Fragment 26 from a Nonexistent Yiddish Poet
                                              Ida Lewin (1906–1938)
                                                AlwaysWinter, Poland

I have swaddled the baby
in a blanket—wrapped
                       like a cabbage roll,
she’s warm, as though from baking,
her breath sweet cinnamon
and raisins, her voice
            the burble of a meal
that’s close to done
                        —I would eat her,
hold her again in the dark oven
of my belly,
where the air is tangible with heat.
There, she could not catch a chill
nor a fever that burns
        all juices from her mouth,
her skin turned wax paper,
her body charred
but cold inside its layers, unmoving
            and untouchable as death   

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