Mother, your eyes are out of sync
They are Krystalnacht splits
Nights of broken glass; looted
Of love, emptied of light.
The sweep of your shawl
Undulates in the sighing wind.
Your nose juts through
The rut of your jaws,
Cubing your obscene asymmetry.
Sons and daughters gasp as you weep
At the gape of their graves.
Father, you play your music
Like a beggar. Your hair is silver
And your skin is ashen.
You tickle each note sour
Conquistador of an impossible rhythm
Your fingers humble
Are skeletal; they snake a
Mockery of angles, bending your duende
In hooks of severed flamenco.
Your shoulder pierces
The fractured fray of your rags.
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Comments on Portraits, c1938