Ellis Island, 1951

Vera Kroms

On the island
where we landed, radiation
lit my father up, illuminated
           hidden damage,
exposed him
to the men in white lab coats
who examined and then weeded
out the weak.

I own a pencil sketch of lungs
crisscrossed with black x’s
from the doctor
with beautiful handwriting
who wanted to send us back
           until the women
of the church, who were waiting, sent one
to tell that doctor no.

Amid congregation hand-me-downs —
the crocks and cutlery, picture books
with missing sheets, a suit for my father,
the crib in which I slept
           till I was 6 —
I wore childhood
like a disguise,

while my parents — adult,
unknowable — existed as if filled
with something I could not identify,
my mother alone, in the kitchen,
stirring sugar into sauerkraut
           like winding
an old clock, and my father
at his desk every evening, the door
to the study locked
to everyone but Brahms.