MY GRANDMOTHER LISTENS TO PAUL ROBESON RECITE 'OTHELLO'.

In the dark depths of the war
that split the century in two,
Grandma came to New York
to care for Anne, her ailing sister.
Anne made Thanksgiving dinner
and went into the hospital.
Each day she got a little worse.
In Anne's leafless garden

Grandma sat, all forlorn.
One cold evening, as stars
pricked the black sky,
she heard a most sonorous voice
borne by the wind down
the backyards of Bank Street
reciting verses she knew by heart:
She loved me for the dangers I had passed,
and I loved her that she did pity them.

A basso profundo rich in experience,
resonant with dignity.
Listening, Grandma shivered
in her wool coat, and tears
streamed down her cheeks.
There is nobility in humanity,
the voice seemed to say, and she felt
a shred of hope, not for Anne,
who was dying of cancer,
nor for the oppressed
and uprooted peoples of the earth
doomed in worldwide struggle,
her own people murdered
in Europe in this season of death.

The hope was not attached
to anything in particular,
but present in the air around her,
as if the beautiful sound floating to her
on the wind was the voice of God,
offering her protection as in days of old.