(no subject)

[silverflurry.livejournal.com]

Yiddish

Sometimes when my mother
opened her mouth to speak, a shoe
tumbled out or a featherless
chicken that settled its head
on my pillow, claw-feet
clenched in prayer.

That's when I learned to fear sleep
and to watch the tongue for danger,
to throw scraps of paper
over the rail and watch
them fall, each fluttering
word a white dove.

Now I pluck them back
and bury them until
they bloom again on the tip
of my tongue and rhyme:
The kiss and the pillow.
The tree and the plum.
A house built of wood

and others, like stanzas, a village
of stanzas. A school. A bridge.
The song running under it. Quick
as a scale. The sofer's long
black coat turned inside out,
patched with diminutives,

basted with stitching
of every color. I try it on.
It fits me perfectly.
The syllables fit in my mouth
like smoke in the chimney,
like milk in a thimble,
the child in its grave.



Jean Nordhaus
The Porcelain Apes of Moses Mendelssohn
Milkweed Editions