The Part of Me That's a Jewish Poet

THE PART OF ME THAT’S A JEWISH POET ELVIRA BASEVICH

The part of me that’s a Jewish poet would like to sit

shiva for the rest of my life, raise a monument to Babi Yar

with the objects on my kitchen table: a book

of Italian poetry, a dirty spoon, an unopened bill from

the electric company. Like a spray of machine-gun fire,

a star-rise pierces the bluffs of St. Petersburg,

climbing the cathedrals that are swept up like roses

thrown on a stage. At the feet of ballerinas

pattering behind heavy curtains, dusk lowers its belly

into the dust of blown-out matchsticks

who still cling to their passports and implausible

interpretations of the Old Testament. In the bathtub,

I pour hot water over my limbs. I await a reprieve—

I dislodge a bullet from the Jewish part of my heart.

II.

Beside a Lake

The part of me that’s a Jewish poet would like to

begin training for the Imperial Russian Ballet as soon as possible

to glide over the icy waters that spread in between larches

and smokestacks like raspberry marmalade.

Flying through the air, I’m confetti on New Year’s Eve.

I’m Margarita on her broom. The wet eyes of pine needles

shake in the glass vale of the morning, snow falls from

thin, crooked branches. In the nighttime, everything

you loved floats above the city, folds in its leaves for Daphne

sprinting through the tangle, in case I too decide

to run for my life. But, the truth is, I’m braver than anyone I

know or have read about. I’ve learned to move by watching ordinary objects:

the scaly fragments of bark, the migration

of butterflies, a piece of lace thrown over a sewing machine.

III.

Besides, the part of me that’s a Jewish poet does not want refuge.

Under an overcast sky, for a living, I make passersby believe that anything

is possible—as you must have once believed, briefly.

The part of me that’s a Jewish poet would like to believe, too.

Over the bed in the ward, a small blue light announces a new soul.

Besides, I’ve a new routine. I sit on a park bench talking to myself.

I fold the corners of staircases and climb into my future.

I read the pages of the Haggadah,

as if I were licking sprinkles off an ice cream.

I trade in sentiment as cheap and colourful as the flowers sold in train stations.

Tormented by nostalgia, as by a blackguard

and hungry seagulls, the part of me that’s a Jewish poet

is lost in a parking lot in Detroit. I cannot fake it.

I leap without convincing anyone that I’m a snowflake or a swan.

IV.

At least I am not in love with anybody. But, all the same,

the same part of me asks, aloud, with Amichai—

“Hey you there! (Do you love me?)”—

At least I am not waiting for it to rain frogs

and locusts, in spite of the shattering

of glass and bone, and the torch-lit marches, as midnight

strikes in America. And yet, I can still hear you

whisper in the night, “Yes, I love you. I love you. I love you.”

Exeunt

The part of me that’s a Jewish poet puts

her lips to a mezuzah and presses her mouth down hard.

I want him to feel my breath

through my teeth and spit and gaping nothings.

I make my presence known to the appropriate offices.

On a clear day in December,

a white rosette splits its body as it falls from the sky.

This is how it begins for us.