by Louis Johnstone
11/17/2010
Bechamel
by Hadar Ahuvia
The Jutland Peninsula has taken her in,
my cousin—
like they sheltered Judens during the third reich reign.
She can marry there,
but not on holy terrain
because her mom’s not kosher/
She returns to celebrate Christmas on the kibbutz—not kosher,
where I pocketed rabbits— not kosher—
and ate bacon for dinner with cream— not kosher—or my aunt who fed it—
my Dane dame—not kosher— who exclaimed
“Your tush is flowering with jubilation!”
as I lay frogstyle— not kosher—
on the tile.
My cousins’ son, named Yonatan,
suckles her cheek and teat.
He puckers— an ingathering of lip pleats
a kibbutz of sorts—
the family’s scatter and flock
kibbutz round pagan lights
kibbutz for soldiers on leave
micro kibbutz on cells and skype
kibbutz on Shabbat
kibbutz parking lot
Yonatan was born off the kibbutz.
like me raised by a daughter of the/ away from the/
who’s parents live on the/
that is no longer really a/
My mom’s lips never converged on teats
but rather bottles of fresh cows milk
quickly scattering in refusal
of fatty alien goods.
I disaffect her-like
Fuck lite.
Gimme more filllin. More skin. more pepper grindin.
More chew.
More melt.
I’ll butter the skillet
loosen my belt
ladle and lip grip
taut sacrament
relinquish the bet
drop Hannukah gelt
affix ‘il’ to Lent/
and reminisce of schnitzel corn and rice—delight
Persons of every generation must view themselves as having been
individually freed from the land of Egypt
After the Pageant
the dining hall
has dissembled dismembered
every generation individuated itself, to free(ify) itself
Egypt melts in a cast iron pan/
the fingers of my hand kibbutz to gesture wait
as of late
soldiers kibbutz on Gaza.
while we—like milk and butter—
cream.
11/02/2010
Step Down
by Allyson Paty
Too many in the post office line. Each one
clutches his parcel and his woe is me.
Think, of course, of the stove, the lamp.
Go outside if the rain peters out or sleep
when the construction quiets down.
After the morning glories closed
you gripped the chicken wire just in case
the wind came to rattle you away with
the seedpods. Just maybe the stove,
your blackened kitchen. At the grocery store
the loaf goes stale before you can buy it.
A man behind you spit shines his child
when she squirms herself to tears.
Stand straight and stay still. The light
gaping out at the empty room.
