Noodle Pudding

The boat in Danzig would leave on time.

My grandmother and her two cousins traveled overland,
away from the Polish-Russian war.

Away from running into the woods
with only crackers for food.

Far from seeing men killed in the streets.

A long journey from avoiding windows because
she might get shot.

In school, she was taught in Polish, Russian, or German,
depending on who held the land at the time.

Years before, her parents manufactured horse blankets for the Russian army.

In 1923, my grandmother met her father’s former employee
on a Brooklyn street (a small connection).

Letters sailed across the ocean; news traveled from the family until 1939.

Then silence.

Always silence.

For the holidays, my grandmother baked a noodle pudding, glorious in every way—
two types of raisins, eggs, farmer cheese,
made in a bundt pan, baked perfectly, sliced thick,
couldn’t eat it fast enough, always wanting more.

It helped to ease the silence.

——————————————————————–
This poem was originally published in
The Paterson Literary Review #43 2015-2016

Please comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s