Salman Masalha
Vivian Eden ||
WANDERING JEWS
Uncle Mendel, who had hair like
David Ben Gurion, was a payntner,
walls, not pictures. Afraid
of heights, he wouldn't climb ladders
or paint above the second floor. In New York.
Short on dollars, he saved a dime.
One Jewish New Year, Roish Hashona,
Mendel circled around the very big table
(eight aunts, eight uncles and Zaydeh remained),
dunking the one teabag into seventeen
yahrzeit glasses, not china cups,
of freshly boiled water.
Eppis, gezint, nu, takkeh, schoin
they'd chatter, and clink the glasses,
after dinner, Lishona toiva tikasevu,
as the younger cousins played team-tag
in English in the second-floor apartment
that smelled of mothballs and kasha,
keeping strictly out of The Boarder's room
while the older cousins
“went out for a walk,”
coming back smelling of smoke.
Aunt Rosie, who had hair like
Golda Meir, took in foster kids,
ninety of them in forty years. One made
money – In business? In crime? – died
young and left her a legacy in his will
so with bundles of kosher pots (dairy, not meat),
teabags and kasha, Rose and Mendel wandered,
by ship, not plane: Liverpool, Lisbon, Gibraltar,
Haifa, Marseilles, Buenos Aires and back.
Eppis, gezint, nu, takkeh, schoin,
Lishona toiva tikasevu.
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