Kaddish for My Mother - Mara Levine

[Larry Robinson]

Kaddish for My Mother




Sarah Sarah shtetl child

of peddler Sholem, sheytled Mintzi, 

you bore the griefs of history to Brooklyn,

hungry for the taste of liberation

in the cage of a tenement

where you sang your exiled songs.




Sarah of dark curls and heart-shaped face, 

what a beauty you were, girl of seventeen 

smiling under April blossom trees

with Sam, namesake of your father;

in you he saw the Medina's promised gold. 




The litany of your three day labor, 

your apocalyptic screams 

while Bubbe Sonia muttered in his ear

bad luck to kiss before a birth.

His male hesitation

his fear of uncleanness

The kiss too late.




I was yours, Mother. 

Friday sundowns you lit the Sabbath candles, 

chanted the prayers with covered head,

cupped fingers beseeching the flame 

while I gazed speechless

aching with the sudden beauty that lit the kitchen

to a temple.




Bungalow summers, blackberry picking days, 

nights when I lay my head in your lap 

feeling your heart beat, your blood flow,

as you sang with the women Yiddish songs 

of struggle and yearning. 



I'm older now than you would ever be;

sickness stopped your May Day marches

stilled your voice,

stilled your mind.

Sleep now, bride, in the final bed. 

Now you are one with your dreams,

perfect, your cells in cosmic silence,

clear and light, an open channel 

for the simple forms of nature to pass through

and claim you as their own.




My daughter sings your songs,

keeps the funny dolls you made

with shaky button eyes,

and I, I keep a rain-cap,

travel-kit, gifts you gave, 

good for one on a journey. 

You knew.




I journeyed to your grave again

sat in the quiet of earth and stones 

saw a sparrow land 

where you lie as if flying 

from the blossom trees of Brooklyn. 

	- Mara Levine
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