Thursday, April 21, 2016

April 21


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  2. Movable Feast

    Week old potatoes and
    Last chance mushrooms
    Generally jump to my pot.

    I cook with no
    Savoring symphony
    But rather a meal
    In flight.

    But Thanksgiving is here
    The mothers arrive
    The preconception is mine.

    I relinquish
    The stove
    I set
    Fabulous napkins.

  3. Moveable feast

    My babysitters were an older couple
    They delighted to have me
    It was a celebration
    They sat me at the end of a table
    In front of many dishes
    Eat, 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 explained
    But I made this all for you, she said

    The white cream was not sweet
    Sour and salt fish had small
    bones that pucked my tongue
    Soup was a cold puree of turnip
    Vegetables not fresh but
    vinegary and pickled beets

    Eat, eat, when I was your age I had no food
    He was angry and his eyes so blue
    They glowed in the dim light
    like when he lived in the
    Warsaw underground

    Eat, eat, I made this for you
    The wife is sad. She knows
    I am afraid of her husband
    I heard him tell of railroad tracks
    how he stood and dragged his
    finger across his throat
    They 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 food
    I heard her story too
    How one child died in the
    Camps and the last was born
    there. Treblinka.

    Eat, they implore. I try
    but we are all upset
    I cannot eat and
    I will not eat enough food
    to fill their sadness