After Birds

In Warsaw, they’ve translated
the former communist headquarters
into a shot bar.

We sip Sobieski out back
where officials went to say
what they couldn’t inside

for fear of being understood

by the wrong people.
How to explain,

Oleg muses
as he translates
Polish idioms:

What does gingerbread have to do with a windmill?

Not my circus, not my monkeys.

After birds

is what you say when
something’s over for good.

One-fourth of white storks
left on earth
summer in Poland

though fewer return each year.

The truth about storks is
they can’t speak
even to each other.

That they deliver babies
is the misunderstanding
of an ancient Greek myth

about cranes.

This reminds me of Sara’s geriatric neighbor
who planted a giant plywood stork
in her tomatoes to scare sparrows

then spent all summer accepting
anonymous diaper donations.

Fear of being misunderstood
is called ambiguphobia.

When Jimmy Carter visited Warsaw in ’77,
the specter of the bomb
hung incessantly overhead
like mistletoe at an office party.

He spoke cautiously of his hope
to improve international relations.

In Polish it came out as
a desire to grasp 
the country’s private parts.

Around us, deep house techno
ricochets off the facade
of a fallen government.

I’m afraid I’ll only understand

something’s over for good
once it’s gone.

Nearby a stork
translates utility pole
into nest.