My mother, fifty six years later, in the boulevard of
Erezbet-Park, Gödöllö, Hungary
And leaves falling falling down around her
The years fall off her,
as in another poem, tougher,
and there, at the tree-lined boulevard, she'walked lightly, leaning
on her stick. Mummy, I said to her, I want you
running like a girl, running in the boulevard,
I want to photograph you running in the boulevard,
but she didn’t run, my mother, I photographed her weeping
and the leaves fall around her. Nothing has changed in
56 years, she said. Sat on a bench on top of a rocky mound,
as she did many years ago, forgot the inflammation of the gums
and the pains in the knees. With soft, quiet face, listened to the leaves.
the big toe in your slipper
the hair on your thigh smelling of soap
the rustle of a newspaper
At night I dreamt I slept with my husband
in the afternoon.
funny, he said when I told him,
A NIGHT TRAIN TO ASSUAN
Naked and wakeful
to my bed
outside an east wind blows
as if in a hammock
wrapped in sleep
with the desert`s rhythm.
I won`t say
A Canadian woman in her forties
served tea and cookies
at her house in a Toronto suburb
the record-player played from “Jesus Christ Superstar”
a tune she loved.
I saw her for no more than an hour in my life
I never spoke of her before
and I never spoke of her afterwards.
AN EVENING ON A PEDESTRIAN STREET. MY FORTY-SECOND BIRTHDAY.
OR: A POEM ON LIFE`S FRAGILITY.
Three boys were hopping on tiny unicycles,
a circle of people formed around them.
I watched the people watching the boys` acrobatics
I watched you watching the people and the acrobatic boys.
your face shone, a smile on it,
the smile that wasn`t there at the Thai resturant where we sat earlier
with candles and an Arab waiter and an Israeli owner
who`s never been to Thailand,
only the cook was from Thailand -
we asked him about the best time for travel in his country
he replied in quick English, we didn`t understand much.
afterwards we walked ambracing each other,
the warmth of your body through the shirt,
the air had the fragrance
of a shirt-sleeve evening
between us were smells and touches from long ago.
the heat broke by then.
one minute there were boys doing unicycle tricks in the square,
the next they were gone, people crossing the square.
one minute the boys were here, and the next - they were gone.
I DREAM OF YOU GALIA AFTER TWENTY FIVE YEARS
I dream of you, Galia
after twenty five years
your Madonna face, your marble breasts
a man’s dream
you set me in motion now in erotic dreams
touching me, bringing me to the verge
to come with a stranger on the stairs outside.
THE MAN I LOVED
The man I once loved
is all bald by now
growing a belly
the scar on his belly, under his belly-button, is even uglier.
I can’t quite make my mind up
Whether or not I would like to meet
him, by chance.
A SMALL POEM ON SMALL BREASTS
It suits me, being a poet.
if big breasts are prose
and small ones are poetry
then my tits are just the right size,
all the more so since you love them all, just as they are
especially stretched with my arms overhead.
More of my cousin Reuven or: at the Yacht Club, Eilat
I was drinking beer and listening to them talk about him
Someone that worked with him who was a friend of his at work
Someone who knew there was someone like that
Someone who still remembers
I even confess to strangers that I was his cousin,
Because I want to hear more talk about him
Even if it is a story about how
He thought gravitation does not work
And, to demonstrate that, he dropped a TV set off two stories high
Or how he wanted to fly
I’ve also heard of my cousin Reuven
That he was schizophrenic
That nowadays they would have done better with the medications
I’m drinking a pint of beer, a big mug
The beer in my throat is on its way down
Collecting the tears
And to the left are the water the boats the moon and the clear skies
And to the right is the pub with music that penetrates all through my body
And chicks in mini skirts are passing by
Reuven told him, he said, him and Esther who’s just retired
You are my friends, I trust only you
I don’t trust the doctors, tell me if something is wrong with me.
And when he spoke of how he had dropped the TV down
Someone said it was a good thing he didn’t jump himself
To check about gravitation
And the story-teller said, he did jump eventually
But there’s no telling if it was on purpose
Maybe it was another try in flying
And on the day he jumped he told the doctors tie me down
Something is wrong with me, I’m scared
And they said if you say that then everything is fine
And let him go on leave
Afterwards we sneak away from all the others
Sit on armchairs at the hotel poolside
In the pleasant night of Eilat
A full moon, palm trees, some mosquitoes
The sweet nights of Grofit
The white night of Grofit
And talk until four in the morning
Me about Reuven
And him about his brother who was killed in a terror attack on bus 18 in Jerusalem, a year ago.
My aunt Tara already has 60 cats
That was revelead on our last phone call.
When I stayed with them she was feeding
A one eyed, resentful and hostile cat
For another cat she tried her best to get rare
Medications from a doctor friend, in a nearby hospital
And some of her cats were so weak,
That she had to feed them intravenously.
She lived with Lali in a big house
Near a forest, in a suburb of Boston.
60 cats, that’s a lot of milk bowls
Scattered all over the place, not to mention the smell.
The sick ones she kept in the basement.
They had colored tags on their ears
Yellow meant they could roam around the house,
Red meant they could also go outside.
My uncle, Lali, bought an improved computer and a laser printer
And converted his shares into beautiful graphs.
I wanted to write that during breakfast
They were not talking, but that’s not true,
They usually don’t have them together,
Breakfast, lunch or dinner
Twenty seven years ago,
They were my model couple
They were the first married couple
I’ve ever heard say sexy things to one another.
A shirt in blue and green
He actually has a wonderful family, so they say
Four kids, really
A wonderful family.
That’s because he hadn’t married
Me, I tell him.
And do I still see horses,
Pastures, smell of damp, wet chest hair,
A blue shirt with green stripes, lengthwise,
It was such a novelty then, I wore it
Until it was all worn out. I’ve kept
The strong smells. The underarm was already
Torn up, below on the right hand side a hole appeared.
I was mistaken to throw it out.
I do not wish
I do not wish to be
A poet of breasts.
I want healthy breasts, hidden ones
Matter of fact ones that no one ever writes about,
Definitely not me. Hands shiver.
Einstein sings of leaves in the wind.
My mother asks, how do you do that,
Dance as well.
Yellow liquid left its marks on me
One nurse said, it’ll come off in the laundry,
Another nurse stood behind me, to my left, watching,
She would have liked to lay her hand on my head.
The floodlights were turned off, someone darkened
Good morning my left breast
Good morning to the growth in my left tit.
The growth in my left breast will wilt.
What else would rhyme? Shrink
May it all shrink, may it wilt.
Maybe if I say it
Often enough it’ll disappear, wilt,
Go arid, dry out, shrink down, degenerate,
The doctors won’t find it, not even
On x-ray. It won’t be found in ultrasound,
Not in a mammo. They will search for it in old
x-rays. And it will only be present in old
Copies. And will turn yellow like years-old pictures.