How little 

I understood you—

the odd click-clack

of your thick heels 

on the scratched 

linoleum floor;

the hills and valleys 

of your mattress 

made from horses’

hair

where I slept fitfully,

head to toe,

with you and my baby

brother.

Your apartment smelled

of concrete walls

damp with years of sadness

and the constant 

steamy boil

in the kitchen 

only big enough 

for you,

where you kneaded

and stirred 

and baked 

your broken memories.

Once you told me

that in the Old World, 

your house had mud floors.

But that was all.

You didn’t speak of your mother,

who taught you never 

to think of yourself,

only others.

You said nothing 

of your father—

Was he kind to you?

Did he look upon you

gently?

And never did you 

dare reveal

the terror 

that chased you all

away,

or your churning misery

as you grasped 

your growing belly,

praying to your Jealous G-d

for smooth seas

and a healthy boy.

I wish I could visit you again.

we would drink milky coffee

and eat stale bread,

as you liked to do 

when you were alone.

And you could tell me

the story

of the big metal spoon

that you chose 

to carry with you

and which, somehow, 

had become mine.