Nonfiction | September 01, 1993
The Poloneza
This essay is not currently available online.
When the Campana tolled one chill March day, I was huddled next to the stove in Thanasis’ carpentry shop, sharing a cigarette with him.
“Who’s died, I wonder?” I asked.
He answered, “the Poloneza.”
“on no! The poor thing!” Tears filled my eyes. The Mami, the midwife, had told me that the Poloneza, the “Polish woman,” whose real name none of us knew, had gone for the second time in ayear to hospital in Athens, this time to be treated for a septic womb.
If you are a student, faculty member, or staff member at an institution whose library subscribes to Project Muse, you can read this piece and the full archives of the Missouri Review for free. Check this list to see if your library is a Project Muse subscriber.
Want to read more?
Subscribe TodaySEE THE ISSUE
SUGGESTED CONTENT

Nonfiction
May 17 2022
Facing It
Facing it Sally Crossley “there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;” —T. S. Eliot The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock … read more

Nonfiction
May 16 2022
Oranges
Oranges Robin Reif We called it the Buffet of Dead Food: flaccid bacon, eggs—hard-boiled and cold—and toast so tough it scratched the roofs of our mouths. Still, the meal had… read more

Nonfiction
Jan 07 2022
Cover Up
Cover Up I did not begin my time in Jerusalem with the desire to be dangerous. I arrived in that most intoxicating, infuriating, enervating, derelict, and sad of cities with… read more