​Budapest 1945

​
                         How clever 
we were to hide the can of pears         
beneath the bedding in the basement 
where maybe a dozen families lived with
a handful of strangers, sheltered 
from the bombing.

                                   And how foolish! 
To hide the pears from our liberators — 
gaunt bearded Russians who festooned 
their arms with our watches, adorned
their fingers with our wedding rings
then turned their eyes on me, at fourteen
too young even to understand
their glances, their captain’s nod.

                        But how wise 
that elegant whore who knew just enough 
Russian, flattered the captain, and led
each of the men . . . six, seven, eight . . .
into the darkest part of the cellar where
I would never go, where years later 
I would never have to dwell with my husband
my three daughters, my two sons.

​



Exchange of Gifts


On Christmas Day, wraith-like she
appears and re-appears every hour
or two, making the long journey from 
the bed in Colette’s bedroom to the 
chair in the parlor.  She points to her
daughter, explaining to me, “That’s
Margie,” as if to say, “In case you 
don’t remember.  Your sister.”  

Then back to bed.  The question 
none of us asks hangs in the air.  Instead,
we sit in a circle, and one at a time hand- 
deliver the presents we, for all intents
and purposes, bought for ourselves,
brand names and sizes e-mailed 
long in advance.  

In bed, she lies with eyes awake 
to the ceiling.  I sit beside her, talking 
in a voice too low for her to hear much, 
if anything.  Still, my hands stroke her arms,
play with the fineness of her hair.  It isn’t much, 
but enough to spark a moment of clarity:  
“You’re a good boy,” she says, and releasing me, 
directs: “Go, do what you have to do.”