For V.B.F.
On Friday nights Nina’s grandmother wore the prettiest babushka
in her town    and sat alone by the window   Â
Her silence   a shield against the wall of falling snow
And Valerie’s mom in Odesa never mentioned losingÂ
all her family Valerie found the directions
for muteness at Yad Vashem
And magically the matzos materialized Â
in our apartment a few times a year
I thought someone wrote us coded letters on browned ridgesÂ
The vocabulary of quiet varied
My grandparents’ Yiddish  spoken so their kids would not understand    Â
The kids learned the ineffable languages of Bach and Klee
A honey cake sometimes floated in my lifeÂ
like a man-made island    I asked Mom to make it Â
any time of the year  She baked it in a Bundt panÂ
known in the USSR as MiracleÂ
A full Miracle waited for me  hot with Mom’s love
While Valerie’s people did not make such a cake
Soft layers of quiet are my dowry
Curving emptiness settles on my shoulders like a wooly shawl   Â
Then melts  and flutters up with our floral deadÂ
I am neither fully Ayeed nor UkraÑ—nka  Among millions who love and argue     Â
I’m free    An American of generation zero and a half     Â
A researcher in my own home
