EVERYWHERE
My mother was a canyon
the green river carved
through centuries of stone.
She was a long train winding
between red-mud hills,
wild cucumber springing from her tracks.
She was the sidewalk
outside an airport where
a solitary pigeon pecked at crumbs.
My mother became a cobble-stone
street slick with rain;
an impassive golden angel
watching me from her perch
above the Paris Opera as I dragged
my suitcase with its one broken
wheel. My mother was
my grandmother’s derelict
house in Ostrowy
where the jackdaws never change,
calling “Kawka! Kawka!”
their ancient Polish name.
GladErrand 