A Trip to Milwaukee

Aaron Mom, Mom Aaron, Dad, preevyet,
Grandpa, Grandma, kak deela Aaron.

The table is set. Pickled watermelons, potatoes,
pickled beats, horse radish sauce and fish

because I’m vegetarian. Russian tongues
fly over the food from mouth to mouth.

I am left alone translating a language
I don’t understand. The mother says,

blacks should have to work harder
to get welfare, a sudden switch to English.

When we came from Moldova through Italy
we lived in shoebox. Nic had to work

in the warehouse until we bought the liquor store.
She looks straight at me. They’re our best customers,

it’s a waste. Back to the mother tongue.
There’s hard air, pickled breathing, better store up

for the winter, drink a shot for “how they say?
to the health, yes?” During dessert Glazounov climbs

over the conversation, offers a glimpse into elegant
displaced roots descending beneath the table.