Conversations
a day of grieving, 1/22/94
III
my father spoke polish
and so did we
until one day
he decided
“we’re in america now,
they should speak english”
so when he wanted
to tell us something
he would speak in polish
and my mother
would translate
i’m thirty now,
and my father is sick
and dying
and he can’t understand me
he’s here before my eyes
and i can’t tell him
all the things
i wanted to
like i love you
looking back
it seems obvious
we never talked
like a family
we never asked
each other
how was our day
so now when i see him
all i can do
is hold his hand
and show him
the emotions
on my face
i think he still understands