Poet Wrestling with Her Empire of Dirt

Aba says in a blizzard, fill the bathtub.

With firewood. Aba says a leaky roof

is a blessing. Provided

the bucket. To melt

snow. With fire. We gather.

All the trees in Queens. Shake

& shiver. My axe

cannot approximate.

My axe is a plastic bottle. Filled with club

soda. I wonder

when it unfreezes,

will it explode. Aba says: Light

of my eyes,

where are you getting your science.

I no longer know. I used to believe

in string theory. But the field

breaks. Too many. Rules.

& you can’t quantify nor quantum

even a drop of rain—everything’s just

too damn big. For models that would prove. The rules. Tried & still

not true. The roof is always leaking. The bathtub is a mass

grave of trees. Aba says go outside

before it’s too late. But I have. I’ve seen.

In a public bathroom I hide

with many other women

from a storm. The leaky roof

fills with cinders & once more.

A dead bird. One of us screams.

They all scream. When I pick him

up off the slimy floor. Pick

the maggots from his body.

Soon. I have the bathroom. To myself.

In public. I have an entire sanctuary.

Of sorts. To mourn. When I bring the dead

home. Aba tears at his clothes & covers

the mirrors. Won’t let me burn

the body. Says even birds died

in the Shoah’s desperate, hungry hands.

Days before the bodies were turned

to ash. Perhaps this bird too descends

from a lone survivor. We cry for

his mother. We cry for my grandmother.

Free up the bathtub & flood our home.

With rainwater. Float

a burning, empty pyre.

I say: Aba, this isn’t what we do

either. Aba says: It’s too late

to go outside. Which I do. I try.

I dig & dig.

For dirt, defying

my father.

I lose

the feeling

in my hands. In snow

that doesn’t quite stick

to the ground. Night falls

& his body stays warm

under my layers

drenched. From

sleet & sweat.

I won’t give

in. Birds gather around me. Dark lights

against blue cement. They wait it out.

They stay perfectly still.

Right out in the open.