by Ewa Chrusciel
I smuggle her hula hoop skirts. Queen of the oven and drawers
stuffed with candy. Hysteric who chased us with hunks of bread
upholstered in honey. Czarina of household complaints, cicada
hippo of hypochondria, curator of covert farts.
Countess of church bazaars. My posthumous bride
now interred in a vat of poppy seeds:
Babushka. Grandma of flower pots dressed up in gold foil:
How can I find you again
in the bog of this world ?
This poem was written originally in Polish and then it was translated into English by Karen Kovacik and then mistranslated by me back into English.