Budapest is a city of dichotomy.
Split by the Danube,
Sisters— Buda and Pest.
Palaces and castles line the river.
Fortuna on a hill, shooting her arrow into the sky.
Walls are crumbling,
Everything covered by soot.
My mother is crying next to the oven.
It is massive, made of concrete and painted with a soft, blue, flowering design.
“My grandmother always used to tell me about the oven in the family’s bakery.
How huge it was.
[It must have looked like this.]
We are here, Lexi.”
Driving to Kisvarda, the land is yellow and green,
away from the smog of the city.
“Why does a granddaughter go to a place of such tragedy,
from which half her family escaped,
and the other half perished?”