Each month, write a new collection.
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Movable FeastWeek old potatoes andLast chance mushrooms Generally jump to my pot.I cook with no Savoring symphonyBut rather a mealIn flight.But Thanksgiving is hereThe mothers arriveThe preconception is mine.I relinquishThe stoveI setFabulous napkins.
Moveable feastMy babysitters were an older coupleThey delighted to have meIt was a celebrationThey sat me at the end of a tableIn front of many dishesEat, he said, proud. Eat, my wife made this all for you.They stood over me, and watched.Will you not eat with me? I asked.No, this is all for you, Eat, he said, eat.But I just ate, I explainedBut I made this all for you, she saidThe white cream was not sweetSour and salt fish had small bones that pucked my tongueSoup was a cold puree of turnipVegetables not fresh butvinegary and pickled beetsEat, eat, when I was your age I had no foodHe was angry and his eyes so blueThey glowed in the dim lightlike when he lived in the Warsaw undergroundEat, eat, I made this for youThe wife is sad. She knows I am afraid of her husbandI heard him tell of railroad tracks how he stood and dragged his finger across his throatThey were going to die, what did I know, he laughed, I was eight.She claps her hands, I see tears But I cannot eat her foodI heard her story tooHow one child died in the Camps and the last was bornthere. Treblinka.Eat, they implore. I try but we are all upsetI cannot eat and I will not eat enough food to fill their sadness