Special Feature: "The Thread" by Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg, Contest Judge

The Thread

Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg, Contest Judge

My mother singing “Tora Lora Lora,”

the Irish lullaby  even though we were Brooklyn Jews.

The vacuum on the shag carpet. The singular birch

shaking over the hapless window sill. The humming refrigerator.

The chants encasing me in each swayed note as I wrapped

my thin arms around my cold chest in the cavernous synagogue.

The creak of the swing as I turn horizontal, defying gravity

in the static of the transistor radio. The loud slap on the bass notes

of the body that make bruises, then the slow breath

of forgiveness, pacing until the danger is gone.

All the possibilities in each library novel about a girl,

afraid at the start, but about to do something

to swirl the calm pond of her life. The first kiss in the back

of the school bus broken by applause. The sound of thunder,

an interior roar like hunger. The old staccato of my father's anger

before it dissolved into the tenderness of defeat.

The way some mornings rev up like motorcycles

coming point blank toward us. The exhaling speed

of rivers, starving for new ground, or betrayed

by sudden shorelines that break the water into remembering

willows. Bike tires on wet pavement, downhill,

at dawn. The happy rhythm of the subway rocking my spine

in and out of alignment with the dark as we tunneled

through water back to air, the miracle of one rushing animal

carrying us all. This buzzing body ferrying millions of cells into sound.

Poet's Notes: Music has been a central thread in my life as well as in many of our lives. I wrote this poem as a way to explore some of the many forms sound in rhythm can take in our lives, from the staccato of someone's anger to the roar of the vacuum cleaner. I think of what poet Li Young-Lee said about writing poetry: he hears/feels the rhythm, which is like a power line, then the words, like birds on that line, land. That's very much what composing poetry is for me also.