Sunbonnet
The one time she came to see us
in Chicago, it was Lena Horne
she raved about in Polish,
the movie “Stormy Weather.”
Born Febak in Poznan, half
German, she’d lost three children
in America, including Anna,
first daughter, named for her.
Why bother learning English?
She didn’t need it to grieve.
Taught my mother boys are better,
opposed the wedding. My father
told us kids (he’d fought the Kaiser)
you have no German blood.
I was eleven when she died —
in town, not the farmhouse
we would visit in the summer.
You should have it, Cousin Arthur said,
the sunbonnet she made
from a checkered feed sack.
Decades since she wore it last,
grimy from her sweat
picking berries in the heat.
Too fragile to be washed.
I look at it and think of dirt
and mistakes, the solemn hurt
in a face that’s forgotten
how to smile. I don’t remember
hugs, getting close enough
to hear her heart.