grandstands - Kay Thayer

you stand with your back to the grandstand,

wandering a town you do not belong, in a state

you do not know. there is this absent worry

storming your brain like a thousand hooves

pounding over a track. your heart thunders

to know where you came from, who you are.

there is greek in your discarded name,

and french in all of your features. there

is polish in your abandoned home, echoing

each time you taste kielbasa, thick on your

tongue. you are an expert at leaving things

behind - this is why you keep going.

you cannot face the family history books

your grandmother has lining the bookshelf.

for every hour she spends tracing back

your family, you spend another ducking

under the rail lining the old racing strip,

and lapping the overgrown track.

the pamphlets in the grandstand all read

1981. 1981 was the last race held at the track,

and your father’s first breath. like the circuit,

like your family name, everything has been

outgrown. your father traded out your polish

name for an english one when he turned eighteen.

you are not the only one with their feet against

the dirt. every step your relatives take is

another further from the past. you are the weeds

growing over the strip. you are the rot in the

grandstand. you - betting on lost causes all over

again. there is no way to rectify

the whole family lineage

you are leaving behind.