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Anne-Marie Brumm

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After Five Years

So you’ve come back !
after five years
to your son’s funeral.

When you left
(for the sake of Art, you said)
he was only 16,
the others 12, 8 and 6.
How their mother must have felt
to see you again
with your new American wife,
a menopausal old maid,
her mouth
like an overstretched rubber band.

He was a good soldier,
they said,
went to army training
without a father’s wise
and loving advice,
without a man to turn to and talk
on days free.
Making mediocre sculptures
in New York
few would buy,
you were too busy
pussyfooting at parties,
art galleries and sculpture gardens
for possibilities and passports.
         
Sorry you can’t stay longer.
How is life in New York ?
How could a small kibbutz compare ?
Your new wife works hard, I hear,
has given you a gallery, a new house
and happily carts around
your sculptures in her big car.
But don’t worry, it’s OK, we’ll manage.
Other soldiers will fight the wars
and serve your miluim,
other kibbutzniks will fill your job.
We’ll survive somehow.


By the way, he died bravely, they said,
on the fifth day of the war.

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