The wealthy families scatter
like snowflakes
in a strong wind
to any country that will have them,
gone to America
Australia
the holy land.
The rest of us hoard our kopecks
until we can buy our way out
of this place that has turned
against us.
We wait
like rabbits
sniffing at the edge of our burrows
testing the air
never sure if it is safe
to go out.
The yarid is quiet,
business is done
in quick
curt exchanges.
I do not visit the wool cart.
Much as I long
for another poem,
I cannot look Anushka
in the face
anymore.
test
I return to the forest
only once
lift the winter wren from her box
hold her tight to my chest
so she will not struggle.
I snip the splint
lift it away
stretch her wing wide.
I close the roof
of the nesting box
settle the bird on the branch beside it.
I turn away
hurry along the path toward home—
I cannot bear to wait
to watch her test her wings,
to see
if she will fly
or fall.
packing
Miriam and her family left today;
just like that
all the laughter
has gone out of this place.
The farm is still
the stalls empty,
ragweed clambers eagerly
over untended furrows.
By the time Mama closes up her store
there are hardly any Jews
left in town
to buy from her
anyway.
I wonder,
who will the Russians blame
for their problems
once we are all
gone?
Papa and Marcus
wrap the holy books
in linen.
Mama digs through Benjamin’s sack
trading toys for stockings
an extra pair of pants
a wool vest.
It takes an eternity to choose
only one book
to bring with me.
I wrap first
my underclothes
then my dresses
then my winter coat
around a slim volume of poetry
tuck the bundle
into a sack
I can carry over my shoulder
when we leave here.
The rest I leave in the attic.
They have books in America.
They have schools in America
even
(I hear)
for Jewish girls.
Hope lives in an uncomfortable
infrequently visited space
beneath my ribs.
I am wicked to think it
—I know—
but I wonder
if on the other side
of all this anger
violence
uprooting
if America
is just the place
for me.
goodbye
We ride to the city
in the back of a wagon
on top of a load of
potatoes.
I sit,
watching the road behind us
my feet dangling
in the dusty air.
The grasses sway
in the warm winds
seedpods flutter
waving goodbye.
Barn swallows flit between buildings,
perch on swaying cattails,
cheeping and twittering
as if this were a peaceful
lovely shtetl.
I try to fix this picture
in my mind
so when I remember this place
from the other side of the world,
I have something
other than terror
to think of.
spark
1904–1905
mirrored
The train station is full of people like us
carrying their whole lives
on their backs
like a great army
of snails.
Looking into their faces
is like looking into a mirror:
the same deep furrows
shadowed eyes
pinched lips
staring back at me.
The space above the tracks shimmers
with heat.
There was no leisure
in summer’s arrival
this year; its hot breath
blows grit in our faces.
The air carries a sharp smell,
something I cannot place.
Mama’s eyes are glassy,
constantly blinking
as if she spent the whole day
looking into the wind.
the German Empire
The guards check our papers
as we cross into this territory
and out of that one
their words
so familiar
(as if our tongue and theirs
were not-so-distant cousins)
their meaning
so clear.
(how could it not be
with all the pointing
and scowling
and stomping?)
We are shuttled into a brick building
separated, men from women
stripped down
hosed off
dusted with powders
that burn my nostrils
my throat
my eyes.
Even with our clothes
on our backs again,
even in the heat
Mama shivers.
I grip her hand
grit my teeth
to keep my chin
from wobbling.
I will not let fear
find purchase
on my skin
again.
They wave us past
once we are clean
once they are sure
we are not staying
only passing through
once they are sure
we understand
what all those pistols will be used for
if we veer from the route through
and quickly out
of their country.
I fold my papers
tuck them close to my skin
let out a long full breath
once we have left the soldiers
behind us.
murmuration
The whistle blows
loud
as a cast of raptors
shrieking.
I never heard such a thing!
In one instant
the flock of travelers
heft their bags
jostle
to first one door
then the next.
Marcus follows close behind Papa,
; Mama herds Nathan
before her,
I grab Benjamin’s hand
hold tight.
This line spills into that,
everyone vying for space
trying
to stay together
like a cloud of starlings
swarming over a wheat field,
re
group
ing,
settling.
look away
On board at last,
we wedge our things under our seats.
Mothers clasp their children close
pinch their lips tight
as if by holding in
their words
they could hold their families
together.
I am learning to look away
from the weariness
hopelessness
helplessness
all around me,
though I cannot ignore
the way uncertainty
like a heavy cloud
rises from the unwashed skin
of hundreds of bodies
packed together.
I lift the corner of my coat
to cover my nose
lean into the window
wait for the great engines
to carry me away,
or at least to stir the air
a little.
Benjamin’s legs dangle
inches above the ground.
When the train jolts into motion
I tuck him under my arm
under my wing
to keep him from slipping.
I watch
through smoke-stained windows
as we chug past
tidy crops
lonely towns
shadowed woods.
I wonder if Miriam
or Hanna
rode these same tired tracks.
I hope
they landed
somewhere safe.
My brothers open a book
prop it between them
one half perched on Marcus’s leg
the other on Nathan’s
as if it is the most natural thing
in the world.
Jealousy sweats
like a clammy fever.
If I pull my own book
out of my bag
Papa will toss it out the window
of the moving train
like a piece of trash.
whirligig
Hours later,
when the train
screeches to a stop
to unload a tower of crates
onto the platform,
to trade the empty coal bins
for full ones
my head bobs atop my neck
wooden and wooly
as if I were one of Benjamin’s toys
with wheels
painted eyes
and whirligig arms
haplessly dragged
across the floor
knocked into chair legs
and doorposts
and discarded shoes
along the way.
stars
The train never tires
though I lose count
of the hours
we have spent on board.
When I wake
fitfully
during the night
it feels as if the whole world
is passing before me
with only the unblinking stars
as my witness.
Hamburg
Finally
the train stops for good.
We have only a moment
on the still
solid earth
before we are led like cattle
through the stocks
scrubbed
deloused
discharged onto a steamer
that chugs
up the Elbe River.
It is as if
they could not get us off their land
fast enough.
The boat sends ripples in its wake
fanning out like a flock
of geese in formation,
nipping at the wavelets
rolling across the water.
We curve through the heart of
this green land
on a murky river
reluctant to share its secrets.
Bells toll in high towers
as we glide under scalloped bridges
in the rippling shadows cast
by crenellated walls.
When the mouth of the river opens
spills into the North Sea
we cling to anything
not buckling
or bending
in the face
of the vaulting waves.
None of us
have found our balance
yet.
strangers
I thought the sea
would smell brisk
fresh
full of adventure
but the salt in the air
stings my eyes
and the stench
burns my nostrils.
I make my way to the rail
drinking in
the slim gray expanse
where England rests
just above the waves,
awaiting our arrival.
Our third day aboard the steamer
when the sun climbs
to its highest point in the sky
we sidle up to a floating dock;
by the time we are shuttled
to the poorhouse
in the bowels
of the city
the moon has taken its place.
I do not understand a single word
the officials speak.
English is no cousin
to Yiddish
or Russian.
We truly are strangers
in this place.
gone
I am tired of the same tinned fish
and stale matzo—
kosher food we carried
on our backs
from the shelves of Mama’s store—
and I wish now
that I had brought all my books.
We wait
through the last dregs of summer
and into the first cool sips of autumn
for a steamship
to carry us across the ocean.
We wait
in a poorhouse thick with fleas.
(I think I could forget
all the places that itch
if I had something
to read)
An angry hum
rattles the room;
word has just arrived.
The trial for the murders
in Kishinev is over.
Hardly a witness appeared to testify, so
hardly a punishment is handed down.
My tongue turns sour
in my mouth.
Of course
there were no witnesses.
We are all either dead
or gone.
I go out
during the day
just to breathe
unshared air
to shake the despair
that falls like dust
from the rafters
and settles on my skin,
the despair of a people
too well acquainted with suffering
to believe
something better
waits for them
on the other side of the ocean.
thoughts
The pogrom is fresh
in our minds
in our dreams.
Not one of us is sleeping through the night.
If Papa’s thoughts
are black
as the sludge
coughing
from the smokestacks
at the docks
then Mama’s
are gray as the thousands of layers,
cloud upon cloud upon cloud,
that never lift from the English sky.
There is no privacy
in the poorhouse,
no space
for my own thoughts.
But when I go out
beyond the endless rows of cots
(jammed
together
like so many
matchsticks
in a box)
beyond the walls
I find that the very air
is thrumming with ideas
whispers
on wing beats
pumping
pumping
pumping.
listen
Every day
I make my escape
from Papa and Marcus davening
Benjamin and Nathan bickering
Mama worrying
when
will we leave this awful place?
from the poorhouse
where the noise
of so many people
packed together
clangs against the brick walls
clamoring for the high windows
clamoring for a way out.
I walk to the seaport
watch the boats come in
and go out
grand crafts with billowing sails
stout steamships belching smoke
wish for the day
when our ship will come.
I feel like a falcon
tethered
tied down
while an eager wind
beckons.
On the streets
I listen to the speakers
rallying the onlookers
to their cause
anarchists
fundamentalists
royalists.
I do not agree
with everything I hear
but I am enthralled
with this place
where the streets do not clog with mud
in the autumn rains
where elegant houses
line neatly cobbled streets
where students of every creed
learn together
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