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Gabriel Kahane

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Gabriel Kahane

Icebox

My grandmother catalogued
the contents of the icebox,
sure that there's a meal
to be made from what was in there.
She offered us an orange
for the seven days of aftershocks,
dressed up in our best clothes
with the powder in our hair.

It sticks in the throat
It sticks in the throat
I tried to run, but it runs on remote.

The blonde girls in midtown board
the express for the East Side;
I stare for lack of purpose
knowing you are far and gone.
I slept through my stop
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and disembarked to make a joyride;
Brighton Beach and Russian baths
and Hudson River dawn.

It sticks in the throat
It sticks in the throat
I tried to run, but it runs on remote.

My grandmother listens
to the men in conversation,
sure that there's a reason
to be silent and be still.
Table turned and jacket torn
in ancient observation,
all of us in black against the February chill;
I am at the window with my feet up on the sill.