A Jones Island Elegy by Benjamin Bardot.

If you wish to download the manuscript as a PDF file for easier viewing please click here

Note: The PDF version may not be the latest edit.

Act I

Parapet

In my dream,
still was I- that boy,
sweet and starry-eyed,
waving my father and uncles off
as they went to see
what Great Michigan
would provide for
you and me
safe at home
on our island
in Milwaukee.

I remember,
brushing my hand across
the wave-battered-bow
examining,
all of the textures
of weathered wood
and chipped paint.

I smelled,
the morning lake breeze,
bread in the oven,
sun-drying salted fish,
and
mother’s patchouli perfume.

We played with the chickens,
chasing them down the
dirt street.
You tripped
and skinned your knee on a rock.
At gushing blood, I collapsed.

When I came to
you were hugging me and crying.
We spent the last bittersweet weekend together
seeing the sights
of New York City.

I was clutching my orders
as the whistle blew.
We must have kissed for infinity
but it was not long enough.

I felt bad that
it was the first time you got to leave
our little island in the harbor
to go halfway across the country
just to watch them send me away.

I was lost staring into your watery eyes-
They looked like home
as if I was just staring off into the bay.

As I turned to go,
for that final time,
you grabbed my arm,
untied your hair,
wrapped
your grandmother’s rosary
with your silk headband
and placed it in my hand.

The whistle kept blowing,
as I awoke to a shudder and a thump.
Dirt from the ceiling dribbled on my face.
Barely conscious, I grabbed the rifle
that I was clutching,
in my sleep,
wishing it was you.

“Levez-vous! Levez-vous!”

In a rush,
my satchel snagged-
I spilled my things:
papers, letters, drawings-
Your rosary.
I thought to come back
for them later.

Blinded as I emerged
from our crudely dug
French dirt-hotel.
I thought this was
the worst Hell
I had been too, yet.

Immediately,
I realized that the sun was not even up.
A thousand flares lit the night sky.
Thunder booming from the field guns.
Flashes of flak in the sky.
The whir of machines.
Rifles firing endlessly.
Men yelling, running to and fro…
Whistles.
Smoke everywhere.

I joined the line with
Johannes, Jacob, and Anton-
Too scared to peer over
the parapet.

The four of us were the only ones left
from a group of 50 boys
set out from home.
Some were sent to other fronts
but most of them
were still out there
in the ditches and craters
just beyond our reach.

They say, for years,
2 million men were fighting
in this forest where
none of the trees left
were taller than me.

Was this man-made hell,
of mud, blood, and fire
really worth it?

Why did I have to be here?
I’m just a fisherman’s son.
I wish this rifle were a brush
that I could paint for men
instead of kill for them.
Damn the Kaiser.

With that, all I saw
was a puff of smoke and spark
as I was launched
from my hiding place.

Ringing and darkness.

Graphite

I remember you laughing
when I said I wanted to be
an artist.

Neither of us had even had
much schooling.
The women came once a day
to teach English and Algebra,
but there was work to do.

Half us boys were out on the boats.
The girls busy helping the women.

You sensed I was upset
and withdrawn by your laughter.
And you reassured me
that I could be an artist.

Then you joked,

“After you drag the nets in, of course.”

Do you remember
when we took the ferry
piloted by my Uncle Jon
to the mainland?

That one time
after church
when we wandered together
hand in hand
to the shops?

You bought me a chunk of graphite
and some fine papers
and said,

“Now you’re an artist,”

and,

“Now you have to make me something beautiful.”

So, we sat in a park
overlooking the bay
all afternoon
trying to draw
seagulls
and snails.

When we took the ferry back home
just before dark
your Father scolded me
for keeping you out
past your chores
and for letting your
church shoes get muddy.

I tried to tell him
that YOU were the one
who kept ME out
but he just said,

“It is the man’s responsibility.”

And I never forgot it.
And I never tried to blame you again.
Even though,
you always got me into trouble.

Proposal

At Julia and Joseph’s wedding
maybe the third or fourth day
you stole me away
along with
a couple of Blatz
so that we could
sit and watch
the big ships
far off on the horizon
nothing more but little lights
and an occasional horn
but we knew what they were
and we just sipped our
lukewarm beers
and guessed at
the contents they were hauling.

You grew cold
and demanded my jacket
then I grew cold
and butted up against you.

Together we sat
and watched the sea
like we did
our whole lives
but this time
you looked at me
and asked,

“When do you think we’ll have our wedding?”

My mind went blank.
I had not even considered.
We never discussed.
I paused to think
and I couldn’t remember
a single time
when we were not together
laughing and playing
and dreaming-
Together.

I was lost in a daydream
and you got up,
splashed your beer at me,
stomped your foot,
and cursed my name
as you stormed off.

I just stayed there a while in silence
until I heard
Johannes, Jacob, and Anton
stumbling down the street
from the wedding-
Laughing.

They saw me,
drenched in beer,
with no jacket,
and stopped,
studyied me quizzically,
and burst out laughing again.

They teased,
“Struck out again?”
“She has thorns.”
“Her father will whip you.”

That night it stormed, and I dreamt of you.

When I awoke, the men were shouting.
The rain washed out our road again
and a handful of boats floated freely-
Broken from tethers.

I didn’t have a chance to apologize.
We spent the day rebuilding
and when it came time to celebrate
the wedding again
I did not see you at the tavern.

Despite your Father
grabbing me by the ear
and asking me
what I did to you,
I did not seek you out.

I just drank with the boys.
We discussed the rumblings
across the ocean
and were sure we would stay out of it.

When I did see you again,
it was an early morning.
You had just gotten off the ferry
carrying fresh bread
from some mainland bakery.
I tried to talk to you
but you just
stuck your nose up at me.

I didn’t know what to do.

When I got home
Grandma Pearl asked me
to help her with the fish
since my sisters were
nowhere to be found.

Instinctively, she said,

“Now that Julia and Joe are wed, you and she are next.”

I blushed.

She wiped her hands on her apron
and took off her ring,

“Your Starëszk gave this to me.”

“It was his Starëszka’s before,
from the Old Country.”

“I don’t need it anymore;
His bones may be lost at sea,
but he lives in my heart.”

“You should give this to her.”

I thanked my Grandmother and ran off to find you.
You weren’t out on the island,
so I ran to your home.
I didn’t even knock.
I just ripped open your door.
And I saw you
there at the kitchen table,
knitting something.
You looked at me,
standing in your doorway,
covered in fish guts,
panting,
just holding out this old ring.

You got up
and sprinted to the door,
kissed me and hugged me.

Kuechum ce! Kuechum ce! Jo! Jo! Jo!

I heard your Father sigh,

“Proszã, Stan help us.”

The Drowning

You always made a point
to see us off
as we boarded in the morning-
Sometimes even before
the sun.

You always made a point
to see us in
as we disembarked in the late afternoon-
Sometimes even after
the sun.

Every day,
you packed my lunch
of bread,
and cheese,
and dried fish.

Even if I went out drinking
with Johannes and the boys
you either tagged along
or stayed home
but always
made sure I got in
and was ready
for tomorrow.

Every night you helped
mend the nets.

Sometimes you helped
mend me
after a tavern scuffle.

When we got back
that day at sea
when we lost Joseph-
You never left my side.
You never blamed me
even though I knew
it was my fault
when the bowline split
and we lost control.

Nobody said a word,
except you,

“That’s life at sea.
All sailors know it.”

The whole island turned out
in a somber procession
carefully carrying
an ornately decorated
driftwood casket
onto the ferry
and continuing on
to the Cathedral.

At the viewing,
one by one
we lined up
to put a token in that chest.
You knit him a sweater.
I tried to give him my good boots,
but his father objected
said that was a nice gesture
but foolish
so I just left him
my tear-soaked handkerchief.

I couldn’t look Julia in the eyes.
Regardless,
the widow hugged me
and kissed me
and said it would be ok.

All the men wore black,
always,
black jackets,
black hats,
and black vests.

You never were quite sure
if it were a funeral
or a wedding.

The accordion played
and the drinks were poured
regardless.

Maybe they were all the same.

All those nights you stayed up with me.
I kept dreaming of him.
Waking. Yelling. Scared to go to sea again.

You told me it’s okay
and we took baby steps-
Slowly rowing along the shore.

When it came time for the men to fish again,
you pushed me out the door,
handed me a sack
with bread,
and cheese,
and dried fish,
and you said,

“You weren’t made to stay on land.
Be free with the gulls and the waves.
It will be good for you.”

So reluctantly,
I boarded my father’s boat-
And it was good for me.

Though
from then on,
they kept me on the nets.
Because everyone knew.
But that’s life at sea.

Act II

Draft Notice

I’ll never forget that day
when the postman came to our island
and from his satchel
he handed out letters.

He walked the rows,
being one
of the only mainlanders
who could navigate
our winding dirt paths,
and allies,
and find each and every home.

Almost all the young men
received the same letter,

“Greetings.”

We had a town hall at the tavern
and the old men wailed,

“God damn them!”

“We left the Old Country BEACAUSE of this foolishness!”

“They already take our steel and grain, now they want our boys!”

The mothers and children cried-
Praying to Stanislaus to intervene.

I just sat
silently,
in the corner
with Johannes,
Jacob,
Anton,
and the others.

We all kept looking at our letters.
Maybe hoping the words would change.
Maybe hoping our world wouldn’t.

No consensus was met.
They were Federal orders.
We had to obey.
Modernity violently
thrust itself upon us.

And so,
I still remember
leaving you on the platform-
Crying and kissing me
and saying you’ll write me every day
as we boarded that train to Texas.

Most of us
had never been away
from the island
for more than a few days.
Now we were gone for weeks
maybe even months.
I stopped counting.
I stopped reading your letters.
They just made me
too homesick,
and I had to focus.

I never rode in a big truck before.
I never used a compass.
I never had to crawl
in the mud
through barbed wire.

I never saw an explosion,
except that time
the old steamer blew,
entering the mouth
of the Kinnikinnic,
but this was different.

There was no sea.
Just arid dirt
and low hills.
The trees were different.
The stars seemed different.
But looking up
each night,
I thought I could still
navigate us home-
To you.

They did not like our snickering
in Kashubian
and took offense
making us run up hills
or dig holes-
They made us speak
only English
so that all the men
could understand.

They taught us
a lot of horrible things.
We joked about it.
No one really expected anything.
We were still too naive.

We laughed at each other
about how awkwardly
we handled our rifles.

They wouldn’t let us go home.

They said
we were to depart
for the troop ships
in the New York Harbor.

Finally, I wrote to you,
and you met me there-
Just so
I could make you cry again.
But at least we had
a moment.

We joked about
setting up a new community
in this even bigger harbor.

We wondered about the big ships.
Making a game
of guessing
their contents.
Though we knew
they all held men
so many men.

Anything to take our minds
off the fact
that we were probably
never coming back.

Parapet II

Ringing and darkness.

The ringing persisted
even as my vision returned,
though, I could not see much.

Shadows danced in the flames
and bursts of light
from the machine gun fire
illuminated
the men strangling each other.

Some had clubs.
Some had knives-
Or short swords.
Some used their rifles
to bat each other away.

The ringing persisted
but now was drawn out
by screams,
shouts,
moaning,
and groaning.

I called out to
what I thought was Jacob
but I could not
hear my own voice.

I couldn’t move
and I wasn’t even sure
if I had a body anymore
as I watched
monsters
spilling over the parapet
into our trench.

Each time I blinked
the scene changed so drastically.

I thought I saw our bay again.
I thought I saw
Johannes felled-
But I guess it could have been
anyone in the darkness.
I thought I saw you,
crying.

The next morning
as I opened my eyes
some boys were digging
around me.
I remember thinking
they were digging my grave.
All eerily still,
smoke hung thick in the daylight,
the ringing persisted,
and so did the screams,
though no one I could see
seemed to be
yelling anymore.

They picked me up
and gently
carried my body away.
I saw your face
among a pile of rubble
laying there
with Anton and Jacob.

I lay in a field
an endless field
of stretchers
filled with
dead and broken men.
Endless columns
and endless rows.

We were no longer Americans
We were no longer French.
We were no longer Boche.

Together now as casualties-
Just another statistic
for the parliaments to tout
to justify
stealing more boys
from their mothers
and bread
from our tables.

To justify their lust
for land and power.
To prove to their Gods
that they were right
all along.

Men and women made their rounds
trying to treat us
however they could-
Taking away the bodies
to pile in craters
and bury en masse.

Eventually,
they would load me on a truck.
And that is all I can remember.
After that darkness.

All the while, the ringing persisted.

Hospital

Had it been a day, a year
or more
since we stood
together
on the steps of the cathedral
smiling and laughing
as the pigeons ate
the grain
they threw around us?
Or were we walking in
somberly
as we tried to make it right
with Joseph
by placing trinkets in his
cask?

I thought maybe we were
still
just those kids
in the park
drawing birds
and playing
artist.

But I knew,
when I kept dreaming
of Jacob’s laughter
that he was gone.

Some days were-
Okay.

Lying there
in the ward
stuffed with
pillows
and needles,
looking about
to no familiar faces
just white
and splotches of red.

I thought I heard the birds chirping
outside my window,
but maybe it was still,
just that damned
infernal
persistent
ringing.

One day,
I was dreaming of you
and I could
still hear your voice
even after I awoke.

This place had no
concept of time.
Sometimes I would open my eyes
and it would be the day
with the Sisters rummaging about
and others
I would be rowing with you
along the shore
or playing with chickens
all while
lying motionless in my bed.

One day, I asked
the Sisters for
some paper and a pen-
I scratched down
what I was hoping
would be a bird
or maybe your face
to remind me
of home
but I couldn’t
make the lines quite right
it just came out
as a jumbled mess.

The unfamiliar faces
would come and go
as men healed or died.
I didn’t pay much mind to it.

It stayed that way
until one day,
I really did hear your voice.

I awoke to you
sitting in a chair
by my side
silently mending
someone’s jacket.

How you were able
to make it
across the ocean
and find me here
in Purgatory,
I will never know.
I just
admired your courage
and felt
like crying from your love
but I did not think
my eyes could shed anymore.

For the rest of my war
in that ward
you either
stayed by my side
or helped the Sisters
tend to the men.

We said very little.
I don’t think I could even speak.
But you were there
with me
and it was
okay now.

You wouldn’t leave my side
for the rest of your life.

Seeing me there,
and seeing the men
about us,
you really understood
what we had done
to each other
and why
none of us had
any voices left.

You didn’t seem
to mind
that in those
trenches,
I lost
your headband
and your
Grandmother’s Rosary.

You read to me
in Kashubian.
Reminding me who I was.
You read to the men.
Though,
nobody could
understand your words,
everyone appreciated
it nonetheless.

Stanislaus Wedding Bells

Saint Stan’s bells
were ringing-
Over and over,
persistent-
For days.
For us.
For love.

Bronze tuned in perfect harmony
with each of our
family names
etched upon them-
As if our Fathers already knew
that one day we would be
together,
in perfect harmony.

As we kissed before the altar
and beneath
our ornately carved
driftwood beam
before all of the islanders
and our related mainlanders
before God
and before the Devil
and before
all of the angels
and all of the demons
I knew you were
the entire universe.
There was nothing but you.
There is nothing but you.

For days on end,
Toast after toast-
Sto lat! Sto lat!
To a hundred years!
We danced
and danced
as the accordion played.
You danced with your Father.
You danced with my Sisters.
You danced
with Jacob,
with Johannes,
with Anton,
and all of our other friends.

I did not think
our wedding would ever end.
The island must have known
to make this
grand finale.

Warm bread
and fried fish
with Blatz
and Pabst
and butter
and chicken
and honey.

We danced in the tavern.
We danced along the shore.
The children raced on foot
up and down the length
as we clapped
and laughed
and cheered them on.

It was so wonderful there.
To be able to
sit and think
to talk together
to watch the moon over the lake.
You never stopped reminding me
that because you bought me
that graphite and those papers
so long ago,
despite all of our drawings
that I still owed you
something beautiful.

Our fathers worked together
to strike a deal
with the old Dettlaff’s widow
when she left
for the mainland
to live with her sisters-
To furnish us
a house,
with a fence,
and a coal shed.

Our wedding gifts
of chickens
and a cat
finally had
their own yard
to play in.

You cleared out
a spot,
beside the shed,
and declared
that one day
when we buy a boat
it can dock there.
You intended
to make your brothers
dig a channel out
of the marsh
so that we could
come and go
by land or sea
as we pleased.

For some time
we were happy,
together,
and home-

Until that mailman
delivered our doom.

Act III

Return

After the war-
To you,
I still barely spoke,
unsure if
I was even
still- Kaszëbi.
Unsure if
I could look
at the faces
of the families
of our friends.

Silently,
we crossed the Atlantic
aboard the hospital ship,
holding our breath-
Ever weary
of a final attack,
but we were together
and if it were so
that would be that.

When we returned,
I laid in bed
for three days or more
before even
seeing another soul.

While we were gone
Grandmother passed
to join Grandfather at sea.

A few families had left
for the mainland already
including my oldest Sister
who married a German.

The first day
that I had the strength
to hobble out the door
clutching my cane,
struggling to walk,
you found me by the shore-
Running my hand
along the stern
of my father’s boat
remembering
the textures
of weathered wood
and chipped paint-
Breathing deep,
the cool lake breeze
and trying to take in
the smells
of salted fish
and baking bread-
but it all
still smelled of gunpowder.

You stood with me there
for what seemed like
forever-
And I remember
asking you
where were all the boats?
The harbor seemed
to only have
some big ore haulers
and just a few
steamers
coming and going-
No more schooners.
No barques.
No brigantines.
And all the makinaws
seemed
derelict upon the shore.

In the tavern,
the accordion still played-
It played for you,
and it played for me,
and for
Johannes,
Jacob,
Anton,
and the others.

The old timers
poured me a glass
and poured out
50 or more
for the gone
and missing men.

We drank and toasted.
Sto lat.
Thankful,
that at least
a few of us
returned
knowing
that
we did not
in fact
have one hundred years.

I knew I should
want to dance
a polka with you,
but my leg
was on fire
and my ear
was still ringing.
And you knew,
so you just sat with me-
All those nights.

We tried to make work where we could
the fishing did not seem to be
as good as it should-
As it was
when the sun was still bright.

They say that,
because of the war
the Mills
were working overtime
for so long
and they were
careless and hasty
and put
too much dirty water
back into the sea.

The new Coast Guard
was sick of
spending their time
helping our
aged and ever
distressed vessels
so many were
condemned.

You just couldn’t float
on whatever you wanted
anymore.

They said that
the mouth of the rivers
was too important
to let us do as we please.

We already knew
that
the mouth of the river
was important-
To our way of life.
That’s why we lived here,
because our Fathers knew
it was just like the Hél
from whence we came.
That’s why the Algonquians
lived here before us-
As the first Milwaukeeans.

We didn’t need
strategy and calculations
to know what we had.
We just watched the way
the schools went to and fro,
the way the waves came in,
the way the birds flew-
How the wind felt.

With our people
scattered
and thinned
our voices
grew too faint
to continue
to resist.

The Socialists

For as long as I can remember
we had been
pestered
by
the city
who seemed
ashamed of us.
They wanted us
to go to school
to use machines
and electricity.
To be one of them.
We just wanted to fish.

For as long as I can remember
we had been
pestered
by
the Mills
who wanted
our land
and our sea.

They claimed that we had no deed.
No rights to the homes
that our Grandparents built
with their bare hands
from driftwood, wreckage,
and few good sawmill planks.
We had been here for lifetimes,
many of us lived not far from
where we were born.

They said they bought the island –
All to eager
to erase us.

The city called us Poles.
The Mills called us laborers-
But we were Kaszëbi
from Jastarniô
from Hél
people who
enjoyed a well-earned
calmer freshwater sea
than the formidable
and unforgiving Baltic
which our forbearers fished-
lived and died.

We left behind
a world where
a King could sentence
Stanislaus to death
for being a good man.

We came to America
for freedom and democracy.

But now just as before
they want to sentence us
to death
over land disputes
and rights of ownership.

I fear
that this time,
the Great Stanislaus
will not
be able to
resurrect Piotr again
to testify
that we were rightful,
and we had paid
for what was ours.

The best we can do now,
is work with the Sewer Socialists
who called us Comrades-
But they should have called us pawns-
to fight in the courts
against the Industrialists
and the Capitalists
who would rather
we didn’t be free
but toil in their enterprises
for nothing more
than some milk and bread
and honey
and enough money
to maybe pay the rent
but nothing more.

Trial after trial.

We would go
to the courthouse
many times
and every time
we would explain
we purchased our homes
from such and such
who got it from so and so
who were granted
their plots by Jacob Muza
who built the breakwaters
and the roads
who bought the land
from Valentine Struck
who got it from
James Mourne Jones-
But the lawyers
only dealt
in paper records
and deeds.
They wanted our receipts-
but on the island
we just honored
each other’s word.

Some families left voluntarily.
Some were ejected.
Some were allowed to stay
but made to pay rent to
the Illinois Steel Company.

But how could we pay rent?
The men were old- or gone.
So many were widows.
And the Capitalists
would say
the water was theirs,
the fish in the sea were theirs,
and we would have
to pay fees
just to live.

Erosion

You tried
to stay strong
as we loaded the last
of our possessions
onto the ferry-
To cross for the mainland
this last and final time.
I saw the tears welling
in those eyes-
The same wet eyes
I saw in my dreams
that reminded me
of the lake,
and of home,
when I was
sent away
to France
to fight
for our freedom
and our island.

The man
from the Mill
with the briefcase
who oversaw us
leaving our
lives behind,
checked us off-
Just a note
on a paper
to satisfy
their rite
as they took from us
the last
of what we had
worked so hard for.
What I fought for.
What
Johannes,
Jacob,
Anton,
and all the others-
Died for.

Dispersed now,
we would still
pass by some islanders
or meet them
at church
or the tavern,
but now we lived
among the other
people in our
little Polish flat-
Just a basement
apartment
with a bedroom,
and a kitchen
and a stove.

No more chickens-
But we still had
our wedding cat.

Though we were Kaszëbi,
and they were Serbs,
and they were Germans,
and they were other Slavs
and Poles,
and though we had
been in Milwaukee
for nearly a century,
in their eyes
we were all just
an immigrant community.

I tried my best
to work
but my leg
never ceased
to let us down
and my ears
never stopped ringing.

Though maybe I was just
hearing
all of the hammers
and the saws
from across the river
as they tore down
our old homes
and cemented over
a thousand years
of people’s histories.

The little pension
they paid us
for my leg
and our freedom
was not enough
and was subject, still,
to delay and disruption.

The promised bonus,
that they legislated into law,
never came.

Funny how those in power
get to choose which laws
apply when and where
but we men and women
just get what we get
no matter how we vote
or how much that we give,
or what we fight for.
What did we even die for?

A few times, I tried
to work in a factory
but every time I entered
I would hear
those overbearing noises-
The ringing in my ears.
The whirring of machines.
The flashes of sparks-
And I would be
reminded
of Johannes,
and Jacob,
and Anton,
and the tanks
and planes
and trucks
and bombs
and bullets
and gas.

I never had to tell you-
That it was just
much too much…
Because you had seen
and you had known
and understood.

We scraped a living
as best we could
though we rarely
set out to sea.

The doctors said
that due to your work
in the textile factory
the persistent cough
that you developed
to match the
persistent ringing
in my ears
was natural
but then those
long hours
to keep us afloat
took their toll
and you grew fatigued
and the doctors no longer
knew what to say.

Even though you stayed home
and I went out
and swallowed my pride
and tried to get a job
in a more peaceful setting
for whatever pay-
Your condition never
bettered.

Then,
you were the one
lying in bed
not saying much
while I read to you
in our old tongue
trying my best
to remember
what some of
the words meant
but I never forgot
Kuechum ce.

It didn’t seem
like the sun ever shone
as bright anymore.
Maybe it was
just the smoke and the fire
from the industries
and the constructions
that served
only the elites
and further condemned
us.

I sat by your bedside
trying my best
to draw you birds
from memory.

I thought maybe one day
we could go back
to that park
and look out
at our old island
and be those kids again
but it was not to be.

A Divine Comedy

Our Fathers left Europa
abandoning the whims of the Kings
just so that their sons
could return and die
at the whims of Kings.

Though we fought bravely
in faraway France,
those of us who did return-
Returned to no home.

The war did not touch our soil,
yet those same Industrialists
who built bombs
were not content with
just taking their homes, there.
They also took ours, here too.

They treated us
like barefoot peasants
but couldn’t put us down
with their guns,
so they killed us
with fountain pens.

They took our sails
by regulating our vessels
out of compliance.

They pumped our sea
full of runoff,
poisoning the water,
killing the fish,
and used lawyers
to take our land
and our dignity-
So that we may
no longer be free.

Our way of life,
living in harmony with the sea-
fishing, laughing, drinking…
And weddings that spanned
a week or more
were gone-
just like that.

They made us use English
and forget our own tongue.

By taking our freedom,
they forced us into their factories
so that we too would be poisoned
and maimed just like they did
in Europa,
and like they did
to our beloved sea-
For wages that didn’t even meet ends.

Though,
the Socialists put up a valiant effort,
on our behalf.
Two decades in the court
only delayed the expulsion
from our little strip of land
in the harbor.

The old ones got to die
the way they lived.
The young ones left as they do.
Holdouts lasted
quite some time more.

Once you took ill 
and it was all that I could do
but watch and wait-
Looking up at our driftwood beam,
I prayed to Stanislaus
to give me the strength
to oppose this immoral world.

And he did,
and I knew:

I could be like him, too.

So, once you passed
and we said our Mass,
I sold everything.

With the proceeds,
I was able
to furnish a small
fishing boat.

Her blessed tree bones-
Wave battered,
and in need of repairs,
with torn sails,
and faded paint-

Just like we used to know.

For that final winter,
I worked and lived
in the harbor
as was my place,
fixing her up-
The best way I knew how,
trying to make something beautiful.

Many a Kaszëbi lent a hand,
or a hammer,
or a bucket of paint.
Everyone knew.
No one objected.
Nobody questioned
how an old man
with the Kaiser’s shrapnel
embedded in his leg,
who could barely walk,
would pilot this vessel.

It was our way of life
and death.

So, come spring,
when
the Great Michigan thawed.
I set sail.
Passing the Industrial Dump
that used to be our home.
Out of the mouth,
past the Breakwater Light,
and into the open bay.

Finally, free,
I never saw land again.