Four Poems from the "Dear Sal" Series

ONE:

Mt. Casanova tells me a story:

My mother told me this & I tell it to you. Many years ago there was a bakery; a very curious bakery. The man who owned the bakery, he made the finest rugelach in Russia. The bakery was situated under the earth, beneath the original bakery, which had been his parents’, & which had been, along with his parents, burned to a crisp in a pogrom. Before I continue, there is a bit of the myth about this story, so I will thank you not to question the logic. Save the math for the math, got it? So the baker, he worked in this underground bakery. Day in & day out. Say his parents were somehow wealthy, had been saving to come to America for years. Say he wanted for nothing. Say his ingredients came from where his ingredients came from; the point is he baked rugelach all day long in this little bakery under the earth. As I said, the finest rugelach in Russia. But. He sold none of it, gave none of it away, ate none of it himself. Day in & day out he broke the eggs, sifted the flour, rolled the dough; sweating, cursing, singing to himself the songs that bakers sing. & then the steaming trays of rugelach would be placed on the counter to cool until the end of the day when he would feed them to the fire. & on & on & no one ever had any idea; no one knew about this rugelach genius (the Rachmaninoff of Rugelach, they would have called him) & because the bakery was under the ground, no one smelled the dazzling smells. Every night he would walk home again & go to sleep in his little room, crushed into his little bed by this routine put in place by no one. Living in a constant state of vexation. Walking home, blind with vexation, walking to the bakery, blind with vexation. Walking & walking, to & from; past the busy chickens, the giggling children, the beggar starving to death across the road.



TWO:

Tell me about the mosquitoes, Sal.

               My blood is a song in my mother’s mouth.
                              My blood is the hem of my sister’s dress.
                                             My blood is my father’s silent surrender.

                                                            Tell me about the mosquitoes, Sal.

                                             My blood is a ghost-wave radio.
                              My blood is a city of refugee children.
               My blood is soap for a Frenchman’s hands.

Tell me about the mosquitoes, Sal.

                My blood is a book I can’t read my way out of.
                               My blood is a mirror I can’t see.  

                                              Tell me about the mosquitoes, Sal.

                               Tell them about me.




THREE:

Again desire begins to feel like a punishment for itself.

                 You have desired & so therefore you shall desire. & so therefore
                 your palms become little wastelands, a pair of mattresses
                 blown into a field                                              blossoming with shrapnel.

is what the Dust-God says. Shadow-boned, oil-slick
for a mouth. Each night he swallows me whole, passes me
through the darkened rooms of his body.

                In the kitchen you braid seven rivers for the bread.
                In the study you waltz by the light of burning books.
                In the bedroom you touch yourself with your wings.

Touching nothing, I stand by the window, celebrated bodies
moving in the streets, this old god looming at my back.

               Look at all that I have made.
               Too miraculous to turn from
               or to ruin with
                               your hands.






FOUR:

My Aunt:

No no is no good. For so long alone? Is breaking! A man no
is clock, only for see the pass of time. Hands we need hands
hands. To make the Name singing here. Inside. From kestrels  
to seagulls to vulgar pigeons you come, and space only your
body to hold against? My nephew. Is no good! Inside. Inside
swans still. Yes you no say is not. Swans and the memory
of your darling star. Am I speaking right? Your darling star,
your, ech! You to touch must fly. Is true! You to touch. Yes.
Goodbye the dust                                                             and go.