Vinni Marie D'Ambrosio, Ph.D. |
Poet/Scholar |
by Vinni Marie D'Ambrosio, in Reconstructionist and Life of Touching Mouths |
On the Fifth Anniversary of Bluma Sach's Death
Who knew her- (God, all refused her!) the Polish refugee, caught seven times in the Jew net?
Old and fat and poor.
Halls of applause rattling in a patched brain.
At last we met and I wanted her inside my door.
She came. I poured the vermouth of old sunrises and said, Borrow my piano in the mornings, Bluma.
And her arms flew, and golden raisins gleamed at the elbow, and her dying skin was heaving dough.
Done, shoulders damp, she'd talk beneath the parrots and swans in the Roman garden painted on my wall. Wild Schumann huddled beneath mute feathers, ghastly parades of brothers and children kissed with soft beaks, and I always said, Tell me more!
Once the pain pushed her to draw a line: It is not fine of you, she said. We stared at wine, and spoke no more of Poland.
In Warsaw's winter, once she bartered, she the ripe artist battered her piano for a shredding quilt. My guilt is worse. I handed her a sieve of hours, and as return peered under old leaves at the haunted bird.
I will go into the small black room where my work lies scattered and the letters on the keys are trembling fires and the linoleum is a rag of ice under my penitent feet.
But Bluma, those mornings- how the bright rooms laughed with music while we wept! |
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