i had my knees locked at the flea market last week
as i heard the story of Sabra who i did not know an hour ago but i now know
has seven filled journals
and worked in a department store whose name has escaped her
when she lived in boston doing 10$ portraits
and used to be married but never stopped writing
and her family fled just like mine, so perhaps I did know her an hour ago
who isn’t to say that her father escaped russia hand in hand with my great-grandparent
or were mortal enemies, though I doubt this, because if one thing survives in jewish families it is a grudge, and I am sure I would have been taught to spit at the Segal name
I chose a print of hers called Moonflowers
and her hands trembled as she counted my change
to the same beat as my knees and ankles under the table
i thought of telling her everything about me
but as she chose a cardboard backing, she had never stopped talking
As if her life had been brimming on the edge of her hat
pooling as she drove to the market once weekly
and set up her booth and made conversation
and prevented small dogs from peeing nearby because the last thing she wanted to do was wash her tables again
and i thought this was her turn, and that i could wait
she told me to never succumb to perfection
which i have been told, but this time it stuck
so i wrote when i left
including only a sliver of what she told me,
because I can’t tell you her life
it is collected in her hat,
and cannot be bottled,
you must go to the flea market and cup your hands in yourself
and let it be a little lighter on her head when she drives back home,
to come again next week, weather permitting
