I am putting on my leggings, / pulling them up so that / my grandfather and I can go out / into the cold for Sunday breakfast. / We are escaping the thin gruel oatmeal / made with salt, Armenian style, that / my grandmother and mother prefer, / getting away to the Waldorf cafeteria / to get lumpy oatmeal thick with cream / which I can cover with sugar. / My grandfather has the same / and steaming coffee. And we sit and / admire each other between spoons. / A policeman usually stops us / somewhere on every walk / to pinch my cheeks / to say "What a cute little girl." / And my grandfather has taught / me a rude Armenian saying / to say very sweetly while / the policeman smiles back. / Then we get the Sunday Telegram / and walk home where my grandfather / reads the funnies to me: / Katzenjammer Kids, / Gasoline Alley, and Buck Rogers, / who has a flying belt. / I promise myself when I get / older I will get one too / even though my grandfather / says they are not invented yet. / I will invent one, I promise myself. / Every once in a great while / I smile at the broken promise. / Then remembering poetry think / it was not broken after all.
"The Hairenik is every exile's first love and last yearning." ~Moushegh Ishkan It was not my first love / but the love of those I loved first.