Heaven Knows

By John Zedolik

Those blackberries at the bottom
of the neighborhood’s hill above

the busway where I relished my
secret juicy treat beyond the diesel

exhaust must have migrated
to the stars like my mother,

who no longer rolls the koláče
and fills them with poppy seed

that only induced bliss instead
of narcotic sleep even though

I often consumed an entire roll
in a sitting after having been

mailed the boxed ambrosia
of the Carpathians through care and love

that is now lacking in my world like
the slope city-stripped, no doubt

by a dutiful public-works crew
just doing its job unlike

the driver and his wrong-way rush
in reverse toward the crushing

of my baker who will coax with skill
the sweet dough to rise no more.