Working in Flour
Filed in poems,works, January 10, 2011, 6:54 am(from Working in Flour)
When I walked into the bakery at my usual time
asking politely for two marble cookies,
a fudgy chocolate drop rising from the chocolate swirls,
Ida Kaminsky, who came from strong Russian stock—
a hearty vegetable stew, spicy meats rolled in
cooked cabbage—winked and asked if I wanted a job.
She offered me two bucks an hour,
half off on the marble cookies, and anything
not sold at the end of the day might also be mine,
I put on an apron, pushed through
the swinging doors to help the bakers.
The smell of flour was thick
and tree pollen spotted the windows.
Tall and freckled, Max, the other assistant,
squeezed my hand, “I’ll show you what to do.”
He taught me how to use the cake decorator,
how to prepare the éclairs and put them in their doilies,
then pointed out the brooms and mops, the industrial
strength cleansers, the double sink
with rubber hoses coiled in it. “You don’t want
paste to harden in the bowls.”
From across the room, where he scooped chocolate chip
cookie batter onto a baking tray, Julius, the baker,
snapped, “Make sure you tell him, Everything
has to be spick-and-span.” The flies heard him
and flew off the lip of the sink toward the light fixtures.
Soon I began sneezing, my hapless a-choos
running down spotted walls, glistening
on my face and hands as I pumped the custard
through a nozzle into the delicate éclair rolls.
Later, when I worked on cleaning the floors,
Max yelled at me for spreading the dirt
in circles with my mop.
I stepped back, kicking over the bucket of lye,
All in a day’s work, I thought.
The next morning, Ida Kaminsky cornered me,
“I liked you better as a customer.”
I folded my apron neatly without arguing back
picked up my bag of cookies
and walked out into the bright spring air,
where now I understood my mother’s comment,
“You’re allergic to work” and where, for a moment,
I stopped sneezing.
Phaeton
Filed in poems,works, , 6:53 am(from Working in Flour)
History tells the story
again and again. Horses buck.
A chariot runs wild, reins ripped
from the son’s grasp. Missiles fall.
Below, seeds blow through armored bellies.
A rainbow floats south in the tarry ooze.
The mangled armies clash in the dust.
Villages collapse into sinkholes.
Families lie under debris.
The son says a prayer,
rampaging over charred roads.
I Did It
Filed in poems,works, , 6:53 am(from Working in Flour)
I took all the free samples
at the chocolate shop
even though the lady
behind the counter frowned
after my first handful
and tried to wrest
the basket from my grip. I walked out
without buying a single chocolate,
though I had sat there for hours
sipping hot water through a straw.
I know what you think: I give Jews
a bad name, even though I’m small
and furry like a nice pet,
except for the hackles
and jagged teeth,
which sometimes wound my lips.
At the diner I asked so many
questions about the dinner specials
the waitress never came back to our table
and I haggled with a spider
over the cost of a fly
for so many hours he dropped
from exhaustion, breaking
into tears. And I demolished
a whole chicken, but didn’t
empty the bones
from the plate in the Fridge.
I did it: I broke a seal,
stuck the label on the sink,
called you sweetie
when I meant something else.
No, this was not shame
or guilt. It was not
the usual desire to punish. I did it
quick as a passing thought.
The dog couldn’t believe
my audacity, and howled
for help. The canary wrote
a letter to our congressman,
complaining about the state
of the union, spitting out seeds
as she spoke. I left the seat up,
a trail of yellow drips,
my piss sweet as a valentine
burning the tiles.
Rosh Hashanah
Filed in poems,works, January 8, 2011, 6:06 pmRosh Hashanah
“This is a time for reflection,”
Rabbi Borax says in a mass email.
I hold my own service.
The moths clinging to the screens
pray to get in. The orchids open
their lovely legs. At the end
of the row, crows badger
each other over hymnals.
I cut the shofar loose.
My dog smells the blasts
and heads downstairs.
What kind of Jew am I?
The kind women at cash registers
glare at, the kind with scalloped
edges and frayed hair,
whose voice rises into prophetic zeal
over the slightest hint of a problem.
I smell tsimmes, brisket,
roasted potatoes, kugel.
I smell candles burning,
and apples dipped in honey
a thousand miles away.
No one in the community
invites me for dinner.
They probably don’t even know
I know I’m Jewish.
I remember floods,
earthquakes, bombings,
diseases, deaths—
the misery in 2008.
Why would anyone argue
over their Jewishness?
I flick the lights to get God’s
attention. I draw another glass
of wine from the box. I’m
my own shabbos goy,
carrying enough cash
to get in to a movie
and buy some popcorn.
This year will be another year
of war just like last year.
What should I pray for,
a little less blood,
another day on earth?
I bless my wife, my dog,
everyone I love
and everyone I don’t love.
I do not bless the new year of kings.
I bless the new year of new years,
the act of creation.
Let’s begin again.
