Dayley Island by Frederick Seidel

Dayley Island

Gulls spiral high above 

The porch tiles and my gulf-green, 

Cliff-hanging lawn, with their 

Out-of-breath wail, as 

Dawn catches the silver ball 

Set in the dried up bird bath 

To scare the gulls. My slippers 

Exhale lamé.

I was egged on by old age—

To sell that house, 

Winterize this house, 

Give up my practice... that 

You, Pauli, gave up 

At Belzec, our son at Belsen, 

And one at Maidenek, 

Our last at Maidenek.

Below the cliff, the shallows 

Tear apart, beating 

Themselves white and black, 

While the sea’s smooth other edge 

Towers, reddening, 

Over the surfacing sun. 

I rise early, always, 

Earlier each day...

Holding on. 

But it’s the island that’s locked in 

By the sea—a case 

Of vaginismus, Pauli—

Except for the one bridge 

To the next island. I’m free—

Dayley’s first once Jewish, 

Non-practicing analyst:

Old, but she has no helper; 

Station-wagon, but 

She’s not a tourist; poor for 

An island Venus or matron. 

The man who sells me fish 

Says he fought my Nazis, 

The captured ones talked 

Just like me—I’m somebody.

Last week—March-cold 

In the middle of August, 

Snow-blue, high, thin skies—

I drove the hour to Brunswick 

To drop my suits at

Maine’s Only Chinese Laundry, 

A down-easter’s, 

With a Negro presser.

The man was just then off

For Hagard to shoot rabbits

For the reward,

Three miles off Dayley’s east shore.

Years before,

A mainlander

Had loosed two white rabbits

There; now it was theirs.

Frail, pink-veined, pale ears,

And pink as perfect gums,

Pink eyes, rose noses, as if

Diseased—I’d been there.

The lead-gray Yankee owner,

After the shotgun blast,

Strode forward, gathered the bunch,

And one by one, grabbed each

By its hind legs while it sobbed,

And swinging it against

The bare lawn, slapped it dead,

And swung it to the shrubs.

I left the cleaners wanting

So to tell you. The sun’s

Well up now. Our blue carpet’s

Fading evergreen, Pauli.