Ode to American Communists

                                1935 – 1965

On the sidewalk soapbox in East Flatbush
my mother called out lines from leaflets
by the Young Communist League,

collar of her brown woolen coat
buttoned tightly against the chill. Some,
carrying bags of herring, sour pickles, sweet cream

and strawberries, stopped to listen
as the sky grew dim and the lights came on
Workers Unite!

And they did, for a while, like bright coins
in a purse make a dollar.
There was some good in it

in the textile mills, steelworks,
actor’s studios, government bureaus
and there was a family feeling

around the table, set with borscht
where they tossed their hot-potato opinions,
their urgent, high-pitched bickering

fists hitting the table.
They’d read “The Communist Manifesto,”
they took the Fifth Amendment

they did not name names
though there were jobs at stake,
kids to feed.

Small ancillary soldiers, we sat
at the ends of the table, eating our kugel in silence.
One of the hard-liners sat opposite me

am I blocking your view? he snapped, as I looked
in the mirror behind his head. Fifteen and not keen
on dialectical materialism,

I’d been wondering if I was pretty.