In the meantime, some new poems from the Raizl/Rachel/Rasia series. More about those can be found in this entry.
Rachel, Westchester, 1975
The kitchen floor,
once a linoleum chess board,
is a junkyard of errant paint drops,
streaks of buttercup and cyan,
vermilion and cream.
Rose thinks it's wonderful,
tells everyone that her mother
is an artist
who doesn't believe in vacuums,
walks barefoot to the mailbox
and once served toast and pickles
for dinner. Rose, the dreamer,
Brailles the blue drops on the cupboard doors,
Rachel's red thumbprint
on the oven.
Rasia, Oberlangen, 1944
Jaga is a stout woman.
She once stood toe-to-toe with a blizzard
as the wind laughed away her shouted orders.
No one knows how her dresses stay so crisp,
so fixed at attention, firing off her shoulders.
She is king of the camp. Nevermind the Germans.
Even they respect Jaga.
When December howled into January,
Jaga assembled the flagging Resistance women
in the center of camp, announced
Marianna's baby is due in two weeks.
And he will live naked, because his mother has nothing.
Twelve days later, the women presented Marianna
with an entire wardrobe of baby clothes
made of yarn scraps and the bottom inches of dresses.
Rasia is quiet in the camp.
She follows Jaga's orders - the official ones
and the ones that come through the chain of command
in the barracks, during sleepless nights.
They are stockpiling nails, screws, rocks -
preparing an uprising. During the day,
Jaga advocates for church services and music,
to drive away suicide threats. The Germans comply.
It is a POW camp, if an illegal, hidden one.
On the third day, Rasia crouched against the outside wall
of the barracks, bleeding fists of tissue and swallowing moans.
Jaga found her before evening rations,
studied Rasia's sweaty hair, the dark, indelible bloom
beneath her. She held a hand out to Rasia
and pulled her to her feet.
"At least you won't have to worry how to clothe it,"
was all she said.
Rachel, Westchester, 1978
"Mama," says Rose,
still her mother's dreamer,
even in coveralls and a sloppy haircut,
"her name is Elizabeth. And I love her."
Rachel holds a scream in her belly.
She puts her mug down,
rattling it into the saucer,
looks over Rose's shoulder
at her newest, unfinished painting.
It's a field of cattails,
deer-munched and bristly.
"We'll talk about this later,"
she tells Rose's trembling face.
She stands, goes toward the easel,
a few knuckles lightly grazing
her daughter's cheek as she passes.
She doesn't hear Rose's hard breath,
or her exit, doesn't register the acid
in her throat.
Her hands shake just enough
to show the wind in the cattails.
Rasia, Mazoweickie, Poland, 1943
She didn't know who fired the first shot.
Later, she would guess: Zuzanna, Aleksy,
Elzbieta - all the company sharpshooters.
By then, she would know the difference
between a warning shot and a kill shot.
She would quietly marvel
that they had wasted a bullet
on her, filthy possum, scarcely more
than a starving tangle of hair.
Aleksy told her once -
"It was the fire in your step.
We could tell you had lost everything,
and you were still walking. We needed fighters
like you."
She still changed her name.
Rachel, Westchester, 1975
The kitchen floor,
once a linoleum chess board,
is a junkyard of errant paint drops,
streaks of buttercup and cyan,
vermilion and cream.
Rose thinks it's wonderful,
tells everyone that her mother
is an artist
who doesn't believe in vacuums,
walks barefoot to the mailbox
and once served toast and pickles
for dinner. Rose, the dreamer,
Brailles the blue drops on the cupboard doors,
Rachel's red thumbprint
on the oven.
Rasia, Oberlangen, 1944
Jaga is a stout woman.
She once stood toe-to-toe with a blizzard
as the wind laughed away her shouted orders.
No one knows how her dresses stay so crisp,
so fixed at attention, firing off her shoulders.
She is king of the camp. Nevermind the Germans.
Even they respect Jaga.
When December howled into January,
Jaga assembled the flagging Resistance women
in the center of camp, announced
Marianna's baby is due in two weeks.
And he will live naked, because his mother has nothing.
Twelve days later, the women presented Marianna
with an entire wardrobe of baby clothes
made of yarn scraps and the bottom inches of dresses.
Rasia is quiet in the camp.
She follows Jaga's orders - the official ones
and the ones that come through the chain of command
in the barracks, during sleepless nights.
They are stockpiling nails, screws, rocks -
preparing an uprising. During the day,
Jaga advocates for church services and music,
to drive away suicide threats. The Germans comply.
It is a POW camp, if an illegal, hidden one.
On the third day, Rasia crouched against the outside wall
of the barracks, bleeding fists of tissue and swallowing moans.
Jaga found her before evening rations,
studied Rasia's sweaty hair, the dark, indelible bloom
beneath her. She held a hand out to Rasia
and pulled her to her feet.
"At least you won't have to worry how to clothe it,"
was all she said.
Rachel, Westchester, 1978
"Mama," says Rose,
still her mother's dreamer,
even in coveralls and a sloppy haircut,
"her name is Elizabeth. And I love her."
Rachel holds a scream in her belly.
She puts her mug down,
rattling it into the saucer,
looks over Rose's shoulder
at her newest, unfinished painting.
It's a field of cattails,
deer-munched and bristly.
"We'll talk about this later,"
she tells Rose's trembling face.
She stands, goes toward the easel,
a few knuckles lightly grazing
her daughter's cheek as she passes.
She doesn't hear Rose's hard breath,
or her exit, doesn't register the acid
in her throat.
Her hands shake just enough
to show the wind in the cattails.
Rasia, Mazoweickie, Poland, 1943
She didn't know who fired the first shot.
Later, she would guess: Zuzanna, Aleksy,
Elzbieta - all the company sharpshooters.
By then, she would know the difference
between a warning shot and a kill shot.
She would quietly marvel
that they had wasted a bullet
on her, filthy possum, scarcely more
than a starving tangle of hair.
Aleksy told her once -
"It was the fire in your step.
We could tell you had lost everything,
and you were still walking. We needed fighters
like you."
She still changed her name.
