The Map Is Not the Territory

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for Ewa Cholody Pacosz Miazga
November 18, 1887 - August 16, 1971

The old neighborhood
around Junction and Livernois
not far from Michigan Avenue.
Then and now
Someone's cherished bit
of stare kraju.

Near the bridge to Canada
where just this week
three men painting the span
were tossed by the wind
into the river.
One of them drowned
before he could be
rescued.

Visiting Busia Ewa
was like being inside
a fairy tale
before all the miracles happen.
A poor woman, twice widowed
she lived alone on Otis
in a two-room, cold-water flat
with a shared bathroom
down the hall.

At night she took
the Michigan Avenue bus downtown
and cleaned the Guardian Building.
Fancy art deco
nicknamed the "Cathedral of Finance."
Built in 1929
the year she came to America
from Modliborzyce
for a second time.

An Aztec theme.
Almost 2 million red bricks.
72 caissons sunk through hardpan to bedrock
120 feet below.
Large stone carvings outside,
one holding a sword, the other
a key.
Bodies more closely resembling geometrical shapes
or machines
than human figures.
Stained glass Indians
hidden behind walls for decades
discovered in a renovation and restored.
Artist unknown.
Security and Fidelity.
Allegorical
The MichCon guidebook says.

Decorative Rookwood and Pewabic tile.
A great stairway from the lobby
made of Travertine, Belgian, and Numidian marble
with Monel metal rails.
Walls of Mankato stone.
A clock by Tiffany.

She emptied wastebaskets
swept and polished
dusted and mopped
this secular holy of holies.
And registered as an alien in January each year.
Janitress.

No matter what she said
or when she spoke
her words always sounded
like someone uncomfortable with speech
clearing her throat.

As soon as we arrived she'd fry pierogi
and, sometimes, kielbasa in butter.
After I ate my fill
with sour cream and horseradish
I'd lie still in her bed
piled high with feather quilts
like the one
in The Princess and the Pea
and watch the pattern of light
through the shade.
The murmur of Papa's voice and hers
sounding like geese bedding down for the night
on melting northern lakes
my lullaby.