My Grandmother from Europe Holds Court
By Tracy Ross
Men in suits smoking in the half light
of the small Chicago apartment.
They’ve come to visit the professor,
who mentored them way back when.
The Foreign language flies,
the scotch gets poured,
a little mixed poodle in the corner
of the poorly lit kitchen
yawns and guards a chew toy.
I play with coloring books,
and try to keep out of the way,
as my grandmother keeps court
and they talk of the old days and ways.
My mother has my brother on her knee,
as he quietly sit and sucks his thumb,
his small brown eyes watching the men in ties
and hats, and overcoats, and briefcases,
exchange smiles and laughter
of memories shared and let go.
My mother speaks in the native Slavic tongue,
and I colour blue skies and green grass
trying to stay within the lines.
More people at the door,
more people shuffle in.
It becomes a party affair,
and the flat is oppressive
with smoke
and alcohol
and baklava treats
and hopeful dreams
of tomorrow’s ventures
in a strange land
where all they had
was famine, and war, and bombs,
and secrets to keep them together.
And although tragedy
was the second skin they bore,
they knew the bonds they shared,
were in the Earth, the harvest
of the home where they tilled the land,
and they carried the darkness
beneath their hats, drowned in the alcohol,
inhaled with the cigarette smoke,
and hidden in the silence of the smiles,
between the words of the gentile poor.
Tracy Ross recently published her second collection of poetry from Shanti Arts (James Dean and the Beautiful Machine, Feb. 2020). She lives and works in Minnesota and also writes memoir and nonfiction.