Susan Glickman
Kol Nidre
for Denise Levertov (1923-1997)
Hands in pockets, grocery bags swinging from my wrists,
I walk by one beggar on the street
and the next
and the next
because the first has a superfluous dog
another a paper bag of booze
and the last conned me out of bus-fare
with her desperate tale of a car in hock,
a daughter on her deathbed in a hospital up north
then materialized two hours later at the park, all jolly unconcern,
cadging ice cream from the kids.
Who, then, merits my charity?
My shiny coins?
A little outward motion
of my hesitant middle-aged heart?
I teach my children to give each supplicant the same—
a quarter, no more no less—because after all
we can’t judge anyone’s suffering by their stance on a corner
but by God, I do, some days I do.
Like everyone else, I want to yell get a job
at guys whose jaunty rolled-up sleeves
flaunt capable biceps,
chubby babes who flutter mascara’d eyes at passers-by
teenage tag-teams in expensive leather.
In India it was easier, their stigmata overt, my wealth & health
conspicuous. I gave a month’s rent to the leper colony
and felt a gratifying breeze
as the doors of heaven nudged open a millimetre or two.
But here, I’m lost.
Shall I read to the blind or bake for the hungry?
Shall I massage premature babies all night under fluorescent lights?
Shall I forgive my own parents, and theirs, and theirs?
Oh Denise, I miss you
in each particular:
the gap between your front teeth
your Welsh intonation when you said “pleasure”
your beautiful ballet posture
your indignation
but I could never follow your faith in the grand abstractions.
Sunlight gilds each hair of the liar’s head;
the beggar’s dog looks too well fed.
I still don’t know what the hell to do to be redeemed
0 Arc 52, Summer 2004
Arc 52, Summer 2004
