NaPoWriMo – 11/30 – What we Know of my Great Grandmother

Her feet are made of iron.
They are more railyard than anchor.
She is, for now, of the ocean of Warsaw.
No longer a field or limb. She is 13 and alone.
She is 15 dollars sewn into a peacoat pocket.
She is sea sickness then sea legs then sea lion.
She is uncharted, seeking strangers who are
by blood of her own. Her name is still her name.
She is Gary, Blue Island, Bridgeport.
She is no longer of salt. She is looking for work,
for McCrory’s, for Schli’s Deli.
Her feet are new to her, though all her own.
Her feet are cast iron, they are not anchors
but yes, they land. They are the land.

Leave a reply

Web Design by DS Production Services
© Daniel Sullivan 2014