(Tel Aviv, 1940)
It arrived—New
York via Haifa—
large and black as a coffin.
Like squirrels at a
feeder in winter
they swarmed around it. The key…
Where was the key?
Screwdriver and hammer
in hand,
a family of yeggs, they pried at
recalcitrant locks till they
gave. The little foxes slipped into
the vineyard.
Tohu vabohu all about:
Mounds of crumpled dresses w/ yellow
silk roses, w/ flounces, w/ mother-of-
pearl collars; picture hats w/ plastic
cherries, black lacquered pill boxes;
a hurly-burly of high-heeled shoes
Imelda would have envied; and nests
of scrambled, mismatched mylons.
Clearly other grave-robbers
had preceded
them. "The jewelry… where's the
jewelry?" raved the Father, digging-in
like a crab in sand.
"The fur coat's missing."
Mother's
stoic tones. "Customs! They stole it
at customs." Father.
"We should have gone
to Haifa… be there
when Customs opened it…" Mother.
Should have. Always… A life built
on should haves.
The truth
was late emerging: the Uncles in
American had sold the furs and jewels
soon after they found her, counter to
her will.
But the lonely teenager
in high heels, picture hat & flounced
dress—acne & adams apple contrasting
w/
a gash of red from his mother's lipstick-
saw in the mirror of the darkened room
the ghost of that lovely lady
and for a moment became
her.
