Welcome

Mama warned him
at the inspection house:
keep the festering boil
on his ribs hidden
or be herded back
into the damp gut
of the ship alone.
But here, somewhere
in the new world,
too many nights
and how many days
from the island
of the star-headed lady,
the smell of dung and hay
and Mama’s dress
the only remnants
of Polska--here,
as his five year old frame
is lifted from
the horse-drawn wagon
by the man who is no color
anyone has ever been before,
as he is suspended
in the blistering pop
of the burst boil,
the red rub of pain
too much, he cries.

The leather-skinned man
sets him to earth,
touches his head, speaks
sounds that are no words.
Mama hurries, smothers
the childish sobs,
the teared, snotty ache
of the burning side.
Across the street,
Papa watches from the crowd,
cracked, coaled hands crossed
in the stiff small of his back.
So, this is his son, the boy
he paid good money
to bring over, the one
 who will help so much.
Hurry, quiet him down.
Let’s make this welcome over.

First published Millstream Valley Express (1988).