Foreign Land

There's a certain way we enter these homes
of relatives, with our eyes closed wounds. It's the way
our bodies fall waiting to fly, and we can not speak with our
own tongues. I am lying in this bed, this space where my
dad slept as a boy. He might have fixed his eyes on the 3 inch
Mother of Mary statue, the night light, or the rosemary beads
like milkweed seeds floating through the curtains. Now my
Grandma lies beside me, mouth open, eyes dreaming of velvet or
her wedding day. Maybe she's humming to her son, her voice like
Jesus brought forth singing hymns in perfect time. She is remembering rock-a-
bye-baby in the treetop and the wind is dust in her dream. The men
are sleeping in separate rooms, away from other flesh, the sun. The men are
waiting for the spread of pork and sauerkraut, pickles, potatoes, and red wine.
And they will sit with their hands tied in circles, motionless and static. This,
where time is stone and I have a mouth of snow that spills out
and covers my body. I become a stranger, a no name. When I
wake my Grandma will unfold like white roses, liquid
and beautiful as a dove falling with the snow.

copyright 2004 Kiley Cogis
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