by Philip C. Kolin
I grew up in Hispanic Pilsen in Chicago
Hearing Dobra noches and poking
Piñatas stuffed with
Kolachskis and tomatillos
Rio Grande chicos
Flooded into Chicago
Circa 1954, Antonio Oraocco
Enrolled at St. Pius V
He had two front
Teeth growing
One on top of the other,
His brother's tongue
Traveled only
In Español except
Miercoles for the trip
From the public school
To study catechism
With the Slavic nuns
We went to Milo
To watch movies in the 1950's
Gene Autrey's South
Of the Border ran
In real reruns
In the old neighborhood
The streets the Czechs
Walked to catch
The bus had such calm
Names as Blue Island or Ashland
Taking them to work at Western
Electric now flash with salsa —
The music, the taste, the blood
Of so many young Latinos
17 funeral Masses in one summer
More than three generations
Of Czechs who had been laid out
In stiff collars in a less cruel year.
The Madonna
Cries the same amount
Of tears for both
Cholos and old boushas.
On Holy Thursdays
I take a Czech Posadas
Pilgrimaging past invisible churches —
Adalbert, Vitus, Ludmilla —
All the saints of the Czechs
Now answer prayers in Español.
Pilseners three and four
Generations full
Visit the old neighborhood —
Chichuahua in snow —
Hoping to catch
Their grandfather's ghost
In the gangways between
The sagging two flats.
I looked dark and
My passport was stamped
Pilsen, though only
My grandparents were
Webacks of another sort
Salvaging their homeland
In steerage when they arrived in 1890
Without a peso in their pockets
Philip Kolin's new book of poems, Wailing Walls, is published by:
Wind and Water Press
P.O. Box 49
Conneaut Lake, PA 16316
Or email timesing@zoominternet.net.