One
day in her home town my grandmother Esther
Saw
the ghost of the Emperor. This surprised her;
Franz
Joseph was alive and even if he wasn’t,
Why
would he be selling used clothes in Lemberg?
Still,
she had no doubt. This was the face she’d seen
On
stamps and coins, in schools and post offices.
She
had always a soft spot for the Emperor;
And
many decades later, in far-off Brooklyn,
Deemed
herself still a reasonably loyal subject.
Her
husband could, if he wanted – and he did –
Vote
for Roosevelt but she, having grown up
With a
monarch, considered a president
To be
something inconsiderable. Franz Joseph
Did
not roam about asking people to elect him.
Esther
was 15 that day in the market with no intent
Of
ever leaving Lemberg. Sometimes in her dreams
She
flew, but when she looked down, saw the Poltowa,
Its
bridges filled with statues which craned their necks
To see
her flying by, waving at them.
(Her
ninth child, my father, also flew in his sleep
But I
don’t know if he ever saw the Poltowa.)
Brave,
she walked up to the Emperor
Who
was extolling a pair of almost new pants
To a
skeptical buyer, stretching the cloth
In his
semitransparent hands. He gave her a smile
Behind
his enormous mustache. How we have dwindled!
I
cannot talk to dogs; I cannot fly in dreams
The
closest I’ve been to an emperor is not very close
Though
Dwight Eisenhower walked into my mother,
Knocking
her down, three months before I was born.
