Poems by Tillie Friedenberg


November 30, 1991|By TILLIE FRIEDENBERG

To Grandpa David, late of Auschwitz


When neighbors light November fires

and landscapes turn the color of grief

When tree limbs shiver,

bony with loss

He goes up in smoke again.

Fall is no celebration of a summer well gathered:

it is a hand not held

a story not told.

The year's small holocaust begins again.

The Zoo That I Am

Every morning

my mooseness upon he

I stumble our hall

to the caffeine-laced brew.

He, full of news,

tries verbal connections,

forgetting each day

that moose in the morning

cannot properly process

two words in a row.

I blink him a sluggish hello.

Through out the cay

my cages unloose

each creature in turn:

lion, fox, rabbit, mule.

I roar, sniff, cower, twitch:

I am a walking zoo.

Comes night

I move into his warmth.

''Come closer, porcupine,'' he says

And I do.

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