east central european paradigms

so that i came to rest against the brunt of impossible standard.
you see, it seemed so fleeting.
yet i witnessed its weekly occurrence;
it was sustained.
my father would ascend with a silver tray
and offer treasures from the nearby city.
i remember design:
swirls of brown and layers of cream.
maybe bread, how can i be sure?
definitely fruit: oranges, always pears, once kiwi.
mother would extend her calves,
rearrange her cotton fortress with rebirth.
in this way, father would transform the
afternoon into holiness.
and thus mother allowed herself to return.
so that i now,
peering into the masks of these increasingly dense sacred manuals,
must lower my eyes from the flood of that distant union,
turn my ears away from the haze of your grandparents' sabbath laughter.

Yermiyahu Ahron Taub

If you've any comments on this poem, Yermiyahu Ahron Taub would be pleased to hear from you.