From Here, and: Barbra's Nose

Abstract

From Here, and: Barbra's Nose Zach Goldberg (bio) From Here my folks ain't from here. that's what i'd saywhenever asked why my accent doesn'tdrip molasses thick, why vinegar and pork fatare absent from my parents' kitchen. i never asked them why my accent isn'tlike theirs either—we're all transplants,all absent from our parents' kitchensand mothertongues. i played southern once, like them, but either we all translatethe synagogue song or America seversour mothertongues. i played southern onesummer, spit bluegrass, wished i could forget the synagogue songs. America never was.it's a myth. years after my parents' last road tripsummer (split gas, blues) i bet they can't forgetthe drive south. their thread unspools like a myth in the years since their last road trip.there's a science to it, knowing howfar to drive until a threat unspools froma question: are you from New York? are you a Jew? there's a silence to it, not knowing whichhistory will silhouette the evening. once more,the question: are you a Jew? are you from New York?yes. see how we speak? how we sit in history's silhouette? this evening, one morepromised land lies through its teeth,and i see how it speaks. how it spits.how we don't belong, yet everywhere we've lived [End Page 315] a promised land lies. through its teeth,a shrill voice that sounds of home. what can i say?i don't belong anywhere i've ever lived.in Minnesota or California or North Carolina if my shrill voice sounded of home, what would i say?i'm from thick dripped molasses, vinegar and pork fat,from Brooklyn and Russia and the countries before.but my folks aren't from here. that's what i'd say. [End Page 316] Barbra's Nose o, sparrow prow.crooked claw.o, funny girlon the funny girl's face.the first time i saw you, holyweapon unsheathed from beneathFanny Brice's leopard print collar,(hello, gorgeous) i recognized youimmediately from my grandmother'sknowing smile. her Brooklyn accent.my mother's soprano. o, yiddish beakadorning the jewbird. kosher canvas sailthat caught the wind. i heard when Babsgot into showbiz they wanted to rub you out,to straighten that devious deviated septuminto more gentle and gentile contours.sideways crown. unmuzzled animal. the inventorof the modern rhinoplasty was a German Jewnamed Jacques Joseph. he knew folks would paythrough the nose for the cut. the newest craze, a chancefor admittance to the country club. you're an old story:the same hooked bill that killed christ, cracked G-d dead.and yes, maybe a cousin or two complied, tried to disappeartheir Jew, but no nosejob can unknow its own mug. Barbra sliceda letter from the center of her name rather than part with you.o, clipped wing above her top lip that can peck, sniff, but never gotsnipped off a cliff's edge or a knife's tip. o, mountain on the sideof a mountain. my mother sings in the shape of you. celestialwedge that catches the light, all glamour and sufferingand music. a temple built out of insults.mast of a ship going somewherethey can't follow. [End Page 317] Zach Goldberg Zach Goldberg is a writer, educator, and arts organizer from Durham, NC. He is the author of XV (Nomadic Press, 2020) and is a 2021 MRAC Next Step Fund grantee. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in AGNI, Washington Square Review, New South, and elsewhere. He lives on occupied Dakota land in Minneapolis, MN. Find him online @gach_zoldberg. Copyright © 2022-2023 Pleiades and Pleiades Press