"Queens" by Daisy Bassen
Queens
A Korean-American church bought my grandmother’s house
For their pastor, the narrow dining room we occupied
With breakfronts, all of us crowding in for the seder,
The dark brown kitchen like the inside of a cup of tea
Where she’d braised lung for my grandfather.
She was a terrible cook. I didn’t care. I ate the hard candy
From the Lazy Susan, spinning and spinning like a carousel.
I wonder what the pastor did with the doctor’s office
My grandfather left, the exam table green as sealing wax,
The shades drawn so long they’d cracked in place.
A gut-job. I imagine he might have kept it
A place to meet parishioners, worried women
In cardigans, lace-up shoes, their eyes matching
The shadows in all the corners. I didn’t know her well,
Not enough to guess whether she would have used a slur
To refer to the new owners; I knew the yard was edged
With lilacs, white and purple, very fragrant. I knew
She was the one who planted them, who let me hide in their wall.
Photo Credit: Lexi Clarke