Saturday, March 6, 2010


by Lyn Lifshin

I hardly think of my uncle
in the coffin outside, waiting
when my sister guns the
air with, “You murderer,
you stole the souls of the
murdered by writing about
them.” My face white, some
one tells me later. It’s a layer
of ice. I get thru the rabbi’s
study wrapped in its glaze
thru his open grave, the one
time my aunt weeps as
the coffin is pulled from the
hearse. I shovel dirt,
wrapped in its numbness,
shovel after shovel into
the grave and walking near
this stranger, back to the
car. I always forgave her
when she was a brat, spied
on boyfriends, didn’t
come to my wedding
party or visit me in the
hospital, said my car crash
didn’t happen, a few scrapes
she sneered. She threatened
to sue me for the title
of a book, had others come
after me for other poems.
I’m in this glaze, like
glass at the meal in
the synagogue, each
of us on one side
of our aunt, the only
one left of the
Vermont Lazaruses.
Ice crystals on grass,
topaz sky. I bury two
family relatives

*Lyn's website:

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