A few minor changes
and my mother might have married
Mr. Zbigniew B. from Zduńska Wola.
And if they’d had a daughter—she wouldn’t have been me.
Maybe with a better memory for names and faces,
and any melody heard once.
Adept at telling one bird from another.
With perfect grades in chemistry and physics,
and worse in Polish,
but secretly writing poems
instantly more interesting than mine.
A few minor changes
and my father might at that same time have married
Miss Jadwiga R. from Zakopane.
And if they’d had a daughter—she wouldn’t have been me.
Maybe standing her ground more stubbornly.
Plunging headfirst into deep water.
Susceptible to group emotions.
Always seen in several spots at once,
but rarely with a book, more often in the yard
playing kickball with the boys.
They might even have met
in the same school, the same room.
But not kindred spirits,
no affinities,
at opposite ends of class photos.
Stand here, girls
—the photographer would call—
shorter girls in front, tall girls behind.
And big smiles when I say cheese.
But one more head count,
that’s everyone?
—Yes sir, that’s all.