The Blue Violinist
(after Marc Chagall)
My son, with the soft mule eyes
who learned to dance
before he could talk,
who played kiss-chase with his shadow,
floats above our town
on a blue painted chair,
his violin snug beneath his chin -
above the market square,
the Peskowatik Asylum,
the synagogue,
above the drone of our prayers.
No-one,
the butcher, the cantor, the doctor,
not even the rabbi,
can tell me why he is up there
nor if he will ever come down:
I have tried to call him,
tempted him with herring and cakes
and glacé pears,
even thrown him a bouquet
from our rooftop
like a hopeful bride.
But he will not budge.
The birds that perch on his knee
listen, cockheaded, to the strains
of his bow.
The snow is coming.
With every passing nightfall
I watch him float
a fraction higher.
Page(s) 30
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