Taking out the Trash

by Karen Alkalay-Gut (gut22@post.tau.ac.il)

I tell my crazy neighbor how I was as a child

how I too had fights with my mother

jut like her child's classhes with her.

We meet by the trash bin as

she tries to expel the outcome

of the daughter's annual visit

when the screaming in her kitchen

was no longer only her own maniacal voices.

"Didn't you respect your parents?" she asks

in that wondering tone I know from children

and inmates. And I admit I just

couldn't get along with them.

She thinks I am being noble, as usual,

humoring her and my mother at the same time.

Then she suspects I have heard her ranting

to the walls in three part disharmony. For a moment

she looks at me sidelong, then her shining, mad,

toothless smile returns, and she is grateful for my comfort

no matter which stories I tell.

She leaves for her walk, almost blithely,

trailing the absurd cart she is never without.

I go back upstairs, moved, dissatisfied.

I never

like to her - it would be

like lying to my diary,

my secret self, my portrait in the attic

Early Encounters with an Analyst

I

"I've given you

many keys"

"You've given me

locks"

"Those

are the keys"

II

In your hosue

there are many

attics. Many doors

to many garret

rooms.

III

You tell me I am in love.

I say, don't muddle

my life.

Then why are you

so sad

IV

Banal little tears

fillup my eyes

why didn't I wear

glasses

why didn't I plan

protection

V

Too late.

you know.

So.

It's too late

to do anything.

VI

You know how I'd prefer

the warm grasp of a friend.

Maybe we'd be friends as well.

But with money it's so

much easier.

Other work by Karen Alkalay-Gut