You can not lose what you
Never had, mother said punching
bread dough that always produced
a sound as if someone just expired.

I told her I'd dreamed I had a dog
that strayed off; I ran across a field,
the fallow vapors rising like ghosts
around me, till I hit the river bank.

And I woke up, I said. Good for you, she
exclaimed, unconcerned about my baffled gaze,
then took another loaf out of the oven,
sprinkled it with water and made a cross.

You don't have to worry what happened
To it, she added, wrapping the bread
in a linen cloth, exactly what I would have
done if I'd had to bury that dream dog of mine.

Anyway, she finished with a flourish,
You can not lose what you never had.
Well, I must have had a father once, I
thought. I was old enough to know that.

Later in life I checked daily
every single thing of mine, my list
having all meticulously classified,
from the type of books to clothes.

Did she, even when dead, prove herself
right? Or why did I resent her
when I was left with nothing but memory
and the clothes on my back?

Sitting now in this tiny basement room
of the housing project, and having again
the whole loaf of bread on the table,
I force myself to open a big garbage bag

my host family brought yesterday, full
of donated things, shirts, pants, socks,
two pairs of shoes with worn-out soles,
five winter caps, sweaters, even two ties;

I find myself throwing them frenziedly out,
as if I were to dig up something I once had,
but there at the bottom is a piece of paper
with all the items neatly listed and checked

with a red pen, asking of me, perhaps,
to double-check what I choose to be mine
or not, but I tear the paper to pieces
and eat them together with my bread.


© 2005 by Mario Susko. All rights reserved.