sat silent on the sheet and waged water
at my lids like a lone sub in a ocean, the walls
groping like a gnarled rabbi, a dead garden
where a fierce teen and a bottle were hunched over
in a corner and I too frightened to whisper, floating
steadily into my title, my fable, the blazed cradle
where mother swathed me in candles and efficient love.
Raw were the live bogeys, the pale kohen
when doors were open to hucksters, to wolves, I spun
dizzily, a draydl, encrypted with four letters,
each a suffusion of the brown wingtips my father
succumbed in, wore in the Wild West of Manhattan.