"Wings Oppressed"  oil on canvas by Raquel Partnoy

                                                

    1                        

        After we were informed that our daughter and her husband

        had been transferred to a prison, we had to wait five weeks

                    until they allowed us to visit them.

        Our children did need time to recover from undernourishment,

        physical and psychological torture. The army didn’t want us to see

                    what they had done to them in the concentration camp.

        Even though, when we saw their faces, we could hardly

        recognize them. They had become shadows of themselves !

                    Not only due to what they had endured

        but because all their friends, including  the ones who used

        to come to our house, had been assassinated.



    



    2

        At  1 p.m.

        Thieves to the right ! Subversives to the left !

        We – subversives, comfortably line up



        on the sidewalk along the high cement facade

        washed by the falling rain.



        The guard at the prison’s gate, after

        such a friendly welcome,



         gesticulates to emphasize the necessity

        of putting order in that exemplary place



        while letting the line on the right side in,

        which seems to have come in time.



        At  3 p.m.

        We gently are invited to enter the building

        and are sent to the inspection rooms.

    

        Woman warden, with delicate fingers, touch us

         everywhere to check if we brought dangerous items.



        That’s a very important thing to do.

         My three year old granddaughter



        could have forgotten to leave at home the razor

        blades and little knives she usually plays with



        and bring them beneath her underwear

        or maybe hidden in her body.

    

        At  4 p.m.

        Sure the line on the right side is in time

        They are sent directly to visit the prisoners.

        

        Our line is sent to the prison’s chapel, to wait,

        and enjoy the place for hours.

        

        When we tell the guard who passes by

        we are thirsty he, with a big smile



         and very friendly answers:

         Go and ask God for water !



        At 6 p.m.

        Two guards come and ask us to follow them.

         While walking through open gates



        we smell the fresh meat aroma– a cook is carrying

        in a cart, to prepare the prisoners’ dinner.



        I look around to see if a bathroom is available.

        When I ask the guards about that . . .they say that we just



        arrived at the visiting room. He let us go in first

        and shuts the door from outside,  with a pad-lock.



    



    3    

        estamos en el locutorio  al fin !       our

        daughters’ bright smiles    welcome us

        they look so nice !       prison provides

        political prisoners          the best brand      

        make-up                we see them  through                

        the glass windows at the long    narrow

        place with no air           we are so happy

        who  needs breathing                      now ?

        no kisses    no hugs       we mothers can

        understand that      we are subversives

        no matter          common prisoners  can

        embrace and have    mate con facturas          

        with their guests         we are allowed to

        talk for one long hour                 through     

        a nice microphone  isn’t that enough ?

        mothers who come             from around

        the country        do not need more time    

        –guards are so right        they forbid us

        to go outside          it is a waste of time !

        we tell our daughters             we are fine

        and smile         our houses ?             clean           

        with no shadows       there is no need to

        ask them how they are treated  we can      

        see it with our eyes:       a model place !

        no need to ask            what  happened at

        the concentration camp                it is all

        an invention         of our creative minds







    4

        Last day of Fall.

        I go through the house

        opening windows wide,

        letting the wind come in

        to change the air

        to clean up the shadows.

        Withered leaves land

        over my son’s desk

        where he spends hours,

        his  mind absent,

        his books one over the other

        forgotten, with dust.

        Flying sheets of drawings –

        our girl is sending her mother,

        swirl around the room;        

        on the closet’s handle hangs the bag

        – her mother made in prison for her,

        with the nightgown on it.

        All around the house

        the wind is moving memories

        I say to the wind:

        leave my memories with me.