My grandfather whose cognomen I wear<\/p>\n\n\n\n
through the world I am told percolated coffee<\/p>\n\n\n\n
for all of a week. He felt each grain<\/p>\n\n\n\n
part of ancestral Cracow<\/p>\n\n\n\n
soil to hold dearly and so he did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We called him dziadzi,<\/em> silent<\/p>\n\n\n\n figure in a stone white bed smelling of<\/p>\n\n\n\n camphor, a piece of dried bread<\/p>\n\n\n\n between the sheets. Where coffee brews now<\/p>\n\n\n\n across the years from newer grounds I sip<\/p>\n\n\n\n dark muddied flavor <\/p>\n\n\n\n of a Polish town.<\/p>\n\n\n\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" My grandfather whose cognomen I wear through the world I am told percolated coffee for all of a week. He felt each grain part of ancestral Cracow soil to hold dearly and so he did. We called him dziadzi, silent figure in a stone white bed smelling of camphor, a piece of dried bread between … Continue reading NAMESAKE<\/span>