Pantoum for the Son of a Survivor


The lilacs are in bloom.
Remember your father saying that to you?
It broke the quiet of the car ride home.
His voice cracked on lilacs.

I remember your father saying that to you.
Like many he kept his losses to himself. 
His voice cracked on lilacs.
Nightmares shook his sleep that spring.

Like many he kept his losses to himself,
an understanding between father and son.
Nightmares shook his sleep that spring
in the pitch-black language of his childhood.

An understanding between father and son,
you observed his silence like his German accent.
In the pitch-black language of his childhood,
he spoke to you at fifteen through your mother.

You observed his silence like his German accent.
In sepia photos faces froze during the long exposure.
He spoke to you at fifteen through your mother,
her British inflections clean as scones.

In sepia photos faces froze during the long exposure
—the moon a white satin yarmulke over New Jersey.
Her British inflections clean as scones
made holy your unholy adolescence.

The moon a white satin yarmulke over New Jersey— 
he could have been speaking to you for the first time in a year
making holy your unholy adolescence
telling you all you needed to know.





Husband Baking Bread  


Bless this crust, this feast
Butter yes, honey please
A sprinkling of poppy seeds  
Challah warm from the oven 

Yes butter, please honey 
Wife peach-blossom sweet
Challah warm from the oven
Drop everything and eat

Wife peach-blossom sweet
Robe falls fast as dust
Drop everything and eat
With floury hands rising

Robe falls fast as dust
Disappears into tiles 
With floury hands rising
Knead me until the light

Disappears into tiles
Becomes a loaf of sun
Knead me until the light
Our bodies braid

Becomes a loaf of sun
Open eyes, open mouths
Our bodies braid
Until we are done.