For my parents,
Brooklyn College socialists,
it was the era of contradictions.
Suburban houses and martinis,
the struggle to earn a living,
support aging immigrant parents,
raise kids, protest.
Even the Cadillac that appeared
one day in our Queens driveway
never changed the pitch
of Soviet, Mao ardor
or dimmed the passionate arguments
at dinner table gatherings.
And when the cold New York winters
blanketed the house with ice and snow
my mother got a deal on a mink coat
which added a certain zip to her stride
while marching with Women's Strike for Peace.
And when she died,
I inhaled those aged dried out pelts
infused with her scent,
and paid a tailor to create
a ragged lining for my winter coat,
dutifully recycling
while cushioning the sharp edges
of my world without her.