Eight Nights
First my mother’s mother’s house: overstuffed
blintzes, gifts; my father’s admonitions;
cousins breaking up the distance. Night two,
his parents. Latkes and the news, darkness
amidst festival. The middle evenings
swung less to extremes: small gifts, smaller guilt.
Irony of shellfish fried in oil,
if they were off and we traveled coastward.
Moderation left in place the pattern’s
fundamentals, though: she knew from joy,
he from sorrow. Each year, each settled in
more rigidly. Each eighth night, the candles
spent themselves in one moment. My parents
kindled such illusions of agreement.
*
Emily Winakur is a writer and practicing psychologist based in Houston. Her poetry and prose have appeared or are upcoming in several journals, including, most recently, Literary Mama, Colorado Review, The Texas Observer, and The American Scholar. Emily has recently completed a coming-of-age novel that describes a teen’s journey with both mental health and poetry.
