On a bus in Chile, I lose my grandmother’s
bursztyn ring, its amber from the Bałtyk shores.
In memory's temporal house
a woman walks her cows out
to where the river meets the sea.
The river acquires density.
Saltwater lets itself be pressed down.
Wind blows directly into our kissing.
Spares us sand but not air's loneliness.
I ask my lover to lay on top of me
so I can make a lasting imprint.
7,000 miles north I lie awake listening
for the romance and terror of passing trains
along the Pacific,
their crusade of commerce, bridging
distances, relentless lust for
objects.
Damn I miss that oval ring.
I hope someone’s granddaughter is wearing it.
Patrycja Humienik, daughter of Polish immigrants, is a writer and editor based in Seattle, WA. Her poetry is featured/forthcoming in Gulf Coast, The Adroit Journal, TriQuarterly, SAND Journal Berlin, 128 Lit, Ninth Letter, Hayden's Ferry Review, The Slowdown, and elsewhere. She is working on her first book of poems, Anchor Baby. Find Patrycja on twitter @jej_sen.
