49 Answers to 50 Questions

1

I was born in Fontainebleau, France, in 1956

or

I was born in Paris

In Fontainebleau where Emperor Napoleon

bade farewell to his Old Guard

saying, Adieu, my friends. Would I could

press you to my heart

Or in Paris near the Canal St-Martin

where barges moved slowly toward La Villette

the biggest slaughter house in Europe

2

My mother was either:

a Calvinist from Kentucky

a major in the US Army

who liked cigarettes & Bourbon

& only married when she was 40

or

a French housemaid

a Jewish orphan raised in a convent

who turned 19 the day

that I was born

3

Both of them are dead

both them lived in dread

of God & war

& bad news in the night

So do I

4

By the window in this rental cottage

are four birdhouses

inside, not outside

so birds can only window shop

only dream of a life inside a home

inside a home

I often feel the same

5

Either I had two mothers

or none

Neither option, biologically speaking,

possible for mammals

6

“The Jews deported from France

left quietly”—

there was, of course,

some weeping

7

On Bastille Day, every year,

I set my prisoners free

8

A fellow soldier shot

my mother in WWII. He was mad

She was lonely

That was one mother—

the other was on her knees

in a convent saying mass while

her parents were gassed in Poland

At least part of this

is something that I know

9

My greatest fear? That I am wasting

my life—though since you cannot

hoard time like pennies, I’m not sure

what I can do about it

10

In my dreams

I fly. In my dreams, I am

always outside, looking in

In my dreams, I am

inside a house that is

inside a house

inside a house. Birdhouses?

Universes? Then someone

shoots me from the sky

& I wake up

11

If I could be in France, 1956,

being born—I would know,

once & for all,

who my mother was

Why can’t I remember?

12

Why does it matter whose womb

I was lifted from

whose belly the surgeon cut

whose blood the nurses washed

from my downy head? Forget it,

I tell myself, death closer to me

every second than being born

13

& my own children closer

to me than any

of my mothers. Thus we set

the past wrongs right

14

which include all my

unkindnesses to both

my mothers

15

& give thanks

even for gifts

that came beribboned

in our blood

16

like the joy

I felt seeing

my own children

lifted from me

17

I should mention

my poor papa—who slept with

both my mothers

but who worked hard

came home

& read to me each night

18

I still tell myself stories

to help me fall asleep—

& it is his voice I hear

inside my head

even when what he is telling me

are lies

19

It was simpler when

I thought I only had one mother

I was lonely when I only had the one

When my daughter was four—

in a preschool where all the other

children’s parents were divorced

& remarried, or lesbians—

she turned to me & asked

Where is my other mother?

20

I wish I had just one of mine

alive

to be a grandmother

to my children

21

This cottage where I’m sleeping

is like a birdhouse

I hear owls & stars

outside my window

Not sounds you hear in Paris

22

My mouth tastes like black coffee

stirred with a metal spoon

23

coffee black as the dreams

of the blind. No, I have

no way to know that

Black as the dreams

of my Kentucky mother

who used to scream no no no

at night

24

Once I took my children to

the top of the Eiffel Tower

where all Paris lay

spread at our feet

like a dream of a toy city

25

Once I was going to have

a second daughter

& name her Lily

26

I’d be lying if I said I

always told the truth. Sometimes

I just forget to. Sometimes I

don’t remember

anymore

27

Where do you find a legless dog?

Exactly where you left him

That’s a joke

When my daughter tells it,

it gets me every time

Or does that only work

for woodmen who carry

freshly sharpened axes?

29

I am not sure why

I wanted to name a daughter

Lily—a waxy flower appropriate

for funerals. For fleur-de-lis, I guess

For France

for everything I left there

birth mother

birth language

then Lily was lost to me as well

30

Love is a house

& we are hungry birds

inside it

31

Just writing that makes

me angry—me the chick

waiting for the worm—

in spite of having

two damn mothers. Why

am I so hungry?

32

Anger

is what keeps this birdhouse

warm

33

My mother was a soldier

unless my mother was

a whore

34

A linguist told me once

human beings exist

to carry words

from one location to another

Language the chicks inside the birdhouse

Language what lives on

35

I also have a deep fear

of memory loss—forgetting even

what I cannot say I know

36

I am amazed by all

the things my son remembers—

names of kings, dates of wars

Little by little I am letting him

take over History

as a family dinner table topic

37

except for the secrets

except for the things

he will never know

38

It is madness, you know,

this trying to learn the truth about the past

It is madness to think

there is one

It is madness to think what

I write down & you read

is still a secret. But I beg you—

please, do not tell a soul

40

Can I trust you?

41

I miss Paris

I miss having two mothers, both of them alive,

each holding a hand

as we crossed the Champ de Mars

I don’t think that ever happened

42

I do not want to see

another funeral

I do not want to read

another will

I do not want to die

until my children are

much much older

I do not want to be buried

anywhere at all

43

I was born

a different person

one of those God chose then—

subsequently, historically—

forgot

44

In French, my last name sounds

like “heart of a knight”

but is Breton & means

“horse house” or plain old “barn”

The first name I carry now means

“God exists” though

I’m no proof

When I was born,

in Hebrew, my name

meant “lily”

45

Once & only once

I was born on the same day

in the same country

to two very different woman

& I have two birth certificates

to prove it

Proof, if you needed it,

that words on paper lie

46

Maybe the answer

is that there are two of me—

& I am the only one

who doesn’t know it

47

Never assume

a complicated answer

when there is one so simple:

but I cannot

In 1956, in France, I was born twice

to two completely different mothers

49

I wish that were a lie

50