This week in the "Lyrical Somerville," we present the poetry of former Somerville resident Naomi Feigelson Chase. Naomi Chase’s most recent book of poetry is: "Gittel: the Would be Messiah" ( Turning Point Press Award 2005). An early portion of this novel-in-verse has been published as "The One Blue Thread," #18 in the Flume Chapbook Series. She has published three collections of poetry, 2 chapbooks, and two books of prose. The poem presented "Waiting for the Messiah in Somerville, Mass." was nominated for a PUSHCART PRIZE. To have your poems considered for the "Lyrical Somerville" send them to: Doug Holder 25 School St. Somerville, Mass. 02143

Waiting for the Messiah in Somerville, Mass.

Last night, the first snow fell in Somerville.
Cars in the street, like undelivered bundles,
wait for wool-capped, work-bound men
to shovel them out, set chairs to hold their place.
I sit in borrowed light in this house
that will never be mine,
waiting for a midwife or a miracle.

Next door, behind lowered shades, women watch
the soaps, eating chips, waiting for a prince.
Any time now, he could leap from the screen
into their lives, touch down like Mohammed’s horse
on their stone hearts.

I’d like that, too–to be translated away.
Maybe if I prayed hard to the stone madonna
in my neighbor’s yard, the one in the new blue dress
I saw him paint on her last spring.
Once she was the Queen of Heaven, Goddess of Everything.
She made kings with her hands.
Today, she’s snowed in like me,
only her outstretched fingers visible.
I’d like to see her claim her old place
at the beginning of things,
a new god in her blue eyes.

Everyone’s waiting to be trumpeted into new life
when the old world wears out and dies.
In the desert near Jerusalem,
they build a house for Messiah. If he comes,
he’ll need a place to stay. Some think he’s the Rebbe
from Brooklyn. Rebbe gives no sign.

Once, I lived in a palace where I was caretaker-Queen.
Everything in the house I put in place.
I planted lettuce on cool, wet mornings,
picked berries on hot afternoons.
Even the roads and fields were mine.
That was an Ice Age ago. After the children left,
the king died. I threw his body into the pond,
wasted years sitting there, waiting for him to rise.

Now the only road outside my door is pavement,
leading to more pavement.
My yard is full of salt.

But the Brooklyn Rebbe knows salt melts snow.

—-Naomi Feigelson Chase

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