Ruth Sabath Rosenthal

My grandson brandishes his Lego sword,
and in seconds we’re overboard —
cutthroat pirate and armored knight drown-
ing in an ocean of black oilcloth thrown
...

The Barber

(for Dr. Alois Alzheimer)
...

Into the Light: Safe Haven,1944

('And you that shall cross from shore to shore
years hence are more to me
...

Mastering the art of love, no easy matter.
My brush strokes naturally take wrong
turns, winding me up in one sticky corner
...

I never saw anyone actually wear one of the sweaters
my Aunt Minna made. We thanked her, praised her,
held up whichever one we got. Held it against ourselves,
showing off the argyle crew neck or raglan-sleeve cardigan,
...

In the darkest corner of her living room,
she waits to eat. A stone’s throw away,
her ex lives with their kids, his goulash
wafting reek into her open windows.
...

I ate my mother’s hair
standing behind her, as she sat
on a stool in the shower stall
...

What anguish when Lilith figured out
her Adam was a die-hard prick, repeatedly
refusing to let her flower atop his stem.
...

Stand and be
counted! No
matter what, stand up
to the enemy. Don’t
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He should have lived in dread
of getting nailed for a ruse
downright devious. Wicked!
...

above my grassy bed
a butterfly
perches on a daisy
sunshine pierces
...

Careful now, food foolery could keep us
from catching good Z’s, shock the likes
of Bo Peep, make countless sheep flock
to play Beat The Clock. Poppycock?
...

Putting a roof over its head, easily done.
Nurturing, quite another story.
Bathing — only with a long hose.
As for mealtime, the prickly thing
...