The brisket is fresh and perfect
a light pink edge, sliced fabric thin
moist, not stringy, gravy on the side
buttered barley with mushrooms on the plate
and the first bite makes me think of Jack.
I was 17 and just beginning to follow animal calls
when he told me about his shiksa.
Her soft cream hands wiping her gingham apron
secretly, silently smiling with him in the cow field
on her father’s farm in Delaware County, Ohio.
Oh oh oh such a passion she had for Jack.
Oy oy oy such a passion that peddler had for her.
But, veys mir, he left he left he left in 1917 he left her
There is no happy ending that divides families.
But when he says it, I can see her aqua eyes in his
and I think he made a big big mistake. At 17
I would do anything, yes anything, for true romance.
I’m here in a fleishig deli noshing on pickles and sour tomatoes
and my mind’s ear hears his heavy “ignorant” immigrant accent
at the 42nd street library—the one guarded by stone lions.
He’s teaching himself to make Jack from Yitzak.
He’s reading Karl Marx to learn a new language.
This time the familiar German text is on his left and
he’s struggling with the English translation on his right.
This was when milchig waiters served hot cheese blintzes
cold borscht with sour cream, and lemon tea in a glass
while they pleaded for the Bolsheviks, prayed for the unions
and argued for a homeland—those days those days before Hitler.
I’m thinking about Jack reading furiously, feverishly
reading that new Richard Wright novel, Black Boy
aching with memories of his Mississippi in Poland
his wife dreaming, his hand on the rise of her hip
the kinder sleeping safely don’t hear his sorrow.
I take a sip of Dr. Brown’s cherry and I think about Jack
I taste the perfect egg cream he made me
matzahs spread with schmaltz, and
the case of mangos he and Grandma Lily
mailed to me my first year of college.
I’m thinking about Jack at this greasy table
and how he cried unashamed
in front of grown men when Grandma died.
His 94 years notched with sobs for lost loves.
I’m thinking about Jack
and how hard it is to find a good
crusty rye bread these days.