The Chameleon's Tale, and: African Violets, and: The Bear

The Chameleon's Tale

(for Solomon Perel)

In other tales, children hid in attics,underneath floors. You secreted yourselfamong the Hitler Youth, lost in plain sight.The time has come to tell my son aboutthe Holocaust, as near and yet as faraway as dinosaurs, or Arthur's court,or human footprints on the moon. But how?You say that Poles drink tea, Germans coffee,and there we have it: hatred brewing ina china cup. Your tale contains it all:betrayal by comrades, compassionatepederasts, enemies who proffer love."Other," you say, is just a fraction ofone's self. You say, "It's easy to be sureof things while sitting in a cozy chair."The ghostly moon illumines cities whosenames have been changed, their bloodstained surfacesall cleansed, repaired, the broken tombstones nowcollected and returned to grassy fields.Carved stars of David, bewildered, shine up,their light refracted in my glass, splintersof self: witness, denier, Nazi, Jew,the ambiguities that lie, you tellme now, in every single soul. It's noteasy, not even in a cozy chair.I flick the switch in my five-year-old's room,weigh out my words, as if night's terror isthe worst of what he has to fear.

African Violets

February brings the winter's rain,teasing the boxwoods and the trellis rosesnodding in the yard. A lonely crocuslifts up its head, unable to refrain,despite the lingering snow, silvery scrimmantling the sun. The houseplants sink intomelancholy, swooning along windowframes cracked and swollen by the heat within.Early in the morning, I sprinkle coolwater on their petals, parched, pale leavesnuzzling against my hand. Like innocents,like new lovers, they've no better sensethan to seek my caress. They must believein old wives' tales, promise of renewal.

The Bear

I

The bear marauds inside my garden,plants his tracks among the roses;his scent lingers in hollies, yews.I gather broken branches inmy arms, pocking hands and facewith prickled leaves. Back insidethe house, my cats do not acceptthe tang of bear upon my skin. They press their noses to the window,seeking solace in the glass—clear-eyed frame that holds us back,bladed pane that keeps us safe.

II

The bear says, "I'm not dangerous!Let me make a den for you—I will hang the walls with shells,drape soft moss across your bed.Songs drawn from water will sweetenthe air. Sometimes I'll kiss your full,pleading lips, although they're notthe type to which I'm accustomed."

III

I tell the bear: "My prince will comefind me." Clear, uninflected. The bearjust laughs. "Does his skin smellof musk, does his flesh tasteof honey? Does his fur warm youin winter? Does he know to strokeyour cheek with all his claws drawn in?"

IV

When he holds me in his arms,I hear roaring in my ear.

V

The bear says, "Look closely: there'sa ring set in my nose." And thoughI've stroked his snout a thousand times,I've never—until now—felt ironbeneath my fingers. Says the bear,"Once I begged for my living, Irecited rhymes, my paw outstretched.The ring came later, screwed it inmyself, thought I'd live better witha chain, four walls to steady me."

VI

The bear shambles through crowds, snoutturning side to side, eyesalways seeking, I don't knowwhat he's seeking . . . . He seems to preferthat I fall two steps back, that wayno one shouts, "Look! A woman'schained to that bear!" Although the chain'sinvisible. Although at night,when he leads me out, no onesees he's a bear.