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.