..
And torches spluttering silver fire
And lights that nose out hiding-places...
To the night--
Squatting like a hunchback
Under the curved stoop--
The old mammy-night
That has outlived beauty and knows the ways of fear--
The night--wide-opening crooked and comforting arms,
Hiding her as in a voluminous skirt.
The sturdy Ghetto children
March by the parade,
Waving their toy flags,
Prancing to the bugles,
Lusty, unafraid.
But I see a white frock
And eyes like hooded lights
Out of the shadow of pogroms
Watching... watching...
IV
Calicoes and furs,
Pocket-books and scarfs,
Razor strops and knives
(Patterns in check...)
Olive hands and russet head,
Pickles red and coppery,
Green pickles, brown pickles,
(Patterns in tapestry...)
Coral beads, blue beads,
Beads of pearl and amber,
Gewgaws, beauty pins--
Bijoutry for chits--
Darting rays of violet,
Amethyst and jade...
All the colors out to play,
Jumbled iridescently...
(Patterns in stained glass
Shivered into bits!)
Nooses of gay ribbon
Tugging at one's sleeve,
Dainty little garters
Hanging out their sign...
Here a pout of frilly things--
There a sonsy feather...
(White beards, black beards
Like knots in the weave...)
And ah, the little babies--
Shiny black-eyed babies--
(Half a million pink toes
Wriggling altogether.)
Baskets full of babies
Like grapes on a vine.
Mothers waddling in and out,
Making all things right--
Picking up the slipped threads
In Grand street at night--
Grand street like a great bazaar,
Crowded like a float,
Bulging like a crazy quilt
Stretched on a line.
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