SIOSTRA, SISTER

By Katarzyna Kozanecka

My sister prays in English. 

Curses in English. Dreams in English.

For her, Polska is Poland;

Warszawa, Warsaw.

In the mornings when she rises

from her bed, my sister leaves

Polish words on her pillow

like chemo patients leave

clumps of hair. Soon I fear

Iíll have to translate even her goodbyes. 

I mount a vigil to save her,

to take the consonants she mangles

and make them fit for Polish ears.

I trail her tongue.

Its stuttering over idioms

mars conversations. I whisper,

Say it this way. Roll the r. Hiss the sz.

To her gagging I reply,

Open the vowels for air.

I approach from other fronts: I draw

maps of Warszawa on napkins,

earmark gardens where kings took sun

and baths, a low wide bridge thrown

like a fisherman's net over the Wisla. 

On the outskirts of the city,

I tuck in women picking mushrooms.

But my sister never finds them--

she gives her Polish lunches

to pigeons or beggars.