— Cederbaum

Henna

Stain floods the valleys of her palm
before being overtaken by thick red paste.

Leaning in, I smell the eucalyptus oil
I had massaged into her hand at the beginning.

Steady hands. Q-tips lie in a line
off to the side, just in case.

Moving up the base of her forefinger
I add more, tiny leaves and petals that end

inside the whorl of her fingerprint,
marking her.

Hours later the paste has dried,
its liquids absorbed into her skin.

Over the next few days the color darkens,
and the lotus design contrasts against her paleness.

When I see her next it is from a distance,
but close enough to watch as she traces the design

with her other hand absentmindedly,
etching the pattern into her memory.

Eve Cederbaum

Brunch at Home

The ceiling paint smelled of
burnt bacon and blue cheese.
Mushrooms danced in a hiss-
ing pan. Caught in the breeze

smells mingled, the air vent
unable to stop them.
The oven timer rang
just as I threw cut stems

from fresh lilies away.
Flowers now in a vase,
I grabbed the frittata
and haphazardly placed

it next to my glass trays.
Spooning fruit into bowls
all that’s left is the fish,
a nice fillet of sole.

Eve Cederbaum

Fellow-Citizens of the Senate and of the House of Representatives:

Among the vicissitudes incident to life no event could have filled me with
greater anxieties than my toothaches.

My greatest battle was neither at Cambridge nor at Brandywine Creek,
nor is it over.
All these long years, since the tender age of twenty two
I have been plagued by all manner of illnesses.

From measles to dysentery,
malaria to the flu,
nothing can compare to the hell
of a toothache.

I ask you, what have I done to deserve this?
Every morning I open my toilet bag,
I take out my silver toothbrush,
my tongue scraper and silver tooth powder case.

I have tried solutions of balsam and myrrh,
powders of pumice, borax, burnt bread and tobacco,
mouthwash made of salt, wine and vinegar,
and yet still my gums and molars torture me!

Now I have just the one tooth left.
You’d think my salvation was near,
that after this last canine was removed
I would be able to live out the rest of my life
and presidency, pain free.
Pain free and talking,
with the best dentistry has to offer; a denture!

These damnable dentures will be the death of me!
Awkwardly they lay tight against my gums
digging and jabbing, pinching and stabbing
with every chuckle or comment,
I resist the urge to rip them out of my mouth
and throw them into the Potomac river!

Forgive me ladies and gentlefolk,
I digress.
Truly, my greatest anxieties come not from the
slight pain I feel, but rather
the notification that was transmitted by your order,
and received on the 14th day of the present month.

Eve Cederbaum

Motorcycle

The brass bell hangs
camouflaged, metal on metal.
As he turns on the two low wattage bulbs overhead
the chrome takes on a look of glazed luster,
the light dripping down from one cylinder to the next
until it disappears beneath the undercarriage.
There the bell rests, dormant.

Eagerly the side stand retracts,
the bike tilting upwards as the man throws one leg
over its body, grounding himself with his other.

Sound echoes through the maze of piping
as the bell awakens, its chimes like sanctus bells
chasing evil away, calling the faithful to prayer.

Riding is this man’s prayer, his release.
If the bike is his temple the bell is his protector.
The scripture of the rider is simple:
give a guardian bell to a rider you know, and love,
and it will keep them safe.

The man puts on his lime green earplugs,
distancing himself from the noise.
Not the noise of his bell, but another,
his gift of protection, tinkling somewhere far away.
Given, but perhaps no longer deserved.

Venomous insults, sudden rage,
magazines thrown across the room;
his body tenses reflexively.
Putting on his helmet the man turns
on the engine, encasing the garage
in a cacophonous cloud of wheezing
and grumbling.

The motorcycle surges out the garage,
and turning onto the street the sweet
melody of a bell sings out, all but imperceptible.

Eve Cederbaum