I lived in Krakow, 1988-89. Communism's blackened, necrotic carcass was blotting out the sun. Solar scientists can confirm this: there was less available light in Poland, 1939-1989. Daily life was a Kafka text. Riots provided the edgy outlet of a cocaine jag. Against all odds, I fell in love with a Polish man. It wasn't happy. I took a train north. I got off at Gdansk and began to walk. I walked beyond the edge of the city. I walked through ploughed fields. Polish spring smacked me in the face.
It's Hard to Believe
It's hard –
striding full the scratch
of eager underbrush,
pregnant smells: alfalfa, earth fresh cut,
the ting and bang and thump and squeal of fields of lapwings,
bog-bound frogs,
flower bidden-bees,
yellow squares, quilted, tight, of rape,
bruise-blue ripening rye,
and sturdy chestnut colts: shoulders & rumps & thighs
shiny as chrome,
and tattered path-side tapestries
of Queen Anne's lace
and fallow fields scattered
as skies where you don't yet know the constellations
to believe –
to know, yes, I know –
but to really believe
that you won't be coming
back into my life again.
___________________________
The photo of Danusha was taken the roof of Dom Studencki Piast in Krakow, Poland.
She is the author of Bieganski: The Brute Polak Stereotype in Polish-Jewish Relations and American Popular Culture and the novel Love Me More: An Addict's Diary.
She blogs at Bieganski the Blog.
