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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,
he 1 at the ceiling fan, said
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.
and my mother, the hard 2 of ashkenazi
irony in her left breast cut out, radiated, her judaism, too,
now in full remission.
memory, 3 bottom-feeder,
gatherer of refuse and 4 --
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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