Poetry

There was a burst
of static
on radios
all over the city

My mother died on Shavuot, at the end of
the Counting of the Omer.
Her oldest brother died in 1916; he fell in the war.

In the night shop’s Gothic theater,
where unstrung carcasses of violins
and cellos are laid out on tables

To find my childhood. My God! Empty pigeon coops.
I ate rotten oranges and old pieces of paper.

That shallow fast-running

  creek. White
rapids. The mud-colored
  water breaking
in anger brittle as
  bone.