Lamb’s Ears
.
The women in blousy dimijes,
scarves hiding long hair,
don’t speak English.
I, with short hair, wearing jeans,
don’t speak Bosnian.
Nearby grows a fuzzy, grey-green plant.
As I stroke its softness,
I bleat, “Baa-a-a.”
With my hand, waggle an ear.
They look at each other for a moment,
then laugh. No dictionary needed.
.
Published 2005, Home Forum
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In 2001, I traveled to Bosnia with a family who’d come to Iowa as refugees of the Bosnian war. One day, while the only ones who spoke English attended a funeral, neighbor ladies walked the gravel road to visit with a woman who’d stayed home with the children. They greeted me but I couldn’t understand more. When they left, I went outside with them. One woman bent down to feel the leaf of a Lamb’s Ears plant by the cement steps as she spoke to the other woman. When I realized I knew what it was, I showed them what we call it in English, and we all laughed.
.
I wrote the poem four years later as I went through the photos and remembered that small episode. (The photo shows Asima raking hay, still wearing her dimije. She gave me one and showed me how to wear it.)
I wrote the poem four years later as I went through the photos and remembered that small episode. (The photo shows Asima raking hay, still wearing her dimije. She gave me one and showed me how to wear it.)
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