Burnt Wood – for Bubi

1 – Charcoal.
The twigs I gather as a girl are consumed, as intended, by fire.
With one partially burned stick I draw lines in the back of the only book we own.
I use the pads of my fingers to spread the charcoal on the page,
Thinning it, stretching it, creating shade and shadow,
Revealing another dimension, like my father’s rage.
At finding the holy book, not meant to be drawn in,
But there was no other paper in the cold cottage outside Warsaw.
Then I drew on the walls, sweeping my arm like tree branches,
Brushing the charcoal in wide arcs to reveal animals running and people in battle.
Mother tried to clean it before he came home, but could not
So she took me into her lap and whispered
I will tell him you will never ever draw again and you mustn’t.
It is the will of God. So I did not. And here I am, one hundred and thirty four years later.

2 – Ink.
He was my husband
Before I knew what the word meant
He broke the glass and my hymen
And he loved me, or so he said,
Before I knew what love meant
Before there were children
I went to the mikvah where women bathed and talked
Of blood
And rules
Of inequity and injustice and fate
There were those who accepted everything as the word of God
And those who questioned everything
I told no one that I imagined my blood was ink.

I had no sisters, no teachers, no schools
No mother I knew after age eight
No photographs, and a father more absent than present,
But my mother-in-law took me as her Ruth
Loved me as her own, talked with me about my husband, her son
Of her wishes for him
And for me
Aided me in my time
Prepared warm cloths to soothe me
Sat behind and held me as I cried in terror and pain
“Mother,” I screamed
“Push child,” she told me
“This is what we do for them. For God.”

4 – Somewhere a Czar
I had his name, his seed, his children
But the Czar wanted his body
Which he yielded reluctantly, leaving for parts unknown.
I was destitute, did not hear from him
Or know of his fortunes for eight months
And then he returned, said he had walked for weeks
Deserted them to find the children and me
We laughed and cried and lay in bed with the boy and girl
Until the soldiers came.
We hid him under the table with the Sabbath cloth pulled down to the floor like a tent
But they shot him anyway, under the table, in front of the children, his mother, his wife
Left him there, his blood seeping into the floorboards
A stain forever

5 – And then America
America is an English word that means,
“And then thy children shall depart from you.”
Leaving the village to take a boat to heaven knows where
To a place called “I shall never see them again”
Even when I get a letter I cannot read
In an alphabet I cannot write in ink or blood.
I am plucking dead chickens to live
I am cold in winter, and immensely alone
But there is bread to eat
And warm water flavored with an onion and chicken feet
To soak it in
And my menses have ceased, and my tears have dried
And across vast salt oceans float my children

6 – I Arrive in the New World.
There is no word for the misery of the crossing
The anxiety, the quarters crowded with sick strangers
An adventure beyond my wildest imaginings on the vastest sea
To leave all that I had, which was nothing
And all that I knew, which was nothing
For something I could not imagine
Because the rabbi’s wife, who never talked to me outside the mikvah
Gave me a piece of paper she said was a ticket paid for by children
Who would meet me on the other side of the World
And although this was impossible I knew
With my three dresses and one pair of shoes
With my 2 undergarments, my shawl, my brass candle sticks
With all that I owned, I stepped across the water.

7 – My Daughter’s Husband
We cried together, we mourned our losses
And then we laughed.
It is all a miracle
She is a mother, with a son, and another on the way
In an apartment, with a husband who is never home
Except to complain how hard his work is, and then to sleep
A good man she tells me
Who never goes to shul
And neither does she
There is no mikvah, and neither can she read
But this thing called a radio speaks in Yiddish
And although nothing makes sense
We are all together

8 – Seven Grandchildren
My seven grandchildren produce five marriages
Ten great grandchildren
The husband is hospitalized
In the East River forever
Three kids go to War
Two become firemen
Another a pilot and policeman
Every child leaves home but one
Who I fear for
Though I have my daughter, and she has me
And we make sweetbread each New Year
And are visited by a great spirit
Wrapped in honey

9 – Great Grandchildren
We visit their grandfather, my son in law
On Welfare Island
Going down a huge freight elevator
From the bridge at 59th Street
My grandson, the fireman, who should have been a rabbi
Takes me and his mother, my daughter, and his sisters
He and the two girls, the loyal ones
I lived with him when his wife was ill
Passed my hands through the Sabbath candle flames
Brought warmth into my eyes and heart
Saved the young boy who knew only criticism and terror
With my shawl and black clunky shoes
With unconditional love and a roll of life savers

10 – The Old Age Home
They speak some other language the people here
And I cannot see them
When they move my form
To sit me up and lay me down
To make my bed with clean sheets
Cool and firm
And the visitors who fall in upon me
Dropped from heaven.
I do not know if I am living or dead
When the fireman places the wet washcloth edges in my mouth so I may suck them
And folds the cloth with love to place it upon my forehead
And gives me my great grandson’s hand
Which by its feel I know him

11 – Reflection
Many years ago I drew the animals in the holy book
I remember everything about them
Except how I knew of them
Or knew of anything outside our hut
What is “know” anyhow
And how do we know it
The great teachings in the Book –
Love the lord
Be kind
Know the rules and never break them.
There was an ark I was told
And inside the ark devoted couples
I knew a man, I was a child

12 – Death
I am ninety two years old they tell me
When they bring me to the party
I have never had a party before
I see only shadows, but hear everything
The rabbi says my name
People are singing
Each one gives me their hand
Which I feel and know
They bend down to kiss me
As I lie perfectly still, cold to their touch
She was a saint the rabbi says
As he places pieces of thick blue glass from a broken bottle
Over the lids of my closed still eyes

13 – After Life
Once more I pass my hands through the flames
Bring the light and the warmth into my eyes with my fingers
Sand passing thru the egg timer
Turned upside down to count again
A grain who understands her purposes
To flow, to rest, to be the tide
Here I am 75 years old in the apartment in the Bronx
Now 50
Now with charcoal staining my fingers
Shading the she wolf and dog
Now inside my mother
As she receives the semen
Now again swimming