Two Poems by Jane Herschlag

IT IS WHAT IT IS

So, I block out my schizophrenic
daughter-in-law’s impact on my ten grandkids,
loved, but enraged by their un-tethered world,
no rules to ground them—
their mother’s mind as disarrayed as their dish-cluttered kitchen,
while two dishwashers sit empty,
and four laundry baskets over-flow,
mixed, clean with dirty.
Doing laundry gives Sarah confidence,
a sense of order—she knows how to toss
clothes into the washer, from washer to dryer.
But folding, sorting, putting into drawers
is a foreign language her fingers cannot learn.
It’s July in Israel but winter quilts bedeck each bed
in an un-air-conditioned home,
flannel pajamas are put on kids too young to understand seasons.
(My son limits his opposition to the most crucial events. He has given up
morning prayers in Shul to make sure his tardy children, evicted
from school, now arrive on time. He seeks help from his psychologist-aunt
when family conflicts turn into wars. With remarkable skill he implements
suggestions that reduce the need for high powered weapons).
Bedwetting creates comforting heaps of to-do wash, cluttering the laundry room.
When alone, two-year-old Chavy finds it fun to climb
atop her highchair tray and reach above the fridge to grab
eggs from their crates and drop them, to watch them splat on the floor.
Mother won’t scold, or say No, or wash the mess.
It stays a day or two till my son gives in, or her mother comes to clean.
The clamor of her mind clogs all the hours of the day,
and forms operatic overtures at bedtime
or morning-prep time before school.
I tell my son, I have yet to see the eight-month-old,
in the toyless crib, eat solid food.
I buy a guaranteed-strong teething ring with playthings,
the next morning it lies crushed on the floor.
Demands, tempers, screams fill each room,
emanate from the six younger kids who still defy all Sarah says,
and goad her to a higher octave she is guaranteed to reach.
Each child finds its way to channel anger.
Five boys urine-spray the bathroom floor despite
their learned good aim into the center of the bowl.
The stench, a testament to their wrath,
goes unnoticed by their mother.
The egg-tosser spits onto the floor
what she does not want to eat, including fruit pits.
No child fully owns anything—
each wants what another has,
grabs it, breaks it, or the chase begins,
followed by slaps and screams.
Sarah does cook well
but the children seldom sit at the table—
forked schnitzel or vegetables are eaten
like ice cream pops as they walk from room to room.
Cupcakes, candy, chips are taken and eaten any time of day.
I order pizza—like jackals they snatch,
empty the boxes, some hold two slices while Fayga has none.
Her screams, like needles in the ears, force no sharers.
Mom smiles, shrugs, tells Fayga to stop the noise.
I send Fayga to the store with money to buy just hers.
Then a visit to the zoo—like lower-ranked chimps
tormented by those higher up,
these kids chase, taunt, kick the goats,
slap the lemurs, till guards oust them.
I hate who they’ve become
but remind myself, trained by chaos,
it’s hard to find a self in a shapeless home,
each needs a target to gain stature, power, locate themselves.
My son understands, even with anti-psychotics
Sarah remains handicapped.
She will read to them or paint with them,
try her best, but can’t say No to a child,
or pair socks, or clean up splinters from broken glass.
I brace myself for my rare visits
where I am powerless as she, as their ten kids, as my son.
Mostly I witness or hide as I repeat the mantra—It is what it is,
and remind myself, many emerge from bedlam
magically less scathed than one would expect.
I had hoped for all my offspring of each generation
to reach adulthood more whole than I.

ONCE UPON A FABLE

The thing Dear Mother loved
more than any jewel or child
was amorphous, diaphanous, Denial.
She smeared it on her tongue,
dabbed it on her eyelids,
sprayed it on her vocal cords.

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the purest of them all,
Virgin-Mother often asked.
Papa, big sister, my twin and I
in unison we all replied,
You Dear Mother, You Dear Mother. Our refrain
placed upon her face an illegible smile.

Odorless, colorless, undetectable
in her breast milk, Mother had fed Denial
to each newborn girl.
Why did Dear Mother stuff her mouth
with cotton candy, her ears with perfumed wax,
and often shut her doll-lid eyes?

Sherlock Holmes in reverse—
she rubbed out evidence.
Mother would say on a hot summer day,
Such a good Father, he teaches you how to swim.
My flooded heart wished to reply,
Mother, Sweet Mother, can’t you hear

the water rattle in my lungs,
see spittle pass my lips, coughs shudder my limbs?
Instead, coward-me stole flannel Denial
from Mother’s cache
to wraparound my wounded heart,
while in my dreams I begged,

When you strip my bed, please see the stains he leaves
upon your snow-white sheets.
Alas, virginal Mother knew naught of sex,
so with cataract-eyes she tidied their house
then fed me to the big bad wolf.
I woke one day and said, No more of this— 

his long-pointed teeth, furry body,
probing claws, and her Maddonaesque smile.
I grabbed vial after vial from our medicine shelf
to lace into my very berry-apple compote,
tastier than any Viennese was known to cook.
Dear Mutter, Dear Vater, I have for you

a great dessert, far sweeter than
your flim-flam-flan, my Rooty-fruity-compote.
Within minutes both were apple-pit-cyanide-dead,
eyelashes crusted up like stale strudel,
lips pursed into a bitter-pucker around
stiff-veined tongues that could not mock me. 



Jane Berger Herschlag’s full-length poetry collection, including her photography, When the Mouth Can’t Speak the Body Will, is published by Finishing Line Press.  Bully In The Spotlight, her 40-page docu-poetry chapbook is published by Pudding House Publications.   Her poems are included in five anthologies and many university presses.    Jane taught creative writing/poetry, and curated the open mic reading series for the Writer’s Voice at The West Side YMCA in NYC and in Danbury, CT.