Two Polish American Poems

First Language

Not sure what to make of the title
            (titles can be misleading, like
                        Chinatown or Popiół i diament

or that blue–white–red trilogy
            by Krzysztof K.) we microwaved
                        a bottomless bucket of buttered popcorn

and ignoring the subtitles watched
            człowiek of sixty in a tattered bathrobe
                        spread faded photographs

of his rodzice out on a kitchen counter
            next to a half-eaten peach.
                        Oni beamed at firanka stirring

in the noon breeze—the city
            wanted in while the past
                        wanted out—but otherwise

said mało, even when he offered
            them pastries, a drink. At Koniec
                        he kissed his mother’s cheeks

and traced his palec like an oar
            along his father’s arm veins, ready
                        to answer their questions in Polish:

                        tak tak—nie nie.
 

Out of Place

Every house is a new home
in my mind. With unlocked doors

and carpeted stairs. A roof.
Every window a different view

of the same river, the boy breaking
elm sticks against his knee—

my sweaty hands, testing the glass,
confirm it. If I press too hard

the outside will shatter and I
will get lost among the pieces.

If I don’t, I’ll be stuck here forever.