The Polish Immigrant

The Polish Immigrant

The Polish Immigrant

He has grown tired
of the clichéd
pronunciation of his name—
countering
the inadvertent ‘How d’ yer . . . ?’
that humour
or rudeness asks,

a few vowels
and tooth-grinding consonants
that must be
phonetically rehearsed
alone or at night,

to forestall jibes,
embarrassments, false curiousity—
the wasted time
that a Handbook-and-Timetable
devotee provokes.

Yes, he would argue,
there must be places
in history
where land or heritage
asks no exile
of the children it nourishes
and helps to breed,

where a name’s
not laughed at, reviled
or twisted
like some gross truth
or as yet unnamed, imported
European disease.

So, he asks,
Tell me of Strzlecki,
count-turned-explorer—
beside whose name
a creek flows
through the deserts
of South Australia?

Or why a mountain, peaked
with snow,
should resemble a tomb
and be named
Kosciuszko?

Their eyes narrow,
nostrils quaver—
the seconds
between them toll.

Deeply breathing
their mouths open
darkly
and groper-slow.