In the Hills of Yugoslavia

I met my father for the first time in 1998, after having imagined him my entire life. I was 36 years old. My body knew him immediately. His laughter, vanity, and gait were eerily familiar. I have not seen him since.


His gait and strong, vital belly
welcome me into his world,
checkered shirt flapping.
He laughs with his goats,
and mocks old grandmother in black,
tiny as a shrunken bird.

She chills the milk
in the light of dusk,
swooping the ladle up and down.
Chin resting in her palm,
she watches the white liquid
that has been with her all her life.

On the second day
he slaughters “Milosevic.”
Her goat guts are spilling out of the branches
she hangs from.

In the evening I eat her flesh
with cheese, homemade and
white as a virgin,
tomatoes,
red as first blood,
and cucumbers,
green as Eden.

My father and I
have known one another
for four days.