A poem for my grandfather

I wrote this poem for my grandpa, Zenon, who lives in Poland, and whom I've never met. I wish my wanderlust would have led me to you.

The Mountains

if I met you now, we’d go to the mountains

you’d drive me in your little yellow European car to the summer house, with Gypsy and Cuba, even though I keep forgetting that Cuba died years ago

nevertheless, she’d come too

because dogs and cats and people alike love the mountains

and we’d cook sausage, but first you’d pour me vodka, and we’d toast, and we’d speak in Polish, and I’d know all the words

if I met you now, we’d go swimming in the Baltic

and my dad would be there, too

and I’d ask about the time when you were in a rock band, and when you wore leather pants

and I’d ask if you liked my dad’s hair in the ‘80s when it was long, when he liked metal

and I’d ask you about Joanna, because that’s my name, too, and she was beautiful

and I’d ask you to tell me the story about how you met, and how she liked reading, how she worked in a castle, and how you were in a rock band

because I don’t know that story, but I know you met in the mountains

if I met you now, we’d meet in the mountains

and I’d comment on the cultural differences, but it wouldn’t matter because

you and I wouldn’t have cultural differences

and my dad would be happy that we were together, and he’d pretend I was his sister, and he’d have that time back with you, and we’d play card games, and Gypsy would sit on my lap

if I met you now, I’d meet Zosia, too

and we’d cook dinner and gossip together, and I’d say I like her new haircut, and she’d say I was beautiful, and she’d say I look like Joanna

and then we’d go out into the living room, and you’d show me the place where you’d Skyped with me, and then we’d laugh because we were together, and Skype was a material device that plasticized my face and plasticized your face, and we’d admit

we never liked doing that because it was never enough

and then we’d watch football, and my dad and I would yell at the same times, and I would notice I look more like him than I thought

and then we’d fall asleep, and Gypsy would snore, and you and I would sneak out into the dark night, and you’d show me the way your garden beams from the starlight, and the flowers would brush against my ankles

and we’d fall asleep, and we’d wake in the morning, and that’s where we’d be


Yanna