Re-Takes: Moses's Wife / Geppetto

What Moses's Wife Says

back in the old country

I was a well-respected baker

people spoke lovingly about my babka

but that Moses

he was always in such a rush

"leave the yeast," he scolded

"pack my alarm clock"

feh on him 

my mother warned me 

I should have listened

you know what is his greatest pleasure these days?

that Burning Man mishegas

last time he came home he told me to call him

Moses-on-Fire

("Fire," for short)

I said to him

go clean out the basement

I'm tired of tripping over your

knicks and your knacks

What Geppetto Does Not Understand

Geppetto

what did you expect would happen when

out of the blue

you had a little boy 

living with you

you called him

your son

but the villagers could see 

that was not possible

his sharp pointy nose

in contrast to your own

flat wide one

and also

who was his mother?

no explanation would have been believable

so you said nothing

which was smart

since you were always a terrible liar

though Pinocchio was just the opposite

the people didn't like the boy

they didn't like him one bit

and soon they could not bear the sight of you, either

they whispered and gossiped

and when they spoke your name

more often than not

they also spat on the ground

oh Geppetto

you were too soft for your own good —

tears in your eyes when the village women

refused to sell you eggs or milk anymore

then your business dried up

(how is it possible, you asked yourself,

that no one has need of a woodcarver?)

and all the while

you only had eyes for your little Pinocchio

Nocci, you called him

or Pinny —

there were other endearments as well

your whole life you'd dreamed 

of having a son

all those plans you made — 

fishing! —

isn't that what fathers and sons did?

but Pinocchio

wasn't interested in fishing

he couldn't hold still for a minute

always pacing around the cottage

getting into this and that

up-ending your little jars and containers

spilling nails and pins all over the place

your tiny silver screws

so precious to you

rolled under the floorboards

never to be seen again

you didn't scold him

he didn't apologize

you toasted his bread over the open fire

until the day you ran out of flour

and the miller turned you away

no flour for the likes of you, he said

you wondered

what are the likes of me?

the people had turned against you

and that was that

before winter came

you and your boy

were gone

small poems: early 2014

lining up all my pens

new year

I am ready for you

January irises

filling the space

between us

moving the photograph 

an inch to the left —

the still life becomes

an altar

cracked

the teapot you gave me 

for my birthday

back when we were still 

best friends

gray day —

I could always pin 

a pink plastic peony

to the collar 

of my black winter coat

something as simple

as moving the garbage cans —

this crow can't take his eyes off me

winter daydream —

in six month we'll go on a picnic — 

who will we be then?

a twist of tissue

grandmother's bookmark

nestled between War and Peace

gone

the warmth of your hands —

last winter's mittens

come closer

speak to me of Paris

while the streets of this city fill with snow

dusty and untuned —

your piano —

such a melancholy day

second-hand quilt

no memories

no comfort

my fake smile 

smoothing itself out —

at last the train leaves the station

in her kitchen window

a vase of silk daffodils —

my good neighbor

all day

on the other side of the window

crow — 

yes, you

wherever I go

it follows me —

this wretched cough

the difference between yesterday and today

is the difference between February and March —

later I'll go in search of flower buds

neighbor crow

your impatience teaches me

patience

Saturday night

party time —

slow dancing to Mozart adagios

delicate Japanese cup

you lived with me for 28 years

shattered in a careless moment

   I tuck the shards

   among the Clementine peels

   and tie up the trash bag

hello butterfly!

this busy intersection

crow keeps careful watch

once there was a frog

who fell in love with the moon —

I am that frog

gone — a small blue stone

from my new earring —

no point in crying —

wabi sabi

wabi sabi: acceptance of transience and imperfection

library book

lost and found —

someone else's long gray hair

calm and content —

all the houseplants —

waiting for the storm

one after another

3 candles burn out —

heavy snowfall

shaking off snow

neighbor crow 

re-claims his dignity

how far did I walk this morning

back and forth

with my yellow shovel

heart racing

getting nowhere

early morning walk —

a different route each day

just to confuse the crows

"not far

as the crow flies" —

but we are not crows

the horizon

still out of reach

rocks

in the stream bed —

their winter was also long

the distance between us

I'll draw the map

you color it in

crossing the bridge —

where are the koi?

long gone…

where are you, my friend?

long gone

5 women in a boat

circling the shore —

only one is a ghost

neighbor crow

with his drum and kazoo

flying off to welcome spring

this morning

not a single person

returned my Hello —

but oh

the crows the crows the crows

Burlington, Vermont — June, 2013

out of the rain and into a tea shop

we lunge for the last available table 

drop our wet things onto an empty chair 

shake ourselves off

the menu is brought by a young man with an old face

he brings a small brass bell, too

we are instructed to ring the bell 

after we've considered all the tea choices

which are mind-numbingly numerous

we are still dripping rain all over ourselves

not in the best of moods

the day got off to a rocky start

we don't sleep well in hotels

I'm not wearing the right shoes

your eyes are burning from allergies

but here is the menu

a dense tome devoted to all things Tea

and also, the little bell

it is all so dear and pretentious and exactly what it should be

you order something chilled and milky and sweet

I order lavender tea

we ask the waiter to leave the bell right there 

in the middle of the table

in case we just want to ring it again for no reason at all

we stay a long time

you order a second cup of chilled tea

I ask for something different 

something that doesn't taste like drinking a bubble bath

we watch as the candle 

(not really a candle —

more like a blob of wax in a small glass dish 

with a wick that seems like an afterthought)

burns out

after a while

you look out the window and say

it has stopped raining

later

looking back on everything

I think this was the best hour of our trip to Vermont

small poems: from the last few months of 2013

buried beneath all the hats

my favorite mittens

(I thought I lost them)

solstice morning

forcing my steps to slow down —

the sun so late to rise

my proud father

doesn't know how to drive —

posing his daughters

beside a neighbor's car

(I was looking at an old photo of my sister Laura and me, late 1950s, taken near our apartment building in the Bronx. I don't know whose car we were standing in front of but it certainly was not ours; Dad didn't learn how to drive until a few years later.)

hibiscus tea

a deeper red 

steeping into this winter day

oranges for you and me

today, tomorrow —

grandmother's bowl

can it be?

my great-grandmother —

a shadow moving behind

my neighbor's window

a week in West Virginia

weeds as high as my waist

and every night

green beans & ham for dinner —

we never saw each other again

that summer afternoon in Central Park

a thousand strangers chanting om —

the boy next to me

leans his head on my shoulder

and takes a nap

thank you 

for the amaryllis —

yes, it is still blooming —

and you already live

on another continent

a child

both dreamy and wise

polishing a single square

of kitchen linoleum

(Praise song #1031, for Marty Blue Waters. This childhood memory was shared with me the other night as we were drying dishes in our kitchen. Apparently Blue spent about an hour on that square and couldn't understand why her mother wasn't more pleased by her effort!)

6 a.m. or p.m. —

hard to know the difference

December

icy sidewalks

pine cones and one squashed worm —

I step carefully

birds call to one another

admiring my

purple scarf — I'm sure!

under the weight

of 8 rotting pumpkins

my neighbor's sagging porch

my neighbor's front step

plastic pumpkin 

head over heels

Halloween morning

my own shadow

creeps up on me

a shallow hole in Kansas dirt

rainwater reflects 

the moon on my face

walking along

counting my steps

counting my breaths —

a Blue Jay crosses my path

as if to say

lighten up —

a few blocks over

here he is again

checking in —

I bow to the Jay

as he flies away

(encounters with the Buddha early on a Saturday morning)

grey upon grey —

this wet September morning —

until my neighbor turns the corner

under her emerald green umbrella

after the rain

my neighbor's neat rock garden

wilder

rain on a tin roof

watermusic —

nothing to do but listen

morning walk

on the same vine

emerging rose, fading rose

heartflowers

blooming

between each breath

open windows —

my neighbors' well-stocked bookshelves

curious cats

all along the beach

tiny shells

sharing big secrets

listening in —

ocean to moon

and back again —

good night

good night