Blackie Davidman (middle left), Gene (middle right)
The Zoot-Suit Killer
For Papa Gene
In the 40s, your school principal
Dubbed you a zoot-suit killer.
Like slick-backed wolves,
You and Blackie hunted Brooklyn,
In pin-striped suits and spats,
Until they sent you to camp,
Where Ellie’s yellow swim-suit,
Stopped you in your tracks.
That picture at camp is one of my favorites.
Ellie looking gorgeous,
Everyone else standing,
And you lying defiantly sideways,
Laughing,
How irresistible a wild one is,
When he knows how to be tender.
Years later,
We walked the New York streets together,
I stuck out like a soft sucker,
In my puffy too-short down coat,
But you were still slick and city-smart,
In Black Leather.
You told me then I couldn’t leave the city,
Until I’d seen a good play,
Been to a museum,
And had an egg cream and a “real” bagel.
Always supportive of experience,
You and Ellie were the first people I wanted to tell,
When I thought I was doing something crazy.
At your table, the nosh always made the words come easy,
And I’d wait . . . . . .
For you and Ellie to look at each other and exchange that smile,
After which,
Nothing anyone else had to say mattered.
I am going to miss the way, at that same table,
You would pass me a piece of buttered bread,
When you knew I’d answered enough questions.
Or the way you’d cup my cheeks in both hands,
Before you kissed me
And called me gorgeous.
I am gong to miss your spirit Papa,
A Spirit that raged defiant,
as each bout of illness,
Crippled your failing body.
Refusing to be silenced,
You continued to write,
To travel,
And developed the whisper of all good gangsters.
Now that you’ve turned your white locks,
Towards another runaway sun,
I will have to learn to seek you out in other places.
Searching the eyes of your beautiful grandchildren,
I listen carefully to their laughter,
For the sound of a banjo.
From now on, wherever people raise their voices
In song against injustice,
I will hear yours as well.
Somewhere now,
My grandmother is humming,
As she and Masha set the table for your arrival.
The table is full of yalanchi, pilaff, latkas, and old friends.
My grandmother goes to the window to let the dove in,
And the kisses of those at the party,
Float down like feathers,
To dry our tears.
I look up knowing,
Lisa Strand Baloian
September 2002