Invisible in Berlin
Invisible
my hair gray-blonde
with coat to match
and low-heeled walking shoes
I fit right in and no head turns
to look at Feigle’s Rivkale
here in Berlin.
Shhh,Mamishee, don’t cry,
I’ve come to haunt them.
Ich bin da, Berlin.
They speak to me in German.
Clipped harsh hammer-sounds
pound in my ear while in my head
I round their words
into soft drops of Yiddish
from your tongue
Shh Mamishee,I’ve not forgotten.
Can’t you hear, it’s through your
Mameloshen I respond to them.
Inside the shops
I join prim matrons riffling racks
of well-cut clothes. Few frills
or flowered fabrics here. The clean
lines suit me too. I put the dress I chose
back on the rack. And take it out again.
Yes Mamishee. Of course I see it too.
The yellow star.
On every dress I choose.
The lake at Wannsee’s calm and steely blue
and sailboats skim right past the Villa
where your mother’s sister’s, brother’s fate
was sealed. Hey, hey Mein Herren
Heydrich, Eichmann, look at me.
You’re dead and I’m here ordering a beer.
No Mamishee, I didn’t drink the beer.
How could I in that place? But oh the joy of giving a command. Ein Weisse. Bitte. Danke. (Hun)
At breakfast time, the waiter lights the
candle on my table. It’s the custom here.
Gemutlichkeit. Warm coziness to
make one feel at home. I can’t help
smiling at the irony and he,
mistaking it for thanks, smiles back.
He wasn’t German. Mamishee.
Italian, probably. Or Greek.
The waiters usually are.
A woman’s safe here out at night
they say. I take their word and follow
sounds of laughter to a square where café crowds
spill unto sidewalks lit by lanterns in the trees.
A chair is offered and I sit down, about to order
when the siren’s loud wail stops me dead.
I’m all right, Mamishee. Just fine. Would you believe a saxophone
Could give me such a fright?
Mamishee? Mamishee?
(Honorable Mention in the2006 Poetica Annual Competition)
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