Brings near-as-missing, (almost here),
A camera clear conception
Of gefilte fish, my grandma’s
Own delicious fish, which
Dish was cheaper, keeping better
Then the other, grand rich mothers
Who did not use dark
But light fish. Grand gefilte,
Ground by hand and grand mothers.
Sweet tasting, oh, sweet taste…
And oh, the moment wasted hurting;
Worsest moment, wasted hurting when
The heaping other neighbor mothers
Dared – comparing cents per pound –
To flag a right of birth and brag.
White chastelessness, and that was fat.
Flat tastelessness, and that was that
With every bite…the camera fades
Into conditioned night.
A grocery-stopping grownup moved;
And not the simplest point was proved.
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Gosh, thank you! And an oy vey thrown in for good measure.
Thank you, thank you for those keen observations and compliments.
Sounds Jewish enough to me, Arlene. You’ve captured the sound–and even taste–the essence of grandmas. That’s a mighty accomplishment in any poem, if you ask me.
Dear Alan,
I hope my “Gosh, thank you”… reached you. Never sure about these things.
This poem goes beyond the frequent sniveling self-righteousness about being poorer than the neighbors. Here we have truly better — better tasting, better remembered too. Plus the poem moves with grace and assurance of someone who has been writing poetry for a long time.
I love the last centence of the poem. Just as there is nothing to prove. There is only the recognition of a childhood.