A Literary Magazine in Support of the Jewish Community
Winter
is a season of ice,
and I am not stable, unstable,
maybe
never always
was,
for long, at times,
like a personality made of
ice floes
on the Hudson,
hard sheets
whose edges
jag each other, a wonder
they do not
bleed.
One can manage them
steering upright
an ice floe
or several at a time,
guiding
downstream
white barges.
There is nothing to say.
She died
the other day.
All summer long and half
an autumn,
age bivouacked
along the river,
waiting for its win. Sky lidded
the water
and mirrored
clouds
like puffs
of cannon.
A loss is a loss, that in
advanced age
has its auxiliary reliefs.
It’s not what you lost
now,
but what you lost of
always.
Chaim Wachsberger
Chaim Wachsberger is a student at the MFA program in Queens College, New York, focusing on writing poetry. Prior to joining the program, he had practiced law in New York for several decades. He lives in Manhattan with his wife. His children are sometimes in New York, but usually elsewhere.
