The Magical Imperfect: Parts 1–2

The doctor he takes me to
agrees with him
and thinks it may be “selective mutism.”
But I don’t have anyone
I want to talk to right now.

THANK YOU, she yells, and goes inside,
and just then I see
the tufted white fur,
the bandit face of her dog,
standing at the window, tongue flying
in a wide doggy smile.

I know I’ve arrived when I smell
fresh coffee cake,
strawberries simmering;
see cookie dough rolled out
on long, flour-sprinkled tables,
chocolate-raisin babka,
and coconut macaroons.

Golden trinkets hang
from long silver hooks,
and below them are a few glass cases
filled with necklaces,
bracelets, and other things
he’s made.

Grandpa crafted it from real silver,
round and shiny,
with a boy flexing his muscles
etched at the center.

He waves his hands at
stacks of silver platters
and long gold chains,
cases of intricately carved earrings
and rings set with green jewels.

I go to my backpack,
take out a notebook,
my mom’s notebook,
the edges frayed, the pages stuffed
with notes and magazine clippings,
grocery lists, and even receipts.

I like the cracks in the old sidewalk,
how they fill with water when it rains.
Inside are tiny ecosystems,
snails and other animals living their own
tiny lives. I wonder if they see me.
I feel like sometimes I live
in my own ecosystem
that nobody else understands.

ETAN! she calls down,
You're back!
and she lowers a small wicker basket
tied to an old clothesline.

Just a tremor, Martin says.
Probably like, I don't know, 2.4 on the scale.

Sirens blare, and lots of people are on the street.

We get everything arranged,
apples with apples,
persimmons and squash,
and even a few pumpkins
like fat guardians at the edge of her table.

Even on the ship,
when things weren’t so nice
and they didn’t know if
they would even be allowed to stay,
Mrs. Li and my grandmother
tended the kids who were sick
and made sure that everyone had enough food.

I smell something,
like the oil in the frying pan
when my mother made latkes for Hanukkah.

It's the clay of the golem;
it once made a terrible monster
that defended the Jewish people
in their time of greatest need.

Behind her are black-and-white photos
of gold rush camps, old San Francisco,
the Angel Island Immigration Station before it burned down,
with a plaque beneath it,
ELLIS ISLAND OF THE WEST.

Mr. Katsaros’s hardware store is green with A’s posters,
pictures of all the players and Stomper the elephant.
But in Mr. Osaka’s stationery store,
everything is Giants.

My father used to leave work early
to take us to the park,
teach us how to steal bases,
catch a fly ball without flinching,
how to hit grounders.

You can try different stances,
but the neutral stance is my favorite.

One day, when I struck out
three times in a row,
found myself crying
in the dugout,
Jordan was there,
telling me:
Don’t quit. Try again.

Can you at least talk to me about it?
He raises his voice a little, his hands thump
against the steering wheel slightly.
I can tell he’s frustrated.

Inside she says, are deep red seeds that pop into the sweetest juice.
It's a pomegranate. It can soothe the skin on the inside.

I helped my mom bake challah,
and on warm days we would
set it out to rise in the sun.

Hey, so I am caulking roof tiles
at my job in Pacifica,
I could at least drop you off for your delivery?

My skin. My skin,
it's too thin, they say.
Or my mom says
I might be allergic to sunlight.
My dad says it's just bad eczema.

Well, she says, stepping up on the rock,
gesturing to the trees surrounding us.
It’s unanimous.

and then “the incident” happened,
so now she goes to school at home.
She doesn’t really go anywhere
except sometimes to her cousins’ houses.
I want to ask her about the incident, but I stay quiet.

I will have to consult with the forest.

My grandfather slides me a plate
of pickled herring and a giant slice of pumpernickel

We look inward, and rejoice outward!