Sura Ettele
my grandmother,
where are your shtetl albums,
your photoes,
the poems you stitched
to the updown rhythm
of your footpulsed sewing machine,
your knee beating updown time
to the threading of dreams?
What did you write about,
and what did you sew?
I have no photo, no poems,
no dainty yellowing lace,
only this:
That brides used to come to you
to sew for them.
That you escaped Poland
by crossing a river to dry land,
with two-year-old Izzie
at first in your arms,
then up on your shoulders,
and then
as the waters deepened,
Izzie swimming beside you.
That you and small Izzie
touched the other side,
not with the shirts on your backs,
for even these had turned to mud.
There is no suitcase to look for.
You started again
with what you had.
And what you had was
neat arrays
of double helix
symmetry,
collective memories
of an earlier journey,
the crossing of the Red Sea,
a shared family faith
in the inventive, energetic
bringing on of miracles,
the body rhythms
of your sewing machine's poetry,
the pulse of the Song at the Sea.
And what did Miriam,
sister of Moses,
pack
when she, before you,
left in haste?
Did she carry a backpack,
skin of a lamb,
wrapped around a few precious items?
What did a slave girl own?
One item I know she carried:
Her tambourine.
Necessity of life:
a rhythm instrument
to stir the women
to wonder and rejoice
in the energetic, inventive
bringing on of miracles,
and at the wondrous arrival,
feet dry,
on the other side
of the Red Sea,
the very Red Sea
where I snorkel
this sunrise morning.
I swim alongside
a silvery fish
masked in brilliant blue
a sunyellow circle
symmetric round each eye.
We swim in rhythm
side by side
until my fish darts deep.
He travels into the future
with no suitcase.
The symmetries of sunyellow and blue,
the silver swishrhythm of his tailfin
are the stories he'll carry forward
to his children's children.
No suitcase,
wheeled or otherwise.
(Dolphins did not need
to invent the wheel
or the suitcase.
There is nothing they need to carry
outside of their skin.)
Sura Ettele,
my grandmother,
I have no photoes
of your early days,
your mother.
My heart stitches
rhythmic connection
to our shared
great great grandmother
Miriam.
But where is your tambourine?
And suddenly I recall:
in the back seat of the car,
me a little granddaughter in braids,
you would tap a rhythm on my knee
for me to guess the song.
And I always guessed the song.
It is Miriam's song,
the Song at the Sea!
It is the story
that needs no photographs,
the narrative of my pulse,
a rhythmic, durable,
waterproof faith
in the inventive,
energetic
bringing on
of miracles.
,
my grandmother,
where are your shtetl albums,
your photoes,
the poems you stitched
to the updown rhythm
of your footpulsed sewing machine,
your knee beating updown time
to the threading of dreams?
What did you write about,
and what did you sew?
I have no photo, no poems,
no dainty yellowing lace,
only this:
That brides used to come to you
to sew for them.
That you escaped Poland
by crossing a river to dry land,
with two-year-old Izzie
at first in your arms,
then up on your shoulders,
and then
as the waters deepened,
Izzie swimming beside you.
That you and small Izzie
touched the other side,
not with the shirts on your backs,
for even these had turned to mud.
There is no suitcase to look for.
You started again
with what you had.
And what you had was
neat arrays
of double helix
symmetry,
collective memories
of an earlier journey,
the crossing of the Red Sea,
a shared family faith
in the inventive, energetic
bringing on of miracles,
the body rhythms
of your sewing machine's poetry,
the pulse of the Song at the Sea.
And what did Miriam,
sister of Moses,
pack
when she, before you,
left in haste?
Did she carry a backpack,
skin of a lamb,
wrapped around a few precious items?
What did a slave girl own?
One item I know she carried:
Her tambourine.
Necessity of life:
a rhythm instrument
to stir the women
to wonder and rejoice
in the energetic, inventive
bringing on of miracles,
and at the wondrous arrival,
feet dry,
on the other side
of the Red Sea,
the very Red Sea
where I snorkel
this sunrise morning.
I swim alongside
a silvery fish
masked in brilliant blue
a sunyellow circle
symmetric round each eye.
We swim in rhythm
side by side
until my fish darts deep.
He travels into the future
with no suitcase.
The symmetries of sunyellow and blue,
the silver swishrhythm of his tailfin
are the stories he'll carry forward
to his children's children.
No suitcase,
wheeled or otherwise.
(Dolphins did not need
to invent the wheel
or the suitcase.
There is nothing they need to carry
outside of their skin.)
Sura Ettele,
my grandmother,
I have no photoes
of your early days,
your mother.
My heart stitches
rhythmic connection
to our shared
great great grandmother
Miriam.
But where is your tambourine?
And suddenly I recall:
in the back seat of the car,
me a little granddaughter in braids,
you would tap a rhythm on my knee
for me to guess the song.
And I always guessed the song.
It is Miriam's song,
the Song at the Sea!
It is the story
that needs no photographs,
the narrative of my pulse,
a rhythmic, durable,
waterproof faith
in the inventive,
energetic
bringing on
of miracles.
,
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