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Woman of Spirit I
I watched Mrs. Nolt pull blueberry muffins
from the oven--humming, unhurried,
heard her singing a hymn in her kitchen
canning red ripe tomatoes.
I witnessed her communion with a neighbor
on her porch, saw her combing
her strawberry blonde hair in the night.
She stared out at the world
through thick, rimless glasses--
told her grandchildren,
God gave us weaknesses and this is mine.
When she gestured with her hand,
up from her belly,
signaling strength she drew from within,
for example, when her daughter
called about a crisis,
something substantial stirred within me,
recalled a spirit of long ago,
set a flower germinating
through cracked and arid soil.
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There You Were
"For Icy"
I requested, silently implored
the agency to send a nurse
of quiet temperament
whom my mother could tolerate
in her perturbed state
as my father lay dying.
And there you were,
in starched uniform with lace edges,
solid Jamaican body
taking up residence in the den,
gentle with my father,
resourceful for my mother.
There you were,
moving slowly through the shadows
of the day, carrying a handkerchief
with your Bible, sitting in a chair,
reading the Scriptures, a holy woman
in the desert of our family.
There you were,
modeling tranquility and strength,
reminding me of God's presence,
taking me to a higher plane.
I cried in your arms
when I left.
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How It Came About
from "Conversations at the Nursing Home: A Mother, A Daughter & Alzheimer's"
As she slipped into the twilight,
transitioned to Depends,
gradually gave up
wearing a bra, make-up,
scarves and jewelry,
released herself from
her favorite talk shows,
movies, visits to the courtyard
to sit in the company of birds,
buds, branches and bark,
and then her beloved reading--
I, at last, had compassion for her
for I had transitioned, too.
I had built myself a house
with a firm foundation,
well-insulated, aesthetically pleasing,
a place from which I could care for her
and finally release our past.
One day she said,
The best thing I ever did was
have a daughter!
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Warm Ice Cream
from "The Place You Live In: A Multigenerational Immigrant Story"
The Good Humor ice cream truck, gleaming white, chocolate pops painted on sides and back, whose bells jangled after the second world war, heralding the Good Humor Man, he jumping out in wilted white uniform, from the roofless, windowless cab up front, pushing his white policeman's cap back on his sweaty forehead, and I, running to our courtyard, bellowing, "Mom," my mother, (knowing my voice from all the other kids), appearing at our second floor window, throwing down a dime twisted in newspaper so it fell without rolling, and I could find it. I and five friends, having halted a grand game of jump rope to join the line of excited children, flushed from play, and mothers, who minutes ago sat on folding chairs, gossiping in groups, my feet shifting impatiently as the Good Humor Man closed the side door, walked around, opened the back door, reached into the recesses of his refrigerated truck, pulled out the strawberrry sundae Dixie cups for my friend Joyce and her sister, Barbara, the vapor from the ice escaping like smoke. I, standing in line on Andrews Avenue, anticipating my toasted almond pop from my Good Humor Man, different from last year, different from next, my lovely Good Humor Man, providing our warm afternoon ritual in the Bronx, pleasurable and right, as we played at our child's work, safe from the turmoils in Europe, Asia, Africa, protected, cradled, though we never knew it, the warmth from that ice cream building our bones.
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The Shirt Finisher
She asked nothing less from her sewing machine.
She asked nothing less than she asked of herself,
this gentle soul, my grandma, age fifteen,
on the Lower East Side as the century turned.
She asked nothing less than she asked of herself
before unions rallied round hours and wages
on the Lower East Side as the century turned.
She steadily pedaled, stitching straight edges,
before unions rallied round hours and wages.
Monotonous routine numbed her spirit.
She steadily pedaled, stitching straight edges.
Her Neshama screamed in helpless prayer,
monotonous routine numbed her spirit.
She took piece work home for a few more cents.
Her Neshama screamed in helpless prayer.
Her back ached but her rhythm was steady.
She took piece work home for a few more cents,
this gentle soul, my grandma, age fifteen.
Her back ached but her rhythm was steady.
She asked nothing less from her sewing machine.
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I Know Podhayze
from "The Place You Live In: A Multigenerational Immigrant Story"
I wake in the night
to an ill wind blowing,
death licking at darkness,
the danger of an old world
approaching again.
It is the gray-brown woe
of my grandparents,
walking their narrow streets
in Podhayze,
hiding under the bed
from Cossacks,
lighting Sabbath candles
in the chill night.
It is their desperation:
setting out for Hamburg,
walking, hiding in a wagon,
boarding a vessel for the new world,
huddling in steerage class,
clutching possessions,
leaving consolation and community
behind.
It is their poverty and dreams
stuffed coarsely into dwellings,
behind Grandpa Samuel's butcher shop
and Grandpa Morris's grocery store
on the Lower East Side of Manhattan,
sleeping in all rooms but the kitchen,
hearing shrill peddlers on the streets
eking out a living.
I wake in the morning
and feel something lurking
in the corner,
some new oppressor
about to spring,
to spread darkness
across our world.
I know how that is;
though I've never been told,
I know.
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