I buy a sausage at the airport before I leave Poland. Kielbaska, kielbasa, kabanos, kabanosik. This, my transcontinental dowry. The sacrificial baby of my tongue. Foreign gods hover over us. If God lets my sausage in, I will eat it like a saint wreathed in incense, circle a table with Gregorian chants. Folkberg variations. The… Continue reading Sausage Poetry by Ewa Chrusciel