lirik lagu lori laitman - refrigerator, 1957
more like a vault — you pull the handle out
and on the shelves: not a lot
and what there is (a boiled potato
in a bag, a chicken carcass
under foil) looking dispirited
drained, mugged. this is not
a place to go in hope or hunger
but, just to the right of the middle
of the middle door shelf, on fire, a lit~from~within red
heart red, s~xual red, wet neon red
shining red in their liquid, exotic
aloof, slumming
in such company: a jar
of maraschino cherries. three~quarters
full, fiery globes, like strippers
at a church social. maraschino cherries, maraschino
the only foreign word i knew. not once
did i see these cherries employed: not
in a drink, nor on top
of a glob of ice cream
or just pop one in your mouth. not once
the same jar there through an entire
childhood of dull dinners — bald meat
pocked peas and, see above
boiled potatoes. maybe
they came over from the old country
family heirlooms, or were status symbols
bought with a piece of the first paycheck
from a sweatshop
which beat the pig farm in bohemia
handed down from my grandparents
to my parents
to be someday mine
then my child’s?
they were beautiful
and, if i never ate one
it was because i knew it might be missed
or because i knew it would not be replaced
and because you do not eat
that which rips your heart with joy
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