Above the Hall’s portico, Ben stands facing the islands offIsland, the city to come, over the railing reclining into weather. In the freeze, a squint of reflected moon. Out there, it’s quiet, corpsed in hush: all five boroughs and the sixth of the ice pierced with regret, with even Joysey in mourning, from the beaches up through the pines and the smokestacked clouds; businesses have been shuttered; minds have been closed; churches lie smoldering, rubble neglecting even to fall…Manhattan, a cincture of cinder. Shiva, once its success has been proven over an extended engagement at the Israelien household, is taken national, then worldwide, spends itself from hurst to wood to burg, to glen to city, yadda, each discharging its public rites, the performance of municipal ablution with media assured; solidarity, shtum. All ends on a Sunday, the day of the rising, of Hosanna and olden unction…the Sunday of palms holding its day weeks prior to Easter, which’s been forgotten, too, as if a gust’s direction, its windy directive, Easter, go Easter and Easter — weeks more waxed a wane down through their days, inked through the boxes of the calendar, ticked off nick by prick upon the face of the stovetop, its timer and that of the microwave deprogrammed and unplugged, to what once had been that fake or falsest of days if with true intention, marketed for the honoring of Mothers. O Hanna, He’s forgotten your Hallmark, your slippers over the rugs soft and sinking, your heels on the hardwood tapping impatience, anger, displeasure with yourself the punishment of rage — the weight of your approach, the force of your presence, your warm and sucky flesh; knows only the posthumous linger, the cold breath of your skirts and your blouses in the closet once mirrored in Him, that smell of perfume #5 you’d shpritz to your wrist; how the sweetened flowers — last year’s irises — would’ve been delivered with a card signed with Israel’s name to wilt then die in a vase in a hall, now shattered, glued, reglued, and then shattered again; Wanda would’ve made sure, Wanda who never forgets, marks the boxes on her own calendar a recreation of the one hanging from a loosened tack upstairs at the wall scuffed by the slammed opening of the frontdoor, the archivists and the historical maids, such experts; watches the clock an eye for an eye, watches her watch, which was a gift given to her by Israel and Hanna for a holiday she didn’t observe; on break, how she reminds Israel an entire Friday before; gives him a second call at the office, notice ample like breasts, following up urgently with his secretary, a final warning, get her a gift, who, your wife, whoever you might’ve married While You Were Out, as it’s dated, timed, a slipping pink, a scribble; Loreta running off a form, a replicate, yet another rejectable settlement in triplicate, and demanded ASAP, puts her on hold while she waits for the feed, then through to his extension, his voice; Hello, you’ve reached Israel Israelien, I’m not able to take your call, but if you would please — leaves a message, hangs up.
