My Days

No! I don’t eat nails and I don’t run barefoot over sharp broken glass either. I get hungry and I cry at the sound of a bomb’s explosion and my hair from the top of no fortress wall - by no trick at all - will reach the hand of Zal. The spread of my days is always laid out with the bubbling of the big samovar beside fresh bread it is drawn out beside the pots and the flames beside the hard pains beside the simple joys like the pain of the children’s unfinished homework the pain of washing the yard, the pain of the half-knitted shawl the pain of the walk to the store for bread and nails and hair dye. And the joy of hot soup at noon the joy of new tulle curtains the joy of a new picture frame and the joy of erasing the white-haired tedium. The spread of the day I gather up at sunset and when night comes I unwind the skein again and again for the love of the children a new row a new color a new pattern - without broken glass - I add to the unfinished shawl. No! I don’t eat nails! And at the thought of hearing the sound of a bullet I cry ...