Ida Lewin (1906-1938)
AlwaysWinter, Poland

29.

I think she must be Death—
the one who knocked today,
a stranger with her box
          of poisoned sweets
to sweeten me.
The locks screeched
like a child when I let
her in. They knew her voice,
wet and green as snot.
The hallway knew
her too. How could it not?
She dragged her shoes
across the knots,
                    as if her soles
had memorized the wood,
as if her feet
or feet like hers had stood
in that same spot before.
I took her sweets but watched
her sharpened fingernails.
A treat               she hissed.
I choked on chocolate filled
with wine, purple-black
as iodine.