The poem
Grandma, come back, I forgot How much lard for these rolls
Think you can put yourself in the ground Like plain potatoes and grow in Ohio? I am damn sick of getting fat like you
Think you can lie through your Slovak? Tell filthy stories about the blood sausage? Pish-pish nights at the virgin in Detroit?
I blame your raising me up for my Slav tongue You beat me up out back, taught me to dance
I'll tell you I don't remember any kind of bread Your wavy loaves of flesh Stink through my sleep The stars on your silk robes
But I'm glad I'll look when I'm old Like a gypsy dusha hauling milk