|
|
About
Contact Archive Donations Subscribe to Today's Situation | ||
 News from Israel
|
 Peace: Educational Resources
|
 Pleasure:Poetry and other Arts |
 Ariga's Amazon Bookstore
|
Home
Poetry || SubmissionsThree prose poems by Rochelle Mass Coming back She came back to the apartment, stood in the dark stairwell, fumbled for the key in the pail where they put umbrellas and notes to one another. Turning the lock, she pushed the door with her knee, pulled the suitcase behind her. A blast of cold, damp air reminded her that she hadn't been home for days, that Kobi hadn't returned. I've got time, she thought, and before she asked herself - time for what? - she lay out on the bed. Cold, she thought, and pulled the suitcase close to the edge of the bed, managed to click open the latch without sitting up, pulled out a blouse a wool vest and net stockings, draped one after the other over her chest and legs thinking - when I was with Shmuel I never wore them, and now Kobi isn't home and I need them to keep from freezing to death. I should get up she thought, should she kept repeating, get bread, should turn on the heater, should turn on the lights, should bake a cake. Her hand kept reaching into the gaping case pulling out garments she layered over herself one by one. Should, she said a final time and closed her eyes, drenched with memories of what hadn't happened with Shmuel and would never happen with Kobi she fell asleep. At the dinner party The hostess spoke about sending Fed Ex packages with gas masks to her daughters in New York. Also sent them to my friends there, she added. Her anxiety ricocheted off the goblets, deepened the Merlot glow. As she seated us, she inquired: Who doesn't eat pork? I raised my hand meekly. My plate was immediately swept clear of strips curled neat as fresh snails to the right of the open fig. I didn't know you kept kosher, said the hostess warmly. I used to wear it as a shield, then it didn't let go of me, still hasn't in one way or another, I admitted. She nodded, the others too even the German Press Rep who declared it had been some time since he'd dined with someone who 'minded' kosher rules. That's who I used to be, I told him shyly, I don't keep kosher now. But eating pork is something I just can't do. The host smiled at me from the head of the table, announced: you can have anything you like now. Much less than I'd ever taken for myself - but I couldn't admit that openly. By that time it was dessert and the hostess cut into a massive cake. The scent of chocolate and cream somewhat absorbed the memory of the pork. Conversation turned back to the war and the hostess' advice to her daughters to get Cipro tablets and store water. I got lost in the details as though I was dragging a net of air, as though I'd drunk too much, yet reached for wine again when the woman with heavy rings to my right smacked the rim of my glass with the water jug, cracked it neatly, didn't spill a drop. You could feel safe there Jenin is just down the road from where I live. We're closed in, separated. There are plans to fence all of Israel, mark off danger, but it's still unsafe! Not like the prairies. I want to know what controlled the flat constant land where I was born. The spread is as long as a journey, it spans the belly of that country. A brooding place, the prairies, not limited by mountains or forests, only shredded by a river now and then, or rounded by a lake. The weather hangs low there, uneasy. You could feel safe in that level place - that blunt sameness. Practical and open. Slow and wide. No barriers to splash against, no return of echoes, no recourse - sounds continue out to the Rockies or to the Laurentians the other way. A person has to be more alert in the prairies, must know her own truth. The summer sun is brassy and dangling there. Leaves a wide heat that stripes the land, pressures seedlings. It's a rare land, scorched through summer, then high and angry through winter. Surviving prairie seasons is surviving something drastic. Mighty storms, then spacious heat again. Whatever the season, there is reliable order there. Once spring entangles from the appetite of winter, it carves new blocks of green, edges them together, right angled to fit. Seems an essential routine, promising crops the color of shells, shades of fresh pearls. To live there you have to respect the essence of flat feel safe when its dry. Tractors scratch ruts, plan crusty crops, then harvest away the stalks. The land is scrubbed. The sun finally thins when autumn comes. The ground goes aimless after the combines. Vibrates from the blades, crushed by the wheels. What's left are stubs unruly, unrefined. Dust jumps from the rubble. As if grieving the ground goes strict, takes on the color of ash. The winds return. Shadows trace the farmer's tracks. The prairie has ceded its purpose. Smells like musty wool, is folded, flattened. The drama's over. Just ragged splinters. The land seems frightened. Only memories of the green dawn that lowered over seedlings, only images of the earth flexing till the crust cracked. This is ambitious land. I want to see the formal neatness one more time, know the passion that makes a farmer return each season. See the crops take place, how the harvest swallows it all, yet I can't stand to watch things wear down turn bare. I want to get a sense of things. Compare places. Understand how one country stretches on forever, while another struggles to maintain where it is. .. A short story by Rochelle Maas has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, 2002. You can write to Rochelle at massr@israsrv.net.il More writing by Rochelle Mass at Ariga Today's Situation
Back to the top
If this page was useful, please consider making a donation or use Amazon links at Ariga to go to the biggest online store in the world and help keep Ariga going. Click over to the bookstore, check out Ariga's latest recommended book, or visit one of the subject areas that interest Ariga visitors: Yiddish || Middle East Affairs || Military Affairs || Religion || Hippotherapy (Horses and Feldenkrais) || Women's Issues || Pop Culture || Cooking || American Issues || Or click over to Amazon's Top 100 Best Sellers
|
Ariga Recommends:
|
