Florence Elon
Final Questions
‘How come you’re you, I’m me?
Why’s this yours? Why’s that mine?’
Once you put an upper limit
to my questions - ten a night.
Now you’re the hungry one:
head sunk in hospital pillows,
begging me to pass on those replies
to grandchildren -
extend each other’s spans
in opposite directions.
I’m curled up in your bedside
chair like the child who asked
where you lived: Odessa, Kiev?
Always moving toward America.
Slept? On shelves above the stove
Ate? There was never what for food.
Why when you sailed to this country
didn’t life get better?
I try to remember what you told us -
you found a job, met Mother...?
Why child, your million ‘whys’
will gobble up my life!
Page(s) 39
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