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.

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.