Aba says in a blizzard, fill the bathtub.
With firewood. Aba says a leaky roof
is a blessing. Provided
the bucket. To melt
snow. With fire. We gather.
All the trees in Queens. Shake
& shiver. My axe
cannot approximate.
My axe is a plastic bottle. Filled with club
soda. I wonder
when it unfreezes,
will it explode. Aba says: Light
of my eyes,
where are you getting your science.
I no longer know. I used to believe
in string theory. But the field
breaks. Too many. Rules.
& you can’t quantify nor quantum
even a drop of rain—everything’s just
too damn big. For models that would prove. The rules. Tried & still
not true. The roof is always leaking. The bathtub is a mass
grave of trees. Aba says go outside
before it’s too late. But I have. I’ve seen.
In a public bathroom I hide
with many other women
from a storm. The leaky roof
fills with cinders & once more.
A dead bird. One of us screams.
They all scream. When I pick him
up off the slimy floor. Pick
the maggots from his body.
Soon. I have the bathroom. To myself.
In public. I have an entire sanctuary.
Of sorts. To mourn. When I bring the dead
home. Aba tears at his clothes & covers
the mirrors. Won’t let me burn
the body. Says even birds died
in the Shoah’s desperate, hungry hands.
Days before the bodies were turned
to ash. Perhaps this bird too descends
from a lone survivor. We cry for
his mother. We cry for my grandmother.
Free up the bathtub & flood our home.
With rainwater. Float
a burning, empty pyre.
I say: Aba, this isn’t what we do
either. Aba says: It’s too late
to go outside. Which I do. I try.
I dig & dig.
For dirt, defying
my father.
I lose
the feeling
in my hands. In snow
that doesn’t quite stick
to the ground. Night falls
& his body stays warm
under my layers
drenched. From
sleet & sweat.
I won’t give
in. Birds gather around me. Dark lights
against blue cement. They wait it out.
They stay perfectly still.
Right out in the open.
Source: Poetry (February 2019)
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