———1954
We tumbled from the table, feet drumming the floors.
It was better than Disney’s castle on black-and-white TV,
better than the Fourth over Jamaica Bay. Elijah, a Real
Official Superman, the never-dead, he was about to land
in a whirl of psychedelic lights, a blat of trumpet. Here.
Every lock would shatter, every handcuff, every wrong,
such as my broken piggy bank. Holy fire would rain
like Purim candy. Death would un-die. Which one of us
would get to crack the door? We were bumper cars
at Coney Island, we were Godzilla times three. Oy,
Mom thundered, not the side door, that fool dog
will race into the street. Hey, not the back, bumblebees
fat as B-52s will barge inside. And use your noggin,
not the front, some no-goodnik could take advantage.
Maybe the cellar door, the one we used with bellies
sandy from the beach, to tidy up before we dared step
onto good carpet? Maybe a window, pretty please,
see, the screens are tight, there isn’t so much soot?
Groping for ideas, we slowed, we panted. Felt him
rattling frames in his payas and racing stripes,
the rule-changer, peace-bringer, charioteer crazy
as Chuck Yeager breaking the sound barrier
or Viking’s eleventh rocket cracking the fist of earth.
Then, spang out of options, we bumped to a stop.
Sit down, Dad ordered. Just pretend you opened it.
———2024
Nobody drank from this when it was Grandma Jeane’s.
Once a year she polished it and plunked it on the table
where we endured. Three hours, the story used to plod,
its long straggly caravan crossed the dunes, dipped
into language we weren’t taught by our rebel fathers,
who waited to outlive the old man’s old ways, to be
American men, while we children squirmed, loaded
with grape juice, needing to pee but inexcusable.
Nobody’s used this thing for years, set it by the plate
with little wells—a doll’s dinner, I used to think. But
the exiles ate less inside the story, fed barely enough,
one day at a time, and always plain manna. Nothing
extra. Nothing that grew. No macaroons for being
good. No wonder they lost patience with the plan.
Had to get rescued and pardoned, like my brothers,
kicking and pinching each other underneath the table.
But somehow I caught on, a matzoh crumb of hope,
a teaspoon of charoset sweet-and-spicy on my tongue.
Despite plagues, battles, shalts and thou shalt nots,
men balking and blessing, clever girls got to save
a baby. A woman sang people over a scary no-place
to the shore. I’m laying out a feast, my table laden
with love, stories remade, granddaughters giggling,
chiming in. I fill Elijah’s cup. I sip from it myself.
Kristin Camitta Zimet is the author of Take in My Arms the Dark (Sow’s Ear). Her poetry has been published in twelve countries, shown in museums and art galleries, and performed in venues from arboretums to concert halls.
Photo by shraga kopstein on Unsplash
