I’m going back to the past
the way the wren goes back to the tree
back into the faceless past.
I remember the story of diamonds
sewn into the hem of grandmother’s skirt,
the tale of uncle hidden among the hay bales,
the story of Stanislaus sent ahead to
find a job in America, then gone back
to bring friends and cousins, to bring
his bride to Pennsylvania.
The old tales, those lost worlds,
those words whispered into the breeze,
twisted like ribbons in the wind.
How I never got tired of hearing them,
their danger, their drama.
Back into the faceless past I’d head
like a diver heading into salty waves,
when one of the aunts would whisper
the old world names—Stanislaus, Adela,
Vladja—they echoed in my ears.
each of the stories always a little changed
with each telling, an ornament
borne by a different character,
so much more colorful
than my life in America
each told at a different time,
in a hushed voice, changing
in the sleet, in the rain.
