SARA RIES DZIEKONSKI
I want an old greasy couch found
on the side of the road
with cushions that sag
from holding the full weight of people—
Maybe then I could rest.
--from "How Simple Steps Become a Dance" in Today's Specials
WELCOME
to my online home. Thank you for finding me! Here you can read some of my poems, check out my blog, and purchase books as well.
Fish Fry Daughter Returns
Maybe you’ve heard this story:
I was born on a Fish Fry Friday
in November’s icy grip.
When the call came, my father stayed
at the Holiday Inn kitchen
to fry fish for a party of seventeen.
He made it for my arrival
with seconds to spare.
When all the platters were packed with fish
coleslaw, mac salad, tartar and lemon,
my father threw off his apron,
hopped in his piece of junk Chevy Vega.
That was the last time it started,
its next stop: bones in the junkyard.
I’m sure he noted the moon,
how it must have hung heavy in the sky.
He’d curse the lazy drivers
all the way to Mercy Hospital,
where he’d say thank you at least twice
to the nurse who directed him to the room,
told him he’d better get there right away.
Maybe you’ve heard the poem that ends
with my hope that when my father first held me
it was with haddock-scented hands,
apron over his black pants still sprinkled with flour
forehead oily from standing over the deep fryer
telling the fish to hurry, hurry—
here’s another ending.
I arrived with the umbilical cord wrapped
around my neck, my first necklace:
miracle baby, the doctor said.
I was born from the pull of my mother’s longing,
the stretch of time where my mother laid in a hospital bed,
gown sticking to her skin, her hair a tangle of golden leaves,
nurses asking Where’s your husband?
When my father finally got there
my mother said What took so long?
not to him, black hat coated with grease,
but to me.