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christmas poems
1.
The dim attachment of the year
the pit, the cavern where the sun rests
what's more, debilitates never to rise,
at the point when misery drops delicately as the snow
covering all ways and stifling streets:
at that point hawkfaced torment seized you
tossed you so you fell with a sharp
cry, a blade tearing an electrical discharge.
My dad heard the accident yet paid
no brain, snoozing after lunch
however fifteen hundred miles north
I heard and dropped a dish.
Your agony sunk claws in my skull
also, hunched there cawing, overwhelming
as an incredible vessel loaded with water,
oil or blood, till abruptly following day
the weight lifted and I knew your brain
had guttered out like the Chanukah
candles that smolder so quick, sobbing
cover of wax down the chanukiya.
Those candles were laid out,
companions welcomed, fixings purchased
for latkes and apple hotcakes,
that occasion for freedom
what's more, the winter solstice
at the point when tops turn like little planets.
Might you have win or bust
take half or go by untouched?
Nothing you got, Nun said the dreydl
as the room quit turning.
The holy messenger collapsed you up like clothing
your body dainty as a vacant dress.
Your garments were window ornaments
holding tight the window of what had
been your fragile living creature and now was glass.
Outside in Florida malls
amplifiers blastd Christmas ditties
also, palm trees were decked with squinting
lights. But by the traveler
lodgings, the shorelines were unfilled.
Pelicans with pregnant pockets
fluttered overhead like pterodactyls.
In my brain I felt you kick the bucket.
In the first place the torment lifted and afterward
you glimmered and went out.
2.
I stroll through the rooms of memory.
Some of the time everything is covered in dropcloths,
each seat spooky and quieted.
Different times memory illuminates from inside
clamoring scenes acted only the opposite side
of a scrim through which clearly I could reach
my fingers tearing at the feeble drapery
of time which is and isn't and will be
the stuff of which we're made and unmade.
In rest an evening or two ago I met you, seventeen
your first terrible marriage just repealed,
dainty from your fetus removal, gripping a book
against your cheek and attempting to look
more seasoned, attempting to took white collar class,
striving for an occupation at Wanamaker's,
dressing for gatherings in push off
stage outfits of your sisters. Your eyes
were cloudy with dreams. You didn't
notice me waving as you meandered
Christmas Wishes Merry Christmas
past and I saw your slip was appearing.
You stopped while I settled your garments,
as though I were your mom. Recollect that me
brushing your springy dark hair, curls
that appeared to be metallic, sparkling;
recollect that me dressing you, my seventy year
old mother who was my last dollbaby,
giving you past the point of no return what your childhood had needed.
3.
What is this veil of skin we wear,
what is this dress of tissue,
this layer of few hues and little hair?
This well proportioned fuming load of longings
what's more, fears, squeaking mice turned up
in a steaming pile with their infants?
This coat has been passed on, a legacy
this layer of dark hair and adequate substance,
this layer of pale somewhat bronzed skin.
This arrangement of hips and thighs, these rear end
they gave padding to my grandma
Hannah, for my mom Bert and for me
what's more, we as a whole sat on them thusly, those major
muscles on which we walk and walk and walk
over the earth looking for peace and bounty.
My mom is my mirror and I am hers.
What do we see? Our face developed youthful once more,
our bosoms developed firm, legs incline and exquisite.
Our arms shuddering with fat, eyes
set in the bark of wrinkles, hands puffy,
our midsection seamed with childbearing,
Give me your dress that I may attempt it on.
Goodness it won't fit you mother, you are excessively fat.
I won't fit you mother.
I won't be the lady of the hour you can dress,
the respectful devoted little girl you would bite,
a canine's calfskin issue that remains to be worked out your teeth.
You strike me once in a while just to hear the sound.
Dejection transforms your fingers into snares
spiked and drawing blood with their stroke.
My twin, my sister, my lost adoration,
I convey you in me like a developing life
as once you conveyed me.
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