Tag: Linda Laderman

Final Score by Linda Laderman

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Final Score

June’s heavy humidity held our breath in its hands.
We wondered if it was safe to sit through the heat,
but Cleveland was in town and the Tigers were on fire.

Street vendors kept cool with plastic fans.
You stayed in the car. I paced the parking lot.
C’mon we’ll miss the first pitch.

Your face paled when I ordered our usual—
two grilled kosher hot dogs. You shook your head
like I’d suggested a pig roast on Shabbat.

Instead you bought a beer and nursed it until we stood
to stretch—together ten years and that was the first time
I saw you drink beer in a ballpark.

The Tigers held their lead. You said nothing, not even
when we watched the parade of players’ wives climb
the stairs in stilettoes and miniskirts.

I pointed to the one in head-to-toe Gucci, hoping
you’d laugh and roll your eyes, then yell, like always,
for Charlie the singing Italian ice guy to come by.

You barely blinked when you caught a foul ball,
as if it flew from the sun into your open palm.
When you loosened your grip, it dribbled

down the steps until an usher grabbed it
and threw it back. Look, luck fell into your lap, twice.
For months, I’d lie awake and replay that day.

Why did I nudge you from the car? What else had I missed?
By the time the EMT’s reached us, your body was slack.
I ran behind the stretcher shouting questions.

I don’t remember what I did with our seasons tickets.
Maybe I gave the rest to a neighbor or shredded them.
I know the Tigers won, but I can’t recall the final score.

*

Linda Laderman is a Michigan writer and poet. She is the 2023 recipient of The Jewish Woman’s Prize from Harbor Review. Her micro-chapbook, “What I Didn’t Know I Didn’t Know” will be published online at Harbor Review in September, 2023. Her poetry has appeared in The Gyroscope Review, The Jewish Literary Journal, SWWIM, ONE ART, Poetica Magazine, and Rust & Moth, among others. She has work forthcoming in Thimble Literary Magazine and Minyan Magazine. For nearly a decade, she volunteered as a docent at the Zekelman Holocaust Center in Farmington Hills, Michigan. Find her at lindaladerman.com

Four Poems by Linda Laderman

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My Mother Holds Her Grief

like a collection of precious stones in a plum pouch. I watch her untie its silk strings & spread the stones across her satin sheets. She separates them by color & holds a cerulean blue with faceted edges up to the light. She rubs it over her body & lingers on her thigh, then takes a red thread & wraps it around. She hangs it from her neck, an amulet to hold her grief. She teaches me to hold her grief too, says it’s as easy as making a bed. Hold it there, fold it here, tuck the corners under. Always tuck the corners under. I sit beside her bed. She gives me a turquoise, cool and smooth. When she turns away, I rub it on my thigh & tuck it under the corner.

*

I should have left you first

but I waited until autumn’s red birds scattered
their seeds, giving way to a bitter winter, expected,

but holding out for a thaw. I waited for the peony,
pale pink, to emerge from the mound of dirt

near our doorstep, dependable, a return to life.
I waited for the blood moon to reveal itself, hopeful

it could be seen through earth’s hazy gaze—
I waited for spring’s rainy season to clear,

though June, being unseasonably stingy,
refused to cede a day without a downpour.

on summer’s cusp, I woke from a half sleep,
my skin drenched in knowing. still, my eyes

stayed shut, until the blue-black night found me.
I waited until the days stretched, the sun set late,

temperatures rose, and the duck in the Hosta
vanished, leaving a gap strewn with leaves and grass,

her batch of eggs hatched and ready to fly. I waited
until the children left, filled with illusions of time,

as if life was forever—a chance to do what I couldn’t.
I waited for your infatuations to wane, but they didn’t.

I waited for the first freeze, then blew my breath
into the icy vapor, kissing winter’s frosted air.

thinking, if I waited long enough, my haunted dreams
would disappear. and you did.

*

When We Dance

We dance on the hardwood floor. His white hair lays
        bare my memories. The nights that lasted until morning.

The sound of Detroit Jazz pushes us. Belgrave, Franklin, Carter.
        I turn it up. I’m wound. Our arms zig and zag, two old saws.

I hip bump him, snap my fingers. He lets out a surprised
        laugh and twists me around our kitchen. I let him do it.

We twirl. His face is red, shy, like a boy. I want to seduce him,
        but I don’t know. I’ve gotten used to not having.

My breath is hard. My hands sweat. I wonder if he took a Viagra.
        I take his arm. Purple blotches stain his skin. Mottled by time.

In the morning, I ask if he remembers when each day took its time.
        How we craved a chance to hear the silence.

Now, I store time in a stone. I step over its power to fool.
        When I feel regret, I sink into a place with no light.

*

Fine China

I worry that my last poem will be my last poem. Let’s talk about quatrains. I create a series of prompts, a list of lines. I’m exhausted from nothing. I list nothings. Nothing good can come from this. Can all this be for nothing? She has nothing on you, You know nothing about me. Only lines stacked, like my fine china, packed away, forgotten as the drop of dried cranberry stuck under the rim. I take the place settings out of the basement cabinet, sit on the cold concrete floor, and remove the felt separators. Nothing. I focus on the memories the dishes hold. An ekphrastic after the matching teapot? Nothing. Empty, like the dishes. I bring two place settings upstairs to soak. I shop for a roasting chicken, red potatoes, baby carrots, and a brown sugar pecan pie. If I can’t write, I’ll fill the damn plates.

*

Linda Laderman is a Michigan writer and poet. She is the 2023 recipient of The Jewish Woman’s Prize from Harbor Review. Her micro-chapbook, “What I Didn’t Know I Didn’t Know” will be published online at Harbor Review in September, 2023. Her poetry has appeared in The Gyroscope Review, The Jewish Literary Journal, SWWIM, ONE ART, Poetica Magazine, and Rust & Moth, among others. She has work forthcoming in Thimble Literary Magazine and Minyan Magazine. For nearly a decade, she volunteered as a docent at the Zekelman Holocaust Center in Farmington Hills, Michigan. Find her at lindaladerman.com

Burnt Toast by Linda Laderman

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Burnt Toast

I don’t know how to be old.
Everyone I loved died years before old age.
My mother, father, friends taken without warning.
Most days, my brain lies to me. It says I’m young.
It doesn’t take long for my body to say otherwise.
Yesterday, the woman who colors my hair watched me
struggle to open a bottle of water. She offered to help.
Her look said, poor old lady, I’ll never be old like that.
Any bit of patience I possessed has vanished, like the years.
My therapist tells me to be understanding with my husband,
who is fine with being old. When he asks, What did you say,
for a third time, don’t confront. Answer again, and again,
if necessary. She says I shouldn’t complain—that most women
my age would give anything for a man who rubs their back.
The first thing I smell in the morning is the bitter scent
of my husband’s burnt toast. He says he can’t smell it,
so I crack open the window and wonder why we have tiles
that read Home is Love and Joy on the sill when we still
argue about silly things, like the time I asked if he’d move
the porcelain chicks from the middle of the table onto a shelf.
He declined. Our conversations are riddled with deliberations.
We discuss the dishwasher. Should we run it, or wait?
What do we want to eat tonight? Carry in or cook?
Catch a movie or stream something to watch?
Today was too cold to be out. I barely made it to the grocery.
Sleep, when it comes, is a relief. Somewhere only I can go.

*

Linda Laderman is a 73-year-old (almost 74) Detroit poet. Her poetry has appeared in One Art, The Willawaw Journal, The Jewish Literary Journal, The Hole in the Head Review, and The Write Launch, among others. She has work forthcoming in May in The Writers Foundry Review. She’s studied with the Sarah Lawrence Writing Institute and workshops regularly with the Poetry Craft Collective, a cohort of poets who review and encourage each other’s writing. For many years, she was a docent at the Holocaust Center near Detroit, where she led adult discussion tours. Find her at lindaladerman.com.

Three Poems by Linda Laderman

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Redemption

Mother worries.
No man, money, or prospects.
Her hopes dwell in a junk drawer,

crammed with S&H Green stamps.
I help paste the multi-colored
squares into redemption books.

We cover each page in hues of yellow,
blue, green, a quilt of stamped wishes-
a color T.V., a hot pink Schwinn starlet.

On market day, she cozies up to the grocer,
her smile warm as a fresh-picked peach.
He winks and gives us double stamps.

Every Saturday morning, Mother sends me
to the corner drug store with a signed note.
Please sell my daughter a carton of Lucky Strikes.

She unravels the gold tape,
then taps the pack against her palm.
My cue to get her lighter.

The tip of her cigarette glows, like a birthday
candle dangling from her mouth. I picture
it burning to the end, ash singeing her lips.

She offers me a drag.
Cigarette between my fingers, she grabs it back.
Not yet, we still have more stamps to paste.

*

Mercy

A neighbor stops me,
Your ex is ill. He’s at Mercy.
I say nothing.
It’s been 20 years.
But what do I know about time?
I was 19 when I met you.
My emotions split, like bark on the birch
that stood behind our first house.
I rehearse my response.
Should I embrace you?
Will my nervous laugh,
the one you mocked, return?
An attendant shows me to your room.
Family only.
I hear the whir of machines
How bad is it?
I wonder if you remember
when I cheered your name,
hurrying from the stands
to find you under the time clock.
You said I shared your victories.
Privacy was the prize I coveted.
Filling your body with spurious cures,
you recoiled when old people
discussed their diagnosis.
Now your time is measured in doses.
A nurse asks if I’m your wife.
I tell her, I’m just about to leave.
You murmur; we did ok for a while.
I nod, slide my forgiveness into your palm.

*

Delivery Day

My stepfather takes ten boxes of Thin Mints,
making me the top sixth grade seller.
On delivery day I wait for my mother,
eager to hand over the stack of boxes.
When there’s no sign of her car,
I ignore the mid-March chill,
patches of muddy snow,
and walk the eight blocks home.
I see a row of cars parked on our drive.
Feeling bad news, I pick up my pace.
Mother, bare-armed, stands on our porch.
She motions for me to run.
Can’t she see my full arms?
Where was she today?
She points skyward and cries,
I found him upstairs.
I am still. My feet planted in mud.
How will I pay for what he took?

*

Linda Laderman grew up in Toledo, Ohio. She earned an undergraduate degree in journalism from the E. W. Scripps School of Journalism at Ohio University in Athens. Her news stories and features have appeared in media outlets and magazines. Her poetry has been published in a number of journals, including The Scapegoat Review, The Write Launch and 3rd Wednesday. Her poem, War Ghazal is forthcoming in Writers Resist. Linda currently lives in the Detroit area, where for the last decade, she volunteered as a docent at the Zekelman Holocaust Center.