The Morning Baking Poem by Carolyn Forché

The Morning Baking

Rating: 2.8


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

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Andrew Fincham 25 October 2006

Vivid - and loving. Thank you.

1 2 Reply
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
Carolyn Forché

Carolyn Forché

Detroit, Michigan
Close
Error Success