Blood Memory Sample Poems
Still Life, 1945
War. The man face-down in the snow is my father.
Chest, legs, body as if asleep in snow. He hears the silent
woods, the slight shiver of ice forming on branches,
the cry of a crow, crunch of boots, artillery fire,
moans. Allied planes overhead, crush of metal, shouts.
He imagines his mother lies down beside him,
smooths his hair, breathes with him.
Something in the world must love him.
Must want him alive—his hands, the soles of his feet,
the veins in his neck, the roots of his hair.
He feigns death. For three days
unmoving in the snow, his bones
so cold they could break.
A Short Engagement
Landsberg, Displaced Persons’ Camp, 1945
They were walking at night
along the river, because, my father
said, It was romantic,
and everything after the war
was beautiful. This was not home,
but it was somewhere.
But because it was after curfew—the bridge
dark over the water, shades
pulled across the windows—
they were arrested.
Can you believe it? After Auschwitz.
Kelevs! Ganifs!
Three months later my parents were married.
We had a cow, but we had to wait
until we found a shochert.
We were young people. It was a pleasure, living
like a family. Food out of this world,
my mother said.
A potato. A shtik broyt.
Notes:
“Kelev! Ganifs!” = Dogs! Thieves!
shochert = a ritual kosher butcher
shtik broyt = a piece of bread
Mishpacha (Winner of Bellingham Review Poetry Prize)
My aunt kept a strap hanging on the wall,
though my cousins, years later, swore
she never used it.
My uncle stood outside the kitchen window,
barefoot in the dark, outstretched hands
inside his shoes, mumbling;
Fres, Fres Kindele. Eat. Eat.
or Baba Yaga will get you—
that old crone with the crooked grin
who sleeps naked in a house made of twigs.
I’ll call the police, my mother would warn,
whipping the receiver off its cradle.
This was America, but what did we know,
green as we were, new shoots rising
from Old Country mud.
I could eat you up, the aunts chuckled, pinching
our cheeks, looming above us like cartoon
characters, words shape-shifting in the air
and we pictured them, mouths bulging
with flesh, spitting out our bones
sopping up bloody scraps on the plate,
as we tilted our heads, listening
for the truth, some great love buried
behind the threats.