Would you like to help support strangeroad? Click below to donate.
Louise G. Crawford
Yiddishe Mama
Such a balabusta
I am
bringing this tin
of homemade cookies
More fodder for
your extravagant elucidations
your theoretical be-bop
Chewing them slow
you savor the X-ray view
swallowing the id of me
Flavorful, rich
Freudian frosting
Purveyor of
phantasmic erogeny
and childhood suffering
I whipped up these
mnemonics of small
sweet longing
in my hot basement kitchen
For your plaisir
and your analysis, of course
Sugar on your lips
you lean forward
eyes shut tight
receptor of
psychoanalytic radio signals
and riff radiantly on my
unconscious confections
Take them for what they are
my cookies
are yours
The Bronx
No blue embroidered prayer shawl to daven in
No kipah to cover your poet's skull
No fountain pens
or Bundist Bar Mitzvah pictures
to share with your thirteen year old boy
No challah, or phonetic Hebrew
for hungry blessings on Shabbas nights
Your parents were
going to change the world
with mortal hands and kreplach
"God is nowhere," they said
Zayde's tfillin locked away
with Russian shul memories
in the broom closet
But God was everywhere
Even on Yom Kippur
when you ate cheeseburgers
in the red communal cafeteria
of your trade union apartment building
God was loving each and every atheist in the Bronx
Especially you
Without
It's a small death each and every
Tuesday when I lose you
to the buzzer at six p.m.
You practically push me out the door
No sun warms my refugee shoulders
on your stone cold stoop
Backwinded, struggling to regain buoyancy
wondering which new port will receive my penury
arms
The dismal neglect of your half-drawn shade
and your air conditioner's steadfast humming
for the person who comes after
Their spellbinding specificity echews mine
If I go to Jack's I'll see my boy
He always has enough time for me
Send us your comments on this article
