The Quartet

Omama Gina, our dance was through a flicker of time.  So out of place in 1950s Newark; plump, romantic, pre-Raphaelite sprite, with garlands in her hair.  We sprawled on her living-room rug, drawing rainbows and sunbursts, princesses and unicorns.  And oh we danced, channeling her rebellious sister, the one who had beguiled Kafka.  Gina’s (hard…