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This
Most Magical Season by
Bernice Holtzman I walked to
work this morning past Spring Street, and they’re setting up the wooden racks for
the Christmas trees, the giant plastic snow globe, lights, the whole Santaland enchilada. Oh, it’s magical! For a Jewish
girl, I think I get more into Christmas than my Christian friends. I think that’s
because I don’t have to; there’s no obligation whatsoever, my Jewishness
is a get-out-of-Christmas-free card. All that’s expected of me is to eat Chinese
food and see a movie on Christmas Day—so I can just relax and enjoy the fun parts! Actually, Christmas Day depresses me a little, but I love the month
leading up to it: The Holiday Mart in Union Square! Sending cards! Cozy holiday drinks
and dinners with friends; the window displays and strings of lights all over everything;
the smell of fireplaces and hot chocolate and gingerbread. Everyone bustling around, happy,
with bright shopping bags. The little Christmas-themed plays. A Charlie Brown
Christmas, Mr. Hanky’s Christmas Classics, the air of anticipation…. Then, in one day, it’s over.
The discarded, dried-up Christmas trees start appearing on curbs to be carted away. The
garbage cans are full of tinsel and gift boxes. And you still have to get through
New Year’s Eve. … which you know
will be a big disappointment, but you put yourself through it every year anyway, and even
when you stay home like you want to, there are constant reminders of what you’re
missing, even though you know from experience you’re not really missing anything. But those people outside do sound like they’re having fun, and
you don’t dare go into the hallway to throw out the garbage because people will see
that you’re in your sweatpants and quietly feel superior to you like you did with
the disheveled girl carrying laundry in the hallway New Year’s Eve 1992 and now you’re
being paid back, and they’ll know there’s no boyfriend in your apartment and
even if there is, what kind of boyfriend doesn’t take his girlfriend out on New Year’s
Eve? And there’s some
girl who just got engaged on TV right before the ball dropped and she’s making out
with her new fiancé and putting the ring right in the camera and you can see both their
tongues while they’re kissing, she’s making sure of it, and maybe you’ll
burst into tears and maybe you won’t, it’s really anybody’s game at this
point…. But this year will
be different! Right? Right! Please enjoy this
most magical season.
The Rocking Horse by Bernice Holtzman The bag says Primo
Gifts Inside I notice a flyer announcing a new Disney figurine now available The
unwrapped box has a sticker stating “Rocking Horse Music Box” I
remove the gift from the Styrofoam insert And place it on
the Valentine’s Day table Next to roses I bought myself And
look at the green flowers, gold swirls and fake pearls decorating its white plaster body Its painted face expressionless. On
a bookcase behind the table Blurred in the background Is
the stained glass wine goblet I had admired one day A month before
I tore off homemade giftwrapping To find it nestled
in its box A relic from a time of both arms around me when we walked Single
roses just because A card I discovered in the
morning after you had left I reach underneath
and wind its key The music starts and it rocks back and forth The
tune is frantic, too fast for the pace of the rocking A distortion
of something beautiful and fragile Making hollow what
would be resonant at its proper speed It slows for a moment And
the melody becomes familiar Then all sound and motion
stop.
We Have a Bond by Bernice Holtzman I can’t
see you tonight No, not for another month Too much
work to do still Have to cut myself off From all
distraction I’ve thought of you often But stopped myself
from calling I had a dream about you When I slept at my
parents’ house You’re light And I’m darkness We have a bond I won’t call again
until my songs are written So have a good spring Oh, by the way Something happened That girl
at work came on to me again Straddled me in a bar And of
course it felt good It’s been a while,
and I’m a man Why are you crying?
Everything Is the Same
by
Bernice Holtzman The room is quiet, like
yesterday. The shadows fall in the same way, making the same shapes, as familiar as the
furniture. The sheets still feel cool, the walls are still blue, the plant on the windowsill
still leans toward the sun. His
leaving had no significance at all. Everything
is the same. The curtain ripples from the
breeze, the way it always does. He wouldn’t be here at this time of day. He would
be working. The floor still shines from the wax. Its wooden boards are still different
shades. Later he would be with the girl, whose name she knows but won’t bring herself
to say. The sheets are still white. She didn’t think he’d leave. The
walls are still blue. The vase is still ceramic, with painted tulips. Except for a hairline
crack, from the impact—that would have to be fixed—it looks the same. The walls are still blue, with
dark red speckles. She didn’t think he’d
leave. The floor is still different
colors, and now it has one more. He is still here. Everything is
exactly the same. © 1999 Bernice Holtzman
The
Monster in the Mirror by Bernice Holtzman When I was a child I used to play a
game Called “The Monster in the Mirror” I would wait until
it was dark And I would go to my mirror I would stare And stare Until the darkness
contorted my face And I could pretend I saw a monster. I still play the game sometimes Only
now it’s always dark And now I pretend I don’t see him.
The Utilizers by Bernice Holtzman There were more of us not long ago But it was determined by the electronic
internal tracking system That utilization for
the human facilitation units Was below the 85%
required by the expense management agency So their use was
terminated by the Corporation And now I am alone There is one human management unit left
from before the takeover Who understands But when this unit is eliminated I will no longer be safe I enter the complex each morning and
show my coded identification card To the security
enforcement guard The smiling face in
the photograph does not anymore bear a resemblance To
the one waiting to be approved and waved through And the paper bag with my cup of coffee
the only indication That I require
anything at all.
©
2010 Bernice Holtzman
Fire by Bernice Holtzman 1. If You Were Fire If you were fire Then I could be air Surrounding you,
but never confining Always allowing you your freedom To
expand and rise as you saw fit Sometimes I’d gently
fan your edges Coaxing you higher Exciting your
color deeper and brighter A tribute of sparks popping from you And
dissolving into me. But I think I would end up being a glass Turned upside
down over you Meaning only to touch you Embrace
you Shelter you Feel your warmth But slowly and finally Snuffing you
out. 2. If I Were Fire If I were fire My flames would be
too wild for you to handle You would shrink from my heat Beating
me back with your disapproval Walling me in until I was
tamed Contained by your limits Of manageable
size. You would never
let me go out completely, though For then who would give you warmth When
you needed it? © 1999 Bernice
Holtzman
Bernice Holtzman is an author of poems, short
fiction, autobiographical pieces, two (so far) children’s stories, and all manner
of clever commentary. Her work has appeared in The National Poetry Magazine of the Lower
East Side. That was 30 years ago, and she’s still talking about it.
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