Uncle Max’s Deli

Amen as we gather beneath the mantle of delicatessen where
the Marx Brothers held court in kippered herring barrels and I’ll have
what she’s having—a Danny Rose Special with marinara and cream
cheese.   I scratch at the exfoliation of past before artisanal was deemed
artisanal,  when his buckling linoleum and commas of grease tagged
foot-tall mountains of tender pastrami or humps of chopped liver
that bedded down with flirty romaine.  How to surf these orbits
of memory that spin the halo of my vegan constellation.  I am now
a distant galaxy away from splayed portions of smoked and salty flesh—
this fluorescent-bulbous moon where fat was prized and murder thrived—
thick display cases of bulging fish eyes and cow tongues moaning.
His deli was a movie set with perfect portions of schmaltz—dried
scraps of corned beef in ellipses around the slicer blade—dust balls
in the laps of empty front windows—a porcelain cityscape of plates
piled high on a steel counter—formica tables with just the right amount
of fade.  I ain’t kvetching about this concerto of tradition, this immigrant
fusion food I devoured gleefully on Sundays, ignorant of my people’s ruse
of secret no-pork sausages during the Inquisition or the thin and sour
rutabaga soup of Auschwitz.  What sandwich would they name after me now?
A feeble union of smoked carrot lox and pureed cashew shmear
with a Mogen David martini to wash it all down?

________

Rikki Santer’s poetry has appeared in numerous publications both nationally and abroad including Ms. Magazine, Poetry East,  The Journal of American Poetry, Hotel Amerika, Crab Orchard Review, Grimm, Slipstream and The Main Street Rag.  Her work has received many honors including five Pushcart and three Ohioana book award nominations as well as a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Humanities.   Her eighth collection, Drop Jaw, inspired by the art of ventriloquism, was published by NightBallet Press in the spring. Please contact her through her website:   www.rikkisanter.com