

and

'How to saute
Mushrooms
In bubbling butter.'

These intimate details makes it feel special.

Great reading, as usual Esti

:D
2006-04-26


Zoya Zaidi
Those who suffer know the scent of life , The fragrance of love, the art of living, Better than others, because they have seen the otherside of life; They value happiness because they have known pain, suffring, anguish, unhappiness.

And they know jhow to sread
this happiness, this secret of living!

((((hugs daer Esti for another heart rending write))))))
Love, and God Bless you!
xxx, Zoya
2006-04-26


Onyeka Nwelue
When I say that there are 'born' and 'made' poets, I am doubted.

I can feel the shuttle beneath the crypt here. This is one of the best poems I have read here.

Il est beau!
2006-04-26