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Ezra Becoming Kosher
Eleanor Stanford
What's memory but a shucked oyster,
salt rimed and shivering?
At one and a half,
rotate, as though his mouth was origin
of some first turning.
So many rules to be a Jew,
my mother sighs, leaving behind
Long Island, Flatbush, Yiddishkeit.
Ezra, balanced between the past
and a tender pork roast, puts down
his fork.
What's memory but an omnivorous（杂食的）
shadow, cloven-hoofed?
Whose memory? Not mine.
Between what my mother won't cop to,
and what my son won't eat, I'm half-invisible,
half-confused.
Already, at nine, he retreats behind his too-long
bangs and Bach inventions.
irony in her left breast cut out, radiated, her Judaism, too,
now in full remission.
Memory, relentless3 bottom-feeder,
And Ezra, turning
away, knowing: thou shalt not cook the calf
in its mother's milk; the animal should be bled
swiftly and just so, prayers said thus
over its bowed head.
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