Juicy Fruit

1
 
I count the chimneys high up over 
the elevator train tracks until all the sweetness 
is sucked from my sticks of Juicy Fruit.
Where are we going? 
You’ll see, my father says.
 
We arrive at a red brick building.
Here are your pajamas, the matron says.
Put them on.
When I turn around, my father is gone.
 
No one tells me my mother went to a T.B. sanitorium.
 
2
 
I sit on a board between two chairs. 
My brown curls drop to the floor between tears. 
It’s Buster Brown in the barber’s mirror,
not me.
 
3          
       
We slurp milk and spoon potatoes into our mouths.
The matrons, many Holocaust survivors, hover.
Eat, think of the starving children in Europe. 
 
I stare at my plate night after night, the globs
of egg yolk and peas. I tiptoe 
across the room, stuff a clump of meat behind 
the radiator. The next night, a crumbled cupcake, 
a ripe banana. I feed the radiator until 
it gives off a putrid smell. 
 
The matrons rail against vermin, 
but they understand despair.
 
4
 
One matron’s voice is melodious. 
I climb the steps to the attic room to visit 
the doll she keeps for me. The matron is 
propped up by pillows, one leg in a white cast. 
She sings my name and lets me touch the hard plaster.
 
5 
 
I dream of sticks of Juicy Fruit. Chewing and chewing 
and chewing out all the sweetness.
 
6
 
My mother appears one Sunday after two years. 
She smells of Silent Night toilet water. 
She holds out a pair of new Mary Janes.
I pull off my brown high-tops and walk up and down 
in my shiny patent shoes.
Why are you limping? she asks.
It’s not me.