Memory of Poland
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.”… Read the rest