USA

dorgoldberg@erols.com

CONSERVATOR

Handling the uniforms doesn't bother me, what grates is no sense
of urgency, the standing around. Well, the smaller ones got to me
at first, they still do, because these were worn by children. Sometimes

I treat one that's made a little different, a little nicer, maybe an inside
pocket, because of a bribe, or a little extra food. Or triangular inserts
sewn in the pants of former prisoners, who marched in annual parades

and over the years, put on weight. There are those with shoulder
pads, from later, for musicians in the orchestra, invited often
after the War to perform. The same blue and gray coarse material

but tailored like a suit. What bothers me is no one knowing anything
about the period. If I hadn't haggled with the gypsies, it would have
been no one. We spoke the same language, had the same nose

for forgery--fabric rubbed with coffee grounds, the tannin stains
passed off as dirt, the color of the stars all wrong. It's not so bad
to work down here, in the basement, with white noise leaking out

from the machine room, low humidity, and lamps that make it seem
it's always daylight, the sun, always shining. Of course, I'd prefer
preserving beauty, but this pays better and I still get to use my craft.

PRETTY STORIES, FUNNY PICTURES

When my mother dies I will not
visit her grave. No matter where
she makes her final bed, the plot
my father saved for her, or cramped

beside her beloved. She's already left
me my inheritance, those grisly tales
which steel the heart--Struwwelpeter
who lost his thumb, the one he sucked

(as I did mine) to the natty tailor
tiptoing at night with giant shears.
Or the matchstick girl who refused
to eat and let her hair grow wild.

Ravens nested there. I was the obedient
child. But when she dies the truth
will out. I am her daughter. I won't
visit. I will be otherwise engaged.

THREE CASKETS

A princess with three suitors finds them all
lacking: casket of silver, casket of gold,
casket of lead. She considers lead--

he's heavy. If she ties herself to him
she'll sink. But oh the liquefaction
of sheets, and oh wouldn't she expire

in the rapture of that deep. Silver
flashes slick off the tundra, elusive
as flight. In his wake, a killing

freeze, an excess of courtesy. At first
gold's glitter dazzles, his overflowing
pockets. Fortuna is his mother, but

his expression's a trifle stupid. How's
a princess to rule with no casket
for her jewels? At this hour the shops

are closed. The graveyard beckons
but the coffins are sealed with old
remains. She's been here before,

her legacy these ruby scars, those
smokey pearls. Let her string them
on a flaxen thread for all to see.

Let them incite the mercy of thieves.
Let her step forth in the ancestral land
accompanied by her two royal hands.

SISTER

You were always Miss Peacock, always
bigger, fatter, always more. I measured
myself by what I could not reach--
that silver spoon from the table, forbidden
bureau drawer. At night you took
what I'd have offered anyhow, hissed
those names in my ear, Fussbudget,
Little Miss Showoff, defined me.
You said I'd robbed you since there was
so little to go around, and it got less,
what with Mother in bed, a heating pad
pressed to her belly, and Father glancing
over his shoulder for Storm Troopers, often
mistaking us for the enemy. When he died
he gave us what he couldn't in life, but
you spent it all, down to the last cent.
I loaned you whatever you needed, never
asked for it back until now. You have
forgotten everything, even the money,
you are amazed I don't have more.

PENELOPE MUSES

He used to call me his stubborn child, a child
who took perverse delight in saying no. But that's
not so. I was full grown even then, the child, in fact
our own. He said I was stiff-necked from being kept
on too short a leash. So when I tasted in our bed
my first bite of free, I went wild. Wild as the branches
of an olive tree. No, I don't want to rest, no, I don't
want to sit. No, I don't want to weave. Went wild
with no. But no now stands him well as 100 brazen
suitors mill about and gorge themselves on plums
and pigs. His. They would eat him out of house
and home. And throne. This "child" is steadfast
in her no. In her refusal. For neither I, nor my
position, nor Telemachus, the rightful heir, will fall
without a fight. A pleasure, then, unraveling at night.

*

A pleasure, then, unraveling at night, allow
the muscles of the face go slack, relax.
Some say I wither on the vine. Sometimes
I want to take them all, each scheming one
and hurl them in the wine-dark sea. Do
what cannot be undone. Let fate decree.
Our faithful dog is going blind. He yawns
because his world is monochrome. His tongue
unfurls and licks my palm, the pungent flavors
of dyed wool. And skin. His life swims out against
the tide. I could go on. And on. As Odysseus
sailed on without a parting word. In the telling
they will say he won his wars, can call himself
a man. But if he lives he grieves to leave this child
alone. Wanting, as he does, me for his own.

© All Copyright, Barbara Goldberg.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.