wagon,
tumbling over cobblestone.
our future’s so solid that gray looks warm.
— dzień dobry —
gray sky spits on the ground.
my grandmother’s grandfather is here in the dirt.
red,
an ink spot that shouldn’t be,
spilled on a notebook, smudging the words until
mały blondyn
learned English so that he could say
“hello cousin.” and i understood “hello cousin.”
familiarity
sits inside the red wagon
even though familiarity makes me feel guilt.
“the”
is a word she doesn’t say
because her language never taught her that.
cemetery,
we see dead grandfathers.
whispers of history come at us from a tombstone.
no words remain,
only cicha pamięć to mourn.
we tumble forward with a future in our hands.
— przepraszam —
said little blond as i held his hand.
my grandmother swept at a tear and looked at the sky.
pamięć,
like an unfamiliar tooth.
rust-red,
like a wagon in a cemetery.
unknown,
like her father who is a smudge.