Paper Bridges: Selected Poems of Kadya Molodowsky

Clay-Ground

Clay-Ground As peasant30 wagons drive to the nearby settlement The young girls31 cross their full breasts Passing the pits of the brickyard: Protect us, God, from evil spirits. And then their broad shoulders tremble In red jackets On shaking wagons, And they wipe their mouths and foreheads With the hard palms of their hands. 151 II ny yjra^ H rx tnxn px x tra " x D^ ny H D^X tnyStWo ]ix ono yrj?T nyrn lytftx ix -m B ^ ny px •'n p^x yr-n pyn'o T^n a^ - xt?^ TXI^ I^X ny iypnrnj?y nyi ^IX ^a •ni ]pyt?^ ]tra Dsx^p x tra my H D^X DiysDiy'o px 152 II Hard is his boney staff And hard is the clayey earth Of Bear of the Brickyards. He knocks with the stick as if with a long bill And the earth answers him with a clear voice. He counts his steps like an old clock On the areas of porcelain clay, Until his eyes become like two moldy waterholes —No grass at all—smiles Bear At the barren32 earth. He knocks with the stick as if with a long bill And the earth answers him with a clear voice. 153 Ill yo*m "ni 154 in Bear of the Brickyard has Four aging daughters Like weary white geese. They bathe before daybreak in the clay— And plunge heavily like soft braided dough. How long will the pits be measured this way? Asks the eldest. How long will they be measured this way? The clay pit answers from the other side. They lie on the shore with full, ripe bodies, With foreheads like desiccated silk. 155 IV jm*6 y&ywx ijn *px rajn H ]X pmjnn H px ra inyp ]ix srt?j;pxn o^yix p^xn px 156 IV The nights bring long hours to the brickyard, And the chimneys breathe out33 devoured years, And the daughters writhe like sick cows And turn their pillows from side to side until daybreak To cool their faces. And suddenly they all laugh, Holding their naked arms on their white necks: —Bear of the Brickyard is still counting his steps, The treasures of the porcelain earth. 157 V H tnx TX oni "ijn t:s^p; o px ,9Kp p81W T flH DXTJ^X DXT ) W l i t W ]DX: 7j;^O''lX p t ?"' DIE .DDXJ 158 V The old mother Walks leaning on a thin stick. And the wind strikes her on her boney knees, It's hard for her weak head To listen to the wind And its wanton storms buffet the lonely house On the gilded areas of porcelain clay. Like a gray beggar woman, she comes to the settlement And worries away a night with her relatives. As the relatives shake their heads, Rocking long shadows rock on the wall, They can't lull the sleeping mother's sorrow. When it is still early she leaves a copper coin on the table (These people have young children) And she bears her worried34 head Like an untangled ball of thread Back to the high fence of the brickyard. 159 VI 160 *?rs pis mw x»a isnajrc H JIX nyiw nyo^iK pKB^ ??ta px ]ix axip VI Wagons of bricks stretch out in a line35 Heavy and slow. And the daughters at the windows Lean their chins heavily on their elbows And stare after the red napes of the foremen Until the very last one. And their gazes stretch far down the road And remain hanging on the gray vacancy, After that the daughters scatter throughout the rooms And stray slowly through the doorways Like sick sheep With half-closed eyes. 161 VII 162 ]XD5;ip £DX3 JttJP px X px p i ,137 ,-iysnjn ywo^i ^ix - VII That night the daughters of the brickyard groan sleepily In quiet pain And beat their heads on the white cushions And scream: Mama, the damp clay sucks us in, And toss about in bed like huge, hooked fish. The old mother runs naked from bed to bed And, with her veined hands, brushes over A soft, rounded shoulder, And speaks with bluish...