Through the windswept din
in her head my mother hears
Piaf’s La Vie en Rose,
Indira Gandhi’s chitchat
sharing photos of grandchildren,
the Concorde’s next-to-last rattle,
but never Hebrew blessings,
not having learned to pray,
to keep kosher or take meals
in a tabernacle—temporary shelters
fragile as flesh—housing
our memories, fragile as faith itself.
My mother is caught in a sandstorm
swirl, eyes burning—
why are those bodies sprawled
across the desert?—calls for help
as dreams overtake her waking
and waking overtakes her dreams.
Gone the names for days and months,
but not my voice on the phone
as I call her to turn to the trees
and their yellowing leaves,
small tabs on this season
when my neighbors carouse
in huts strung makeshift with gourds
to remind them of sukkahs
our ancestors pitched to keep
the Sinai sun at bay.
Lost in the sands of her wandering
my mother’s soles burn
in the wilderness
now that fever has gripped her body,
forced her from her own bed
with purple and crimson yarn
to quarantine—white curtains limp
against white walls, dawns
skipping by like lambs.