Proud of you--
Italy awaits--cold mornings frozen breath
In the Alpine air.
The sharp fear of incomplete pages and the
Running days that look like failure.
There are monuments cast in papier-mache
Postcards, stamped with my name
Hidden in closets here--
I'll never send them either
Am still waiting
For my own Croatian family
To call me, my own ancestors to
Acknowledge my shadow. Even though
We both know they died, too, pining
For recognition. Silent and sad.
So sorry, sister. Chicken little is
Hiding over here and scribbling
Fiercely in a soundproof canyon--
So no one can hear the scream of torment,
When you win, I lose.