Wednesday, June 22, 2016

Birth

Mom and Me at my MFA graduation, 2006















On what authority do you leave
this world? This is not my first
experience of death, but a rectangular frame
for my entire life. I cannot
flourish without song, burning
wildly. I weep and I wait.
The precipice that placed you in this
world and me in this afterlife
eases through a vein, while
a sparrow sings in his striped
garment, full of early light.
Different than the owl,
cloaked in a suit of darkness,
green and brown, surprised
for the love of one person.
Both witness loss of breath.
Having borne me, you did not
leave the past behind—
you delved into family history,
discovered cousins, cozied
their feathers in your house.
It rained the first Passover
after Dad died, and I stormed out,
walked the well-knit paths
leading me from one area
to the next. We could not
agree on the niceties—oven temp,
amounts of food—almost like mourning
except we did not talk about
if Dad were still here. And now,
approaching Passover after your death,
I have no one to disagree with,
no one to stand over me
tell me to serve more soup,
clear the bowls,
serve the chicken.
The last fires will eventually
bow, but for now I cannot
raise my arms, numb.
And seeing “Swan Lake,”
music of my childhood, intimate as
your warm generous arms
and dark eyes. On stage
Hungarian costumes dance to
a whimsical beat, and the swans
identical white-clad,
mirrored and multiplied,
move in patterns,
then arms and legs
lay one over the other, long thin ends
at rest. With each tune, I return
to what placed me in this world,
what birthed me and sustained me.
No, there is no easing
through, no light—
only dusk. And pointed toes
carry the swans,
floating above the stage,
feathered white hair-pieces snugly in place,
white tutus flowing as
they mourn being turned from humans,

their lives permanently changed.

Branches Reaching

England, 1955




















Ushers wearing white gowns part before the round stage,
brightly lit, ready for take off
glowing like a white snail on the trail of Mount Tam,
curved black line opening out against pearl.
Ravi Shankar sits in the center, Sitar resonating,
waves of sound a hand motioning.
Internal orange, oak tree branches, a brain
making a turn and then another, and
then follow with inner eye, elbows, then
cauliflower leaves emerging.

My mother is examined by Dr. Ravishankar
a woman in her early thirties
who speaks loudly
says you won’t be able to live alone
people have to watch her.
My mother hasn’t slept in two days
since found on her bathroom floor
incoherent, left side bruised
and flacid. And now, like a smudge on a mirror
she is seen as an old woman
the tree with its many branches
reaching incrementally.

Oak outside the hospital
a fifty year old brain against the sky
with roots that tip under a circular pathway.
Branches, metranomic fingers, grow,
pulse regular, blood circulating
late summer leaves a grey green.
The clot waited for this moment
after years of observation from a high balcony seat
opera glasses afloat, absorbing the drama.
Waited until now.

Friday, April 15, 2016

After Passover


















Take away the knife
dishes at Passover washed
from the table, like the rocks
we placed on my father’s grave
when we lowered my mother in the ground.
Don’t expect a speech, throat

curled in on inappropriate flowers, throated
tight in someone’s hand, knife-
cut down the hill, not here, the ground
sacred according to the Rabbi, washed
like her body the day she died, grave
waiting without her wedding ring, no rock

but a ten dollar gold band from Brooklyn. Gone the rocking
chair at her father’s third floor walkup and throat
of lace her mother left behind, engraved
before my mother held a knife,
before she moved to London, washed
her hair in a sink when the Underground

stopped working. Maternal lineage grounded
her, the shore of Bremerhaven where a rock
broke open and her parents boarded a ship, washed
away from their deaths. But her own throated
words—what did they carry at the end? A knife
dropped at a dining table, grave

waiting? She knew, saying gravely
she couldn’t go on, leaning in a wheelchair, grounded
all day like a miscreant, no knife,
only fork and spoon, left hand rocking
back and forth, trying to clear her throat
to avoid choking, pureed food washed

in a blender. Before it came to this, she washed
her own hair for the last time, gravely,
the morning the clot throated
her brain. Stoppage of opera, grounded
from reading, where Elizabeth Bennet throws a rock
at her competitor. All the mail, I now open with a knife

though my throat sinks to the ground,
mud-washed in a dirty grave.
I throw rocks, brain open with a knife.