Poetry

A day comes
when it has always been winter,
will always be winter.

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

Combing my hair, a sudden snarl
in the pink teeth.

How silent, death entering.

Wind does one thing with clouds,
 another with leaves;
the clouds go, go, go; the leaves