Sunday, April 16, 2017

An Easter Poem


Sirecz Song

In my mind there was a “d” in it
but that might be because it
dangled just like that
from a dowel stick as its whey
dripped dry.

Easter might have meant
resurrection, but in the basement
it was about farmer’s cheese,
part of the Sunday feast after
a fasting since Friday.

My mom would hang it there
and tell me to keep away,
but still I’d never
resist a poke or two
at its settling goo.

Something about Slovaks
always takes the delicious
and dials it down,
as if there’s danger
in that much pleasure.

So imagine milky scrambled eggs
hung to dry. That’s sirecz,
looking like a bland brain
sliced for Easter autopsy.

I’d risk trying to stomach
it again to have my mom
and Baba back, full knowing
the first thing they’d do
is chastise me for the faces
I’d make trying to get it down.