Please enjoy the poem, and feel free to leave a comment.

Have You Ever Had Kugel?

You’ve never had kugel—not until you’ve eaten it
in an alley café in the Jewish Quarter in Krakow
in a shy November light, around the corner
from where your grandparents once lived,
now a vacant lot.

You’ve never had kugel—the noodles cooked
tender and moist, layered with fresh-made
cottage cheese mixed with cinnamon,
plump-dried raisins, a dollop of sour cream,
and served on a blue-patterned plate
with a cloth napkin—not until it’s served to you
by a Yiddish-speaking woman in an apron,
as she runs to greet you from the kitchen
as if you’d just arrived for Shabbos dinner.

Kugel doesn’t taste the same unless one hand
is holding it while looking out the side window—
a shot fired, dogs approaching in the distance.
Not unless there are holes bored in the walls
of your mother’s Museum of Shattered Memories
in the attic trunk, and each time you try to peek inside
she cries, so you’re careful to leave the lock tight.

Kugel satisfies, unless you choke it down, like fear—
scanning the exits as you learn Cousin Viola must
have done, as she opened the vial and wondered
if the poison would be painful.

No, you’ve never had kugel—
not in your ceiling-fanned, poetry writing,
post-graduation trip to see where your family perished.
Not until you finally arrive at Auschwitz and you walk
under that gate, inscribed “Work Sets You Free,”
and the crematoriums appear where the tracks end,
where the stricken faces from every photo you’ve ever seen
from the Camps lie like ghosts on the beds’ rusty frames.
Not until you have to run outside, gasping for air.

Not until you finally get it that their kugel
was carved from sweat and cold winds,
seasoned with a mixture of dread and faith,
then steamed in the world’s blind eye.

And I ask you, again—
have you ever had kugel?

The post “Have You Ever Had Kugel?” by Marilyn Johnston appeared first on The Poetry Box.

Please enjoy the poem, and feel free to leave a comment.

“Clearing Out”

All summer long, I’d tried to put
our things in piles and give it away.
I wanted to walk into a room
and see blank spaces on the floor,
the table—enough to clear my head
of the clutter from under the bed,
where dust balls and shadows hide.

I emptied the dishes out of the hutch, found
homes for the silver, the glass-cut bowls,
everything the kids said they’d never want.
The only item kept—one set of dishes I vowed
to finally use. An extravagant find, bought
as a new bride, 44 years ago, after hearing
anything looks best served on white plates.

I wanted to have the joy around me,
like the mindfulness I practice reading
Mary Oliver’s poems, Karr’s memoir;
while I study the Oswaldo Guayasamin
prints on our family room wall—
all that’s left, soothing, pristine.
Nothing out of place.

And I laugh now, the preposterousness
of it all—that September night, while we
awaited the alert to evacuate the fires,
how I stopped to set the table,
just wanting to see the white dishes
one final time, against the glow
of the ochre-red, smoky skies.

The post “Clearing Out” by Marilyn Johnston appeared first on The Poetry Box.