I wonder what my parents
would say knowing
my poems and short stories
are being translated
and published in Poland—
back to the language
I grew up with
before I learned to speak
and write in English.

Thought I've lived
in Australia for fifty-five years
I sometimes still feel
out of place—having
become the traveller
who doesn't want to return
after he makes a trip to Europe.

Looking at the translated works
it's impossible
not to see the irony—
knowing that Polish
is the language I'm quickly forgetting
since both my parents have died,
finding myself
more and more of a stranger
to Polish nouns and verbs
every time I have
to use them correctly.

One part of me says
it's terrific
about the translated works.
Another part asks,
‘Does it really matter?'
Goes on to ask more questions
about identity and fate
and why my life
ended up in Australia.

I think of my birth
at the end of World War II
and snippets of history from it
enter my head
as if they had a hidden agenda:
Dresden, Warsaw, Stalingrad,
the fall of Berlin—
the railway tracks leading
to a death camp in Poland
over whose gates
the sign read, Arbeit Macht Frei.

"Now there's an irony,"
the first voice says, "Thank
your lucky stars
your parents took you on a railway journey
that lead to a ship
that sailed to Australia.
Listen to the stories
and poems translated into Polish.
You will hear
the voices of your parents."