The Morning Baking
Gramma come back, I forgot
how much lard for these rolls.
Think you can put yourself in the ground
like plain potatoes and grow in ohio?
I am damn sick of getting fat like you.
Think you can lie through your slovak?
Tell ﬁlthy stories about blood sausage?
Pish-pish nights at the virgin mary in detroit?
Hear your country on the radio and bitch.
I blame you for raising me up, making
my tongue slav, all this slapping and dancing.
I'll tell you I don't remember any kind of bread,
your wavy loaves of ﬂesh in my sleep,
the stars on your silk robes.
But I'm glad I'll look when I'm old
like an old gypsy dusha hauling milk.