Simple food, really, the sour shells
folded over filling—a kind of dumpling
to boil and fry with butter and onions
but imagine a boy
coming back to his house
of accented newspapers
after an afternoon watching Judy Garland
turn rosy after landing in Oz
and the smell of popcorn caught in his hair
crimped pierogi and country sausages
slip around on a plate
with blue and red designs
nothing in the house
as bright as Oz
as bright as the dark theater
he’s supposed to pray in Polish
but he’s thinking of yellow—
of light and film