CORA’S POETRY

(dedicated to my late husband, a Holocaust Survivor)

Friday night you are alive again
I strain to hear your whistle
See you burst back into life
In a glorious shower of stars.

Enticed by the wine glass
Watching my single, hopeless tear
You speak your wordless wisdom
Your heavy hands resting on yellow formica.

Treacherous wind
Whips around the northeast corner
Creeps through our thin walls
Rattles windows like bones.

I’ll make tea
You watch the candle
I lit it for you, my dear
No Sabbath for us.

Hear the chimes
The garbage pails crashing
See your man hanging,
He dances in the Gypsy wind.

We are the last of the last
So take your time
Warm yourself
On the copper pot.

I ask, shall I turn up the heat
You answer, suffering is good
I say, one candle can light the darkness
You laugh and say it always goes out.