LONG SHADOWS
Before we understood suffering, we played a game:
What sense would you prefer to lose?
I’d choose taste, glad to give up the bitter radishes I’d
push to the edge of my plate, a mound of ammunition
I wouldn’t dare launch at my brother. I’d happily forego
the dark nuggets we guessed incorrectly were steak
when it was kidney in the pies served at school lunch.
The headmistress who paced with a ruler tapping
her palm, checking if we’d eaten our portions,
the sting to our hands when we had not: touch,
a code for punishment. Blindness
too frightening to contemplate, too
familiar, as my route home looped in front of
The School for the Blind, though rarely were children
out front, and never did they play sidewalk games.
I didn’t know the many pregnancies
my mother had lost, the blank before my
brother’s adoption, the blank after, followed
by my risky birth. And the one stillbirth.
Was it a boy? A girl? Did they name it?
Or did it join those other whispers about cousins
my family couldn’t trace in Germany?
I’d give up hearing if it meant not catching
the worry in my parents’ voices, give up
the smell of leaves burning, so as
not to be reminded of that other smoke.
So many secrets buried in the backyard.
Even after thinning, the trees tightened
in a circle, casting long shadows all night.
Carol V. Davis is the author of Between Storms (Truman State University Press, 2012). She won the 2007 T.S. Eliot Prize for Into the Arms of Pushkin: Poems of St. Petersburg. Twice a Fulbright scholar in Russia, she teaches at Santa Monica College and Antioch University, Los Angeles. Her poems have appeared in Ploughshares, Prairie Schooner, Mid-American Review, Bellingham Review, Verse Daily, and Ted Kooser’s American Life in Poetry. She is poetry editor of the Los Angeles newspaper the Jewish Journal.