Marissa Castrigno
Inheritance
Her father, my namesake, died four thousand miles
from Annapol speaking four tongues after more than
four decades with his wife, and for his children
left nothing but bruises,
the clothes on his back
so small they might outfit a seashell.
He fled Poland not long before pitchforks
speared hay carts where Jews hid beneath
false bottoms, holding breath. His brother
lived to tell of it. Five of my eight kin
murdered, my grandmother left
with one aunt and one uncle.
Reared in a land foreign to her father, reared
my mother in a land first foreign to herself.
What if after seventy-four years she still
gets homesick for Havana? After two cities
and two marriages and two generations, the echo
of a second country still shouts back at her
on Fifth Avenue, the dark and gilded tower looming
in the twilight she awakens reaching
for mamey or some other flavor without an
English name and realizing the ruse turns
towards my grandfather for a
sleepy laugh only to find he
too is a dream.
I fear this inheritance, chasm between house
and home made wider with each alien phrase
uttered easily beneath Spanish moss swinging
different than Sketchers strung up above
the same Brooklyn neighborhood where she
married my grandfather, eons before I treaded
that broken sidewalk along the Parkway.
Did I walk towards them or away?
Last spring another love sprouting beneath that tree-
lined promenade, we sank teeth into savory dough
so many mornings and laughing laughing at ourselves
I fished the light from your eyes like a shimmering line
between us. Maybe when I say I want to go home I mean
to that day, that corner bench where I kissed you for
the last time as Earth tilted me towards summer and you
flew off into autumn as if traveling through time.
I cried then and I cried weeks later when I left
my grandmother at that same curb
and I cried after that, careening toward the distant marsh
where now I eat and sleep and think of them.
I fear this inheritance: longing, leaving, flashes of
recognition that smack at the pain of lost familiarity so
that it rings like a bell.
When I packed my car it held more
than my ancestors probably possessed leaving
Poland, cusp of genocide, or Cuba, cusp of coup.
Now on my balcony, ashamed of my yearning,
revolted by the soft rustling of a potted palm
I stare into the warm winter breeze and
track the blizzard back home.
It is summer in the southern hemisphere.
Riding out to the sand I squeeze my arms,
stare down at the pier its gargantuan wooden legs the same
blue as your irises; a collection of blues.
from Annapol speaking four tongues after more than
four decades with his wife, and for his children
left nothing but bruises,
the clothes on his back
so small they might outfit a seashell.
He fled Poland not long before pitchforks
speared hay carts where Jews hid beneath
false bottoms, holding breath. His brother
lived to tell of it. Five of my eight kin
murdered, my grandmother left
with one aunt and one uncle.
Reared in a land foreign to her father, reared
my mother in a land first foreign to herself.
What if after seventy-four years she still
gets homesick for Havana? After two cities
and two marriages and two generations, the echo
of a second country still shouts back at her
on Fifth Avenue, the dark and gilded tower looming
in the twilight she awakens reaching
for mamey or some other flavor without an
English name and realizing the ruse turns
towards my grandfather for a
sleepy laugh only to find he
too is a dream.
I fear this inheritance, chasm between house
and home made wider with each alien phrase
uttered easily beneath Spanish moss swinging
different than Sketchers strung up above
the same Brooklyn neighborhood where she
married my grandfather, eons before I treaded
that broken sidewalk along the Parkway.
Did I walk towards them or away?
Last spring another love sprouting beneath that tree-
lined promenade, we sank teeth into savory dough
so many mornings and laughing laughing at ourselves
I fished the light from your eyes like a shimmering line
between us. Maybe when I say I want to go home I mean
to that day, that corner bench where I kissed you for
the last time as Earth tilted me towards summer and you
flew off into autumn as if traveling through time.
I cried then and I cried weeks later when I left
my grandmother at that same curb
and I cried after that, careening toward the distant marsh
where now I eat and sleep and think of them.
I fear this inheritance: longing, leaving, flashes of
recognition that smack at the pain of lost familiarity so
that it rings like a bell.
When I packed my car it held more
than my ancestors probably possessed leaving
Poland, cusp of genocide, or Cuba, cusp of coup.
Now on my balcony, ashamed of my yearning,
revolted by the soft rustling of a potted palm
I stare into the warm winter breeze and
track the blizzard back home.
It is summer in the southern hemisphere.
Riding out to the sand I squeeze my arms,
stare down at the pier its gargantuan wooden legs the same
blue as your irises; a collection of blues.
Biography
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Marissa Castrigno writes from Wilmington, North Carolina, where she is pursuing an MFA in Creative Nonfiction, and reading for Shenandoah and Ecotone. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in PANK, Memoir Mixtapes, and Lavender Review. She lives with her cat, Sula, who pretends she can read but is a liar. Find her on Twitter @marskc
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