Hannah, Joining the Line  

Barbara Schwartz

In the dream, I see the children.
They strip quietly: little blue flames,
the mouth of a menorah.

In my hand is a shovel.

The sky is not blue; it’s black.
Birds don’t fly like that. Across
the block the blue flames grow —

If I don’t join the line
I know there will be more
shoveling to do.

But the children are neat
in their bright skins and even
their ashes will be easy
to get rid of.

*

Like an heirloom
lifted from credenza to credenza,
hoisted across the table from generation to generation,
emptied, cracked, pieced together again, this dream
passes from mother to daughter.
There is no other thing.

Philip’s Butterfly

In Stanisławów, Poland (now Ukraine)

Philip’s brothers run the lumber mill, set aside dry bones

of wood to make warmth when there is none.

Philip’s sisters tie his apron, teach him knead and braid

the week’s bread. After the Shoah, he sweeps

factory floors, stows jewelry in drawers, savings under

(My sisters, my sisters, where are you – ) floorboards, opens

a kosher bakery on Flatbush. When it burns to the ground,

he dreams of his mother, her hair pinned back as

she lights the oven. No one knows what happened to her.

*

Two Russian soldiers knock on Friday night, demanding

her sons open the mill. No, they say, It’s Shabbat.

(My mother, my mother, where are you – ) Does she have time

to light candles? To whisper a prayer – to cover her face?

*

Over time the story changes: What survives is the fire.

*

Hannah kneads the dough with her knuckles, burns a piece

in remembrance. As she braids the strands of the challah;

her father’s song rises above the oven – שָׁלוֹם יַעֲשֶֹה הוּא בִּמְרוֹמָיו שָׁלוֹם עוֹשֶֹה

(She who makes peace in His Heights, may she make peace.)

But her brother refuses her bread – insists it’s not kosher enough.

*

Into Philip’s grave we shovel dirt and stone, other skulls, skulls of song

and skulls of breath, skulls of scrolls unread, skulls of silenced infants,

I remember your face – ) skulls of shame, and also bones, bones of escape

bones of sisters and uncles, brothers and cousins, the aunt whose name

vanished under boot soles, mothers whose milk turned black,

fathers whose beards shriveled up; we shovel stifled lice, rats with burning

gums, a hobbled rabbit; we shovel prayer, sob, will, wail, each last attempt.

We shovel and sing, sing and shovel. From the grave (You chose us

You murdered us – ) a yellow butterfly flashes its wings, refuses to leave.

For faith?

For flames?

We sing and shovel, shovel and sing.