Excerpt from The New Earth by Jess Row, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

The Upper West Side Book of The Dead

Recovered from: Drafts Folder (Unsent Message)

From: "Bering Wilcox"
Last saved: March 12, 2003 at 9:13:44 PM EST
To: "Patrick Hakuin Wilcox"
Subject: The Upper West Side Book of the Dead
Wadi Aboud, March 12

When the journey of my life has reached its end,
and since no relatives go with me from this world,
not even Great-Aunt Estie, who survived the Shoah,
two husbands, one in semiprecious stones,
one in schmattes—who always patted the couch
and said, "sit next to me, you make me feel younger,"
while she told the filthiest jokes—
when the journey of my life has reached its end,
in other words, may the peaceful and wrathful buddhas
send out the power of their compassion
and clear away the darkness of ignorance.

When parted from beloved friends, wandering alone—
as if I got up out of my sleeping bag, in Palestine,
and decided to walk home, as if there were
no barricades, no barbed wire, no blast walls,
and return to my childhood bedroom, on 79th
and Broadway—and when the terrors of the bardo appear
on that journey, the worst things I've ever done,
may the peaceful and wrathful ones, who know
all my secrets, sweeten my tongue with halvah,
chocolate-covered if possible, shoplifted
from the Zabar's checkout counter.

When I suffer through the power of my karma,
heaped up in this strange place, birthplace
I never chose, from the grand precipices of CPW,
the Dakota, the El Dorado, the stately brownstones,
that Nora Ephron domesticated New York,
lox-and-herring-and-Sunday-Times New York,
to the projects, the mamas smoking in pink
velour outside the McDonald's on 91st and Columbus,
smacking their kids, barking no me diga,
may the peaceful and wrathful buddhas remove
my impacted feelings like a bad molar
and give me new eyes, fresh eyes, to
forgive everyone their hypocrisies.

When I see my future parents in union,
may I see the peaceful and wrathful buddhas
with their consorts, with power to choose
my birthplace, for the good of others, may I do
more than just laugh and say, "well, it couldn't
get much worse"—because first I have to turn
and forgive them, my current parents, yes you,
Mommy, and remember you made me a birthday cake
once, from scratch, green frosting—
We ate it together at the dining table,
and then the lock turned and Trick rushed in,
cake!—dug his finger in, no hesitation—
And Daddy standing there, shrugging,
in the hallway: Easy, tiger. There's still
the dent in the plaster from where
the Pyrex hit the wall. It's not easy,
throwing a full baking dish across a
prewar dining room. If Trick hadn't ducked
he might not have his front teeth now.

We sat there eating frosting off the wall,
frosting mixed with paint chips, eating
the building, as you two screamed in the kitchen.
When it was clear no one was making dinner,
Winter emptied her piggy bank,
and we went downstairs to La Caridad,
twelve, ten, and nine, ordered black bean chicken
and rice and beans to share three ways.

My point is: remember the cake, too. Sweeten
my tongue with that cake. When I am truly
lost, peaceful and wrathful buddhas, remind
me I am forgivable, they are forgivable,
none of us are only one thing, we have past
and future selves. You could say: I came here
to know Israel and Palestine, two implacable
parents at war (Yoron told me, the first
day of nonviolence training, you look like