Marjorie Deiter Keyishian



We are moving out of winter

as if that dreary old fool were a town

slum. Emerging as a fat snake cracks his tight

skin, we are setting out, wet and glistening,

all soft underbelly,

In the rain, in grey April, forced forsythia

we carry instead of the copper and brass,

instead of a mattress,

instead of the books.

Look at all we left behind.

In a hundred years, when we turn again

to this part of the world, the family that

has hold of our house may ask us in, may ask us,

"What gold did you bury?" and, licking their lips,

greasy with the young lamb they sacrificed

for spring's sake, they'll dig. They will tell us

they have always lived in our houses,

the ones we surrendered, deserted, decided against.

They will envy us the voyage, though they'd

not have gone--pregnant as Mary,

old as Job,

to die, as Moses did, by the wayside.

Would he bloom every year at every table had he lived longer?



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© 2007 Women in Judaism, Inc.

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