Affliction: Theme and Variations

His hands are big and strong for his long, skinny body.
He rows the boat across the pond, laughing.
It is hot at Greenhill in the summer of ‘36,
for he has taken his shirt off.
Did he know he would never see England again
that morning in Crete when German planes
flew over the artillery guns in the olive groves?

In Kent, the delivery boy gets off his bicycle and
hands the father a telegram. The father opens it, says,
“the dear boy’s dead,” and retreats with his wife to their room. 
The air is heady with the smell of lilacs and roses.
They never speak their son’s name again and
don’t cry in front of the children.
They bury the savageness of their pain.

Perhaps his big sister is thinking of playing the piano
when the letter arrives from England. Or she is remembering
how she and her brother performed the Franck duet.
She is married now, setting up house in New York City.
Is this the day she begins to love to drink?

Perhaps her husband wraps his arms around her but
he can’t console her. He thinks of his own family,
the occasional letter from them in Berlin. Ah, Berlin,
the golden metropolis, where food is getting scarce
especially if you’re Jewish, and where his parents,
when they write, implore him to help.

And when he becomes a father, he gives his children no details.
Still, sensing the anguish, they bite their nails,
retreat into books, and blame themselves.
When they grow up they don’t ask questions
but translate their grandparents’ letters, struggling
to understand and abandon an inheritance of grief.

The Farewell

The day he left, he promised he would return for her.
After all, they had worked it out—first he would go,
Followed by the two eldest, then her and the four others.
It would be difficult starting out but he had connections.
Things would get better, she would see. He would write her.
He would send money for the boat tickets, with instructions.
Hadn’t he always been reliable, been a good provider—
Made their furniture, sealed the roof, split the firewood?
Hadn’t there always been enough food on the table, clothes for the children?
He would be back before she even missed him. They would have a better life.

The day he left, as she watched him walk out of the village,
 She swaddled the baby in her arms (it was too young to rest on her hip),
While the other children followed him down the dirt path, until he said
“That’s enough now, go help your mother,” and kissed them on their heads.

At night, lying in the dark, listening to the children’s breathing—muted, easy,
Except for the baby’s occasional crying—or to the wind, the brittle leaves flying,
She would think of the husbands who were never heard from, who disappeared
Somewhere in America, who village gossips assumed had married someone else. 

At night, lying in their bed, she would remember how candlelight flickered
Across his face, highlighting his dark eyes, his soft lips, how he would trace
His callused fingers across her breasts under her nightgown, then blow out the flame.