For Jews, the Cossacks are always coming. <br />Therefore I think the sun spot on my arm <br />is melanoma. Therefore I celebrate <br />New Year's Eve by counting <br />my annual dead. <br /> <br />My mother, when she was dying, <br />spoke to her visitors of books <br />and travel, displaying serenity <br />as a form of manners, though <br />I could tell the difference. <br /> <br />But when I watched you planning <br />for a life you knew <br />you'd never have, I couldn't explain <br />your genuine smile in the face <br />of disaster. Was it denial <br /> <br />laced with acceptance? Or was it <br />generations of being English-- <br />Brontë's Lucy in Villette <br />living as if no fire raged <br />beneath her dun-colored dress. <br /> <br />I want to live the way you did, <br />preparing for next year's famine with wine <br />and music as if it were a ten-course banquet. <br />But listen: those are hoofbeats <br />on the frosty autumn air.<br /><br />Linda Pastan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-cossacks/
