Eighth Notes, 1917
Sounds like kolo and aplis, obruchku
and gredzens could angle into his ears
and mean, and his hands could
hammer, could carve, but could only write
(from Odessa to Riga to Ellis Island)
his signature. You could ask for haldzband
and count on its new weight resting
in the hollow of your neck, but you could
never slip him a note with samid scrawled
(pliers and sizers and hammers)
across its face and expect a bracelet. He never
could take those letters and make anything
but those letters etched in or formed of gold
or silver or copper. The loupe never told
(what a beard meant, to whom)
him anything but where to move and how
hard to press and when the piece was set,
was done. He spoke eleven
tongues, but the only alphabet he knew
(shine and skin, its reflection)
was chain and stone and filigree. A whispered
shirdis would yield a golden heart but no
is, no ss. I wonder when I hear this poem
in my head, I see its letters waver behind
(DOB, place of origin, destination)
my eyes, but he would have seen garnets
and sapphires maybe, or a bronze sizing
guard or a platinum clasp. What poem
would I write with those letters? What
(portrait on what wall?)
words? Was the sign above his shop, or the one
marking the street, solely decoration?
What would it mean to know someone
only by the sound of their name, but not its shape?
John A. Nieves has poems forthcoming or recently published in journals, such as North American Review, Crazyhorse, Southern Review, Colorado Review and Massachusetts Review. He won the Indiana Review Poetry Contest and his first book, Curio, won the Elixir Press Annual Poetry Award Judge’s Prize. He is associate professor of English at Salisbury University and an editor of The Shore Poetry. He received his M.A. from University of South Florida and his Ph.D. from the University of Missouri.