A Girl Sitting Next to Me on a Plane to
Cincinnati Asks Me Where I Am from

She turns to me
somewhere above the clouds,
twenty years old maybe,
with eyes wide open
the way
I, too, used to have.

Where are you from?
she asks,
hearing my accent
as if it’s a place
I can point to on a map
or looking out of illuminator.

I almost say, “Louisiana.”
It’s easier, shorter, also true.
It fits in conversation
between takeoff and landing.
But something in her waiting
makes me expand the answer.

I am from a coastline
that has the memory of mountains,
from a place where the sea
meets stories older than language,
where people are strong-willed,
brave, and free spirited.

I am from a house
that no longer belongs to me,
but still lives in the way
I set a table for dinner
tend to the vegetable garden,
or hum songs without noticing.

I am from learning
how to carry a place
without holding it.
From translating myself,
so others can understand,
and sometimes so I can too.

She nods, like she understands.
I wonder what she hears:
a country, a history, or just a woman
trying to answer a simple question.
I will say Louisiana next time,
when someone asks.

*

Calling Me Home

Inside me there is
a field of sunflowers,
bright yellow heads looking up,
framed by the blue sky,
gifting me hope
of returning.

Inside me there is
the Black Sea
with magnificent Ayu-Dag,
rising from the native shore,
safe, familiar, always there,
lending me its strength.

Inside me there is
my walk home—
white-washed houses,
flowers in the front yards,
the mulberry tree at the corner,
a few more steps—and
my mother’s voice
calling my name.

*

We Don’t Talk About War

When I talk to my sisters
in Crimea, occupied now,
we don’t talk about war.

We don’t talk about
how it split our family,
closed the roads between us,
made visits impossible.

We don’t talk about
the thousands who have died,
or how they lower their voices
when they say their sons’ names,

or how fear eats beside them
at the dinner table
with its quiet, constant,
bone-chilling presence.

We don’t talk about
those sons who may be called
to fight to kill those
who they used to call ours.

We don’t talk about it.
We ask about the weather,
about what’s growing in the garden,
about what was cooked for dinner.

We say we are fine,
as if silence can keep us safe.

We don’t talk about war.

*

Leilya Pitre is a Ukrainian American poet living in Ponchatoula, Louisiana. Born and raised in Crimea, her work explores memory, belonging, home, and heritage. She writes about family, displacement, and the landscapes that continue to shape her life. Her poems often appear on Ethical ELA, and she is active in local and national writing communities. Leilya Has previously published Where Stars Meet People: Teaching and Writing Poetry in Conversation (2023) with Rowman & Littlefield publishers.