Uncle Stasiek

Stanley lived with Mama.
The farm was once the home of chickens and cows,
of his thick-handled Polish immigrant Tata.
He was the eldest, behind the two Mama lost as babes.
The six siblings loved and fought,
Polish tempers run amok in wild Mississippi woods.
But the milk had long since soured,
the claw-foot tub frozen in time under the muscadine vine.

Yet here was Stasiek.

The Pacific Theater had toughened his smile.
He grew okra and patty-pan squash.
He cared for his Mama.