A blog of creative and thoughtful writing. Author information at bottom of page. NOW WITH PICTURES

Monday, July 22, 2013

Starfish

Members of the class Asteroidea
Starfish—have no centralized
Brain. Instead, their bodies contain
Complex distributed nervous systems
Which connect to tube feet,
Sense light, touch, temperature
Water status—orientation.
It takes months—even years—
For a starfish to regenerate
Dismembered limbs, but it
Can be patiently achieved.
Starfish have no tear ducts.
When washed onto shore
Beside plastic bottles and trash,
On a beach like a cosmic vacuum,
They cannot cry, and when they
Are stepped on or broken, they
Cannot cry, and when you toss
Them back into the ocean
They would cry if they could,
But they cannot—even if they’re
Grateful, they are only tearless.

Blackout

I couldn’t tell you what it feels like
Because it feels like nothing;
Like a gap, a dip, a cavern;
An expansive hole you’d toss
Rocks down, just to hear them fall.
But they never really fall, rocks;
Not in this hole. No blackout
Reminds me of the one before,
And the pebbles, like memory,
Are lost each time, forever.

I try to think back to before—
Remember what it was like—
Mom says we used to fish.
Together. Can you believe that?
I remember once standing,
Waiting for you to come home
From work. You passed me by
Without a glance. I don’t remember
Fishing, though. I don’t remember
Ever going fishing with you.

That’s what dads do, isn’t it?
You take your son fishing.
You take him to a lake or stream
Show him to cast a line and reel
Slow, then fast. The doctor used
An analogy; said I should cast
Into the pit, and try to reel memories
Close. Like a fish. The doctor
Took me fishing, Dad. Are you sure
You took me with you?

I try. I really do, Dad. Since that
First blackout onward, I try to fake it
At least. I half-imagine your boots
Filling with water when you stand
In the stream, casting line overhead.
But there was no stream and you
Hate fishing. You told me so yourself.
Did I misremember this, or the other?
It’s so hard to tell, since you left,
And Mom is the only one who can say.


I really wish you had stayed.
Mom would’ve liked that so much,
Even if we didn’t go fishing.
I’ve been trying, Dad, to recall;
I see denim overalls and a mountain-
Man beard and maybe I can smell
Wood smoke. No way to tell
If these are real memories
Or memories I’ve reeled
From someone else’s stream.

The hole is deep, Dad. It’s not
Something I expect you to fill—
Not that I think you could.
It’s hard to fish with a broken son,
I hear. I wish you had stayed, but
Since you didn’t, I’ll just fish alone.
I don’t expect you to return.
I’ll cast my line in the pit to fish.
Maybe I’ll drop a penny wish
Down the well—if I remember.

The Patchwork Tallit

It hangs there
Franken-stitched together—
Woolen squares,
Meaning lost on me.
This tallit—heirloom
Crafted by Bubbe
Generations ago—
Draped forlorn
Overlooked, undusted
Throughout my kinderjohren.
Abba says his Oma
Made it for Saba’s wedding
Before Kristallnacht.
What is it to me, though?

The tzitzits are there—
All four intact.
When Saba died,
He was not buried.
I never met him.
Abba named me
For him. I’d like to know
My name, like I’d like
To know the man
To whom my tallit
Once belonged,
But we don’t even
Have his ashes
To remember.


Abba says it was hard—
Finding fabric, I mean.
Bubbe was poor,
She had the shakes.
Saba was engaged
To a gentile woman,
But they were happy,
So Bubbe tore apart
Sweaters and coats
To make her patchwork
Tallit. The threads now
Are coming undone
From years of neglect
In a box marked Z”l.

It is itchy, much
Like the sweaters
From which it was
Created. Am I like
He from whom I was
Created? In his image?
The tallit—worn during
Shacharit and through
Yom Kippur—is worn
And faded. It is mostly
White and grey with
Blue stripes, and by
The tzitzits—right there—
There’s a stray string.

The loose thread
Asks me to pull.
Help me dissemble—
Go ahead
. Take me apart.
But if I do, what remains
Save worthless thread
And squares whose meaning
Are obscured by history?
I’d like to know my tallit’s
Past like I’d like to know
My Saba. I’d like to know
Why Abba named me—
Out of respect? Love?
Or is it expectation?

I, like Saba, am engaged
To a gentile. Like the man
For whom I was named,
I am endowed this Tallit.
Like him, I take my vows;
I will sign my ketubah,
Break glass,
Hear “Mazel tov!”
Beneath the chuppah.
Do I know Saba? No.
But we are close.
I hear him tell me stories
Through the patchwork tallit
Zichrono Livracha.

Afternoon Tea

I try to remember my friend Raahil
As he was before the war broke out—
When our parents said we shouldn’t
Be friends anymore. We used to meet
After school and drink tea like British
Men and laugh and make fun while
Secretly hating the stuff his Mom
Fixed for a snack. We used to meet
On winter weekends and he’d talk about
Muhammad, and I about Jesus, while
Secretly hating the way our parents
Made us believe. We used to meet
To play but our parents made us stop.
I wonder if he is okay, and if he still
Secretly hates the way, as do I, our
Families loved us.

Lust

I recall, sleepless, the hours spent
After the rush that night, when
We were both caught up with
Each others scent and heat.
We had drinks at Club Frey,
And after, in your room,
And every time the music
Stopped in either place, we
Smiled and laughed—I remember
Your teeth, recently bleached,
When you smiled—I remember
The breeze of air that hit us
When you opened the door—
Do you remember the way
You shivered, the same way
I do? Do you remember what
You wore that night?—the green
And blue dress I said looked
Funny afterward, but we both
Agreed was nice on you—Do you
Remember tripping onto the bed,
While your blue-green dress slid
Off the edge?—I kissed your head
Before I left you sleeping, and left
My number beside your purse—
But every night you never called
Left me awake, wishing I stayed
One extra night, and I still
Regret ever meeting you for that.

Lunch

I try to forget about Maryam
And that time I mistakenly walked
In on her while she stepped out
Of the shower and grabbed her
Hijab in fright. I think of Ramadan
Instead, in August two years back,
When Raahil invited me for Hilal.
I thought it was a celebration—
His parents laughed when I asked
When we would eat. I did not know
What I now know—that some fast
For holy rites—but they explained
Spiritual hunger and how to feed it;
While they spoke, I hoped Maryam
Would not tell them that I saw her.
We gathered when the crescent
Moon rose, and my stomach growled,
Hungry for something I did not know.

Elevenses

I try to write down things
I hear when I walk around.
Did you know you can have
A heart-attack from shoveling snow?
There is a punk version of Hamlet.
Karaoke comes from two words
In Japanese, the first meaning empty,
The second meaning orchestra.
Elephants have four knees.
The average male eats about
Thirty-five thousand cookies.
Whiskey is not the same as whisky,
And only the Scots know the difference.
Also, 4% of barreled whiskey evaporates
Before it is bottled and taxed more
Than an average American is taxed.
My neighbor eats cookies with whiskey.
I have never seen an elephant,
But I have seen Hamlet.
I keep my singing in the shower.
I shovel snow.
I avoid cookies.

Second Breakfast

I try to think of little things,
Like mice, and minnows, and
The microscopic line that separates
Me from "the edge." Like a tightrope
Trod by a hobbit, suddenly conscious
Of his seven meals a day, his weight
Gain, and the way his girth weighs
High on the balance, tilting neither
One way nor the other, I am misbalanced
All the same by a gravity greater than
My own—but what I think about
The little things, like me, like him,
Is that anxiety is consumptive.
It pulls us in, tight, packed, and as it
Does us, we do as well to others.

Wrath

A memory: You raised your acid-venom
Voice saying you could not stand us. Our house
Is too small. We are cramped. You,
Screaming, left me solitary
In our merciless prison—your prison—
My home. Left only the rage in my
Head, unrelenting, passionate—
Telling me to chase; telling
Me that I should strike back, that
I did not deserve this. You
Must learn suffering—must
Learn what I must now learn: that
Patience is a virtue for the violent.

Breakfast


I try to remember why—
In Old English—morgenmete
Was the morning meal,
Not breakfast, like now,
Which breaks the period
After a night’s fast.
My mind wanders far
To think East, where
The poor in Burma eat
Fried rice with peas,
Served with green tea;
China’s breakfast includes
Noodles, soups, dim sum;
Japan has miso and nori;
But still back here there’s
Waffles and pancakes,
Sausage, eggs, biscuits;
And back in my mind, here—
My body, my temple—nothing.