I am named for
a tiny Slavic woman who nonetheless was
the terror of her household, her
tall sons,
who grew bent and white
in her old age and died
a centenarian,
thirty years after her friends
and husband had all died too,
and I am named for
a Quebec man who changed his name
to Anderson from the French,
Henrichon,
because it sounded
too French
and he would not be able to find work
in the States if
his surname was too French
and so Andrew and not Henri
became a name for his sons,
and I am not named for
Italian and German,
but they are in me too, as
pasta and stroganoff and sauerkraut
and the memories of
a bright-eyed grandmother who fed
everyone,
mangia!
and a tall grandfather who wears
flannel shirts and writes,
like I do.
