Summer 1982 • Vol. IV No. 3 Contemporary American PoetryJuly 1, 1982 |

The Eyes

A colored psychoanalyst?Sorry. You want me to sit here?You look half-Jewish. My wife's friendBelle nudged me to come. I hopeYou're not a Muslim. Do you haveA son? Sorry. "Why?"I can see pain in your eyes—My field is ophthalmology,Or was. I'm not retired, butI can't work. I guess that's why I've come . . . I joined a shul to give my son a homeAfter I died—with nostalgic smells:Satin and parchment. Who believedThe Auschwitz God could hear a prayer?Him!: "When the black plague destroyedHalf Europe's Christians, they fell to their kneesAnd found cause in their own lackOf faith." I wanted to stop there—The satin, the parchment. My wifeIgnored me, dug out her mother's shawlAnd bentsht lichtn each Friday night.And we had seders every spring,And sang in grass Quonset hutsOn Sukkos, and wept Kol Nidre nights . . You want to hear "a dream?" My sonDrifts from heaven in a parachuteDavning, a baby in a swing,At eighteen pretty as his mother,Eyes the color of Israel's flag.SUNSET IN L

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