Paper Bridges: Selected Poems of Kadya Molodowsky

Poor Women

Poor Women Around the nails, black rims have eaten into flesh As with all impoverished women who scour burnt pots. I too have yellowish, boney Fingers carrying a basket, And eyes empty as a sack shaken out. At dawn I meet the women carriers of milk, With silver cans That drag their shoulders down, And one by one we bear the heavy load Like donkeys, dumb, in harness, Holding their heads heavily to the ground. I too have yellowish, boney Fingers carrying a basket. 171 II ,WM pS 9X1X EXVl X Vxfc X &VX5) *]X:i TIBD TB CUD jni i^xV x T'lx y&TBttfjtt§t nx lyaxtix |t?axt?ojnx ^ x ^K TX p 172 II Even in Tammuz, sometimes a leaf drops from a tree, And misfortune arrives prematurely And brings a leanness to the flesh. Early on, unhappiness took me by the hand, Like prisoners handcuffed to each other on a long road. My feet walk slowly, Like unpaid artisans Careworn and tired. In my dream-filled nights I am in a dim house Among women, exhausted and collapsed on the ground, And their hands are hands well known to me, With nails notched from years of drudgery.39 I arise with a clay-weighted heart And my feet walk slowly, Like unpaid artisans, careworn and tired. 173 VI ?B is ,&cm pnxi yx Djras yw p^njn rx o$n x ^ ^ i^x^7 ^w Dxn;» 174 VI Sometimes I turn my face, as to an Eastern wall, Toward my tiny shtetl, Almost entirely devastated, And pray for every single person Left behind. There, in cramped houses, No one has lit a lamp for a long time. Those left behind sit in the corners, Reciting in the old tradition And praying for their poor livelihood. But all roads are blocked with high snow And all wells are choked with ice. Young people with hard, seeking beaks pack off into the world, And the old stay behind to lie somewhere in unlit corners.40 175 VII s i^n OKT f^x -|KI wuyn oy ,Drn p§ px nyirp ypnym ps y^aK1 ? maiVn px •pnjwsa x pyi DIS sxp p?» px xiyD^yxi x D^D ny"T tmyn'o ixa r^yi ] ^ nyn^x -an x m ^ n^a ps 1^3 pya t?x DJDXD px 1925 176 VII The picture of Moses Montefiore41 still hangs, Long-yellowed under the glass, On the Eastern wall in my father's house. I brought here From the blue, warm Ukraine Pale and deprived hands42 And eyes as dim as burned-out caves, And prolonged dreams of howling children and of dogs, And my own head destined for life. But nearby, death hangs Like a garment above my bed, Near the picture of Moses Montefiore, The one long-yellowed under the glass On the Eastern wall in my father's house. 1925 177 II 1931 ,JWIXT1 ...