Esther Altshul Helfgott's Poetry

~~NEW~~The Psychiatrist as Poet: A Book-Review Essay

Third Wife
by Esther Altshul Helfgott

First wife's house, dishes, dining-room table,
silverware. Her towel rack, vacuum cleaner, sink.
Second wife's garden. Flower arrangements.
Strawberries along the sculpted path.
Rose bushes she planted. The roof she fixed
that once belonged to first wife
and now belongs to me.
I don't want it. Throw the old stuff away. Keep us.

copyright Esther Altshul Helfgott

Guarding Mother

by Esther Altshul Helfgott

I will

guard her

against

all harm

I will

watch her

until

my eyes run

dry.

I will

swab

her mouth

with a

saliva stick.

I will

hold

her hands

until

warmth

comes.

I will watch

her

breathing

until

stops.

Even then,

I will watch.

Dream

by Esther Altshul Helfgott

I awaken this morning feeling scared. My fingers hurt. This has something to do with the dream I experienced last night. I am walking in an urban neighborhood somewhere, not the pristine one where I live now, but in my childhood neighborhood in Baltimore. I am walking along Park Heights Avenue, the street where I live. I can feel the cement against my feet. The cement is hot, so it should be summer; but I have a warm jacket on. A sweet slender dog about the size of my German Shepherd, Daphne, walks alongside me. I am looking straight ahead, determined to get to where I am going, determined to shut out the noise around me, from inside my family, from the hustle and bustle of the fruit and vegetable stands on either side of Park Heights Avenue, an arterial that runs I-don't-know-how-many miles north and south through Northwest Baltimore. Jewish Baltimore, where I have lived all my life.

I am walking quickly, not only because I want to get to the next block and the next and the next but because the dog walking waist high beside me is gnarling on two fingers of my left hand. His teeth are embedded in my skin, but she is smiling. (The dog is both male and female). I don't know if my fingers are hurting or not, but I grab the dog's snout with my right hand and try to pull her and him off me. To no avail. The dog is as determined to stick with me as I am determined to get to where I am going. In the next scenario, I am in a therapist's office. As I walk into the room, the therapist looks quizzically at my swollen fingers. He says nothing. I say nothing. My body is filled with confusion. The dog is no longer with me. I awaken.

Copyright Esther Altshul Helfgott

Esther Altshul Helfgott is a Seattle writer and writing consultant. She teaches creative writing at Richard Hugo House Community Center for the Literary Arts. She was born in Baltimore, Md., settled in the Pacific Northwest in 1970 and has lived in Seattle since 1976. She holds a doctorate in history from the University of Washington, has published in numerous periodicals, including The American Psychoanalyst, The Psychoanalytic Psychotherapy Review, Chrysanthemum, The Jewish Observer and a number of on-line publications, including Mentress Moon and Switched-on-Gutenberg. Her chapbook-length conversation on homelessness and schizophrenia, The Homeless One: A Poem in Many Voices, was published in 2000 by Kota Press: www.kotapress.com. Esther can be reached at www.members.home.net/eahelfgott.

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