MILOSZ GOES TO DINNER IN NC

I am hard to find down muddy paths,
mossy stairs wedged in sage 
and rhubarb. I don’t look like much, 
tables covered in plastic. Toilet 

narrow and cold. Steamy kitchen 
smoke in corners from far away, 
my accent bewilders even sea-
soned travelers. My tastes,

sauces, garnishes, the flavor
of my gateaux, puddings and cakes
not to speak of liver or roast
appeal to all who come, plates full

of gravy, boiled potatoes, bread
fresh and cold butter, dill from my 
garden on everything, in everything.
Parsley in big bunches I cut with

mother’s knife from the market in
Kokoszkowy. Watch what you see,
what you hear, what you get good 
at—that you will do. The old man 

eats with serious intent focused
on memory-flavors, his mother’s
kitchen, the scratched table, 
three chairs and a black iron stove.

They say he’s famous now, won
a big poetry prize and a future
unclouded by hunger or war—
but he visits me to share our past.

PUBLISHED IN PIRENE’S FOUNTAIN