I wonder what secrets you left unsaid, 
Old Man, during those angry years, during
those always-silent dinners, your eyes boring
into the table, your teeth tearing the bread.

What thoughts remained unspoken, Old
Man, during those never-at-home times, during
those second-job-at-night years, mother wearing
thin, kids staying away, not needing to be told.

I wonder what stories were rendered in your mind, 
Old Man, during those voiceless weeks at the end,
those keeping-you-comfortable weeks, no friends
visiting, just the ones you would leave behind,

remembering the sting from your belt, your fist, 
your few-but-caustic words, when now we reminisce.

-----

I wonder, Old Woman, what secrets you left unsaid, 
during those can’t-get-out-of-bed days, 
those kids-ran-wild mornings, the always
dirty house, full ashtrays, no butter for our bread.

What feelings remained unspoken, Old
Woman, during those leave-me-alone times,
those go-outside-and-play days, give the kid a dime,
anything, just get away, out-you-go, no coat in the cold.

I wonder what stories spun out in your mind,
Old Woman, strapped in a wheelchair by your bed,
all the things you swallowed, fake-smile-and-denial instead;
kids didn’t visit much, long gone, leaving you behind.

We remember the cold and the lies, being left alone 
while you slept – a house with no warmth, not a home.
                        

Horseradish, grated, 
mixed with vinegar,
a little sugar, salt,
in a white porcelain bowl
with its own silver spoon
resting on the rim,
ready to spread
over the gefilte fish
that Bubbee makes.

She rubs raw whitefish 
against a chrome grater,
then onions, carrots,
a bit of skin off her knuckles.
Adds eggs, a sprinkle of flour,
pepper and salt.
Shapes with wet hands,
poaches in bubbling broth.

Horse:		Zaydee gets up at 3 a.m., 
			heads for the stable.
			Oats in feedbag, curry comb,
			harness, wagon, off to Haymarket
			to buy potatoes, cabbage, grapefruit and pears,
			a little penny candy for the kids.
			Holds the reins lightly
			up and down the neighborhoods,
			calls to the housewives
			a nickel a carrot, an apple a dime.

Back home at mid-day, 
a mountain of coins on the kitchen table.
My Zaydee, a rich man.

Radish: 		Thin red sharpness
			lurking among the bland green 
			iceberg and cukes.
			Tangy crunch.
			Don’t offer it to a horse, says Zaydee.
			He’ll think it’s going to be an apple
			then spit it out all over you.


Lunchtime.
Horseradish on gefilte fish 
for Zaydee,
salad, rye bread,
buttermilk.

Blintzes fried in butter for me,
a busy day in the kitchen.
Oy vey, oy vey, tired feet.
Inside, cottage cheese
and farmer’s cheese,
sugar, egg yolk, vanilla.
Sour cream – not horseradish! – on top.