Next poem is a short poem called "Naming the Children."
Several years ago, my grandfather
had had a series of strokes and was
living in a nursing home, and my wife
and I went to pick him up to bring him to my mother's
house for a party.
In the car, he told us that he had
lost a lot of his memory because of the strokes,
and his way of keeping his memory intact or bringing it
back was, when he woke up in the morning, he would recite--
he would count to 10 in three languages,
in Russian, in Hebrew, in English.
And then he would recite the names of his children
and his grandchildren in all three languages also.
Jewish children, when they're born,
are given an English name.
They're also given a Hebrew name,
because of the old story that the angels only
can understand Hebrew.
Also, it might help for you to know that
when the Russian Jews--
or any immigrants, I guess, came over, they changed their names.
And that name change is indicated in the poem.
"Naming the Children."
He remembers good night and good morning.
He remembers my wife, Gail, which
is the wind, who sits beside him, stroking his thin right
hand.
From back of the car through the neighborhoods,
he recites the names of his children
in Russian, Hebrew, and English.
The names squeeze through the damaged arteries,
past the house on Odessa, over the remarkable ocean
to New York.
Mischa will be Morris, Hodya will be Ida.
10 years later, my mother, Beatrice Florence,
stares into polished stone.
At last, she sees herself nee Bryna Fagel, beautiful bird.
Which is how it is in America, over the graves of our parents,
how we are named.