Hands busy with chopping
Suddenly stopping, knife in midair
Hearing a soft voice murmur with laughter
Throwing the onions in a sizzing hot pan
A gnarled hand gentle on my face, and the words
Sweetness comes after tears
All these, and I’ve no family.
-
The Ambulance Ride A Lesson (Poem)
there with the stretcher
a cane propped beside the door
in bed
fever-glazed, coughing-seized, weakened
laughter at my slow crawl
the ambulance bumping
bewilderment over casual cruelty
slamming doors
faint words of thanks unheard
a text
a lesson
-
My Death In My Hand (Poem)
He offers this as a gift.
Black and neon green, it could be anime.
Lighter than a ceramic cup, it could be a toy.
The bullets make it real. They look like what they are.
Good intentions unmasked; detailed directions to the grave.
Black depression now armed stalks me through the back streets.
Overhead the waiting raptors kettle as they keep watch.
-
Walls Are Hard. Words Are Harder. (Poem)
I want to shut my eyes, to cry.
I’m tired, wearied to my bones
By conversations where I’m thrown
Again and again
Against the concrete walls of your expectations.
I lay crumpled on the ground,
My grief purpled by darkening bruises.
The walls, once white, are bloody and stained.
Where do you look, when you turn away?
-
The Price Of Rain (Poem)
When we were children, did we know
That the sound of rain would shred our hearts?
Rain falling like tears, heavy with grief.
A grandmother disappears under the pillaging waves.
A pink dolphin dies on the shores of a lake.
A terrified mother stifles her baby’s thirsty mewls.
All we can do, we who have rain,
Is walk unprotected to bear sodden witness.
Still we turn away when we pass on the street,
Lest we see reflected in another’s eyes such awful knowledge.
How shall we go on?
-
Kitchen Table Stories (Shattered Vessels Poems)
Her childhood:
Her family hiding from the Russian soldiers burning their home.
Her father carrying her on the streets after Ellis Island.
NO JEWS ALLOWED.
His grandfather:
Three young brothers newly arrived and starving off a boat from Ireland.
He asked a man if he could work on the docks.
NO IRISH WANTED.
Their life:
Their parents’ flight because their marriage was a crime.
They themselves fearing to return.
NO NEGROES HERE.
Recently me:
A bus driver told me I should be deported.
My kind isn’t wanted here.
GOD HATES QUEERS.
The vessels crack and crack and shatter.
-
Shattered Vessels (Poet’s Revision)
Once broken glass glittered on pavement
In the cold November night within shuttered quarters.
Now metal fragments litter the ground
In the wastelands that housed villages.
What do we do when rage and fear
Make us forget what we sought to build?
When we close our ears to the wail of grief
That sounds the same torn from any throat?
When we break under the weight of repairing the world,
Who will hold us?
-
If This One Does Not Please (Poem)
Shattered vessels.
Once broken glass glittered on pavement
In the cold November night outside shops and homes.
Now metal fragments litter the ground
In the wastelands that housed villages.
What do we do when rage and fear
Make us forget what we sought to build?
When we close our ears to the wail of grief
That sounds the same from any throat?
When we break under the weight of repairing the world,
Who will hold us?
Worlds have been destroyed before.
-
Friday Remembered (Poem)
That time with you, that long ago time.
How much do I remember, how much did I dream?
The dough sticks to my hands,
Flour dusting the table, as I prepare challah.
The kitchen becomes warm and fragrant,
The aromas of saffron and honey welcoming you home.
When we leave for temple, we link our bare hands,
Disregarding the drifting snow and occasional disapproving stares.
Courteously, you open the heavy wooden door for me to enter
And then we part, you to the men’s side, me to the women’s.
Afterwards over the communal kiddush and hamotzi,
You catch my eye and smile.
I know you’re thinking of a sleepy morning,
Warmed against the early chill by samovar tea,
Bread with butter, and me in your arms.
-
Beneath My Skin (Poem)
Beneath my skin, these
Earliest shadows
Decay dripping from ancient trees
Murk surfacing hidden bayous
Roil foretelling terrible storms
Bruises left indelible
Look away
Do not talk of such things
I was afraid
Words leave marks worse than fists
Icy stares make you bleed
New shadows differently hued
Stench fouling beach sands
Molder crumbling leather-bound books
Rapine cutting through pine forests
Invisible stains just as before
Look away
Do not talk of such things
I was afraid
Fists leave marks almost like words
Other people’s bodies make you bleed
Swallow your voice
Choke on grief
Cover your indigo body
One day when I speak
My power will shatter the world