By Inga Piotrowska
I come from a country of sunrises,
sperm stains on cassocks,
beer bottles with piss
used condoms dumped at wayside shrines.
I come from a country of atonements,
wives’ bruised knees
husbands’ cross necklaces.
Our hell is cobbled with wasteful spending,
we collect rosaries instead of Yankee candles.
Shame is a plastic Mary statue
takes long to degrade.
Generations conceived on wayward shrines
keep looking to the west
forget that the sun rises in the east.
Yet even storks return
to see the colors of Polish mornings.