Scotland
A Nowakowski
My mother grew up lonely in Scotland
resisting the accent, an upright
English girl with a sharp blue
hat and one nice outfit.
She says sadness must be hereditary,
passed from mother to daughter
to mother, like the crook
of an eyebrow.
There are three large grief stones
in Ardrossan, their blackness
is as predictable as coal.
The women wear sensible shoes
and beat their fists against them
like laundry - the salt hard sea
mimics their sighs.
Nothing is ever forgiven.
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