She has three last names none real. One for each marriage and
one mangled from a trip through Ellis Island (as if that kerchiefed head could pass for English)
the injured one lasting a century a name taken from the Polish river Bzura, found on a faded map, a place
marked by nothing but a history of futile fighting back. These three names jumble
anagrams in Garamond
recorded in a book of yearnings. Today she’s River Woman
made of dried mud. And tomorrow a package arrives addressed to another.
Gornisht, she says, glances backward. Ungrips the past. Begins to unwrap.
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