For Jews， the Cossacks are always coming.

    Therefore I think the sun spot on my arm

    is melanoma. Therefore I celebrate

    New Year's Eve by counting

    my annual dead.

    My mother， when she was dying，

    spoke¹ to her visitors of books

    and travel， displaying serenity²

    as a form of manners， though

    I could tell the difference.

    But when I watched you planning

    for a life you knew

    you'd never have， I couldn't explain

    your genuine smile in the face

    of disaster. Was it denial

    laced with acceptance？ Or was it

    generations of being English——

    Bront？'s Lucy in Villette

    living as if no fire raged

    beneath her dun-colored dress.

    I want to live the way you did，

    preparing for next year's famine with wine

    and music as if it were a ten-course banquet.

    But listen： those are hoofbeats

    on the frosty autumn air.