The woman sitting alone in the dark
once flew to America to see
a man she had known, someone
who had known her
when they were young, when
they were trapped in a ghetto
in a city where soldiers spat out
German nails and bullets,
where churchgoers spat out Polish.
 
In another picture, Esther looks up,
almost smiling in the one beam
of light in this dark studio
without plants or furniture,
without children’s trophies,
without a chocolate box picture
of herself, young, hair tightly braided,
face sharp, skin clear.
 
A small sparrow, she flew
to America, leaving Israel,
where no one had known her
young, soft hair like challah
tightly braided, eyes 
as sweet as dates.  

She left behind her plants
and furniture, all new.
She left behind the signs,
scripts for a new life,
some in Hebrew, some
in Arabic.  She left behind
the view of orange trees
and ocean, her one companion.
She left it all for America,
the place where the man
she had known lived.
                        

This is not yet Detroit, city
of trees blooming from cold smokestacks,
swallowing books and brick houses whole.
 
Crossing the green, I don’t smell 
the hot rankness of sunlit swamps
or the spiciness of fields filled 
with bitter weeds that descendants will 
savor in venison stew.  
 
True, deer have left their mark, 
but other creatures, even birds, hide
from us, the only humans here.

I brush off spiders’ webs, makers
and prey both gone.  Water hazards
have vanished, leaving only dry hollows.