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HORSING AROUND
At some point in time I imaginemy mother’s family must’ve hadhorses, or perhaps the ones they sawwere the horses of the locals,an aide when you are conductinga pogram, chasing familiesfrom their homes, into a flight to freedom.Perhaps my family were farmersor merchants in Lithuania, thoughprobably not owning a drugstoreas their children did in CharlstonWest Virginia,…
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LANDING
She sends us a map showing on which tribe’s land we are now living. This is not something we have thought about, not something we want to think about, for that would demand that we are the usurpers, the horde whose pogrom was ultimately successful, and that is a face that refuse to see in…
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RECALL
As you sit in your suburban homes,by the pools at your country clubs,in your vacation resort villas, tryfor the sake of the patriarchsand matriarchs of our faith, to rememberthat we were the poor, we werethe huddled masses, we yearnedto breathe free, we the tempest tossed. Remember the tenementsof the Lower East Side,the sweat shops, the…
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HANGING BY A THREAD
In Riga, my grandfather was a master tailor, the great and the rich would come to his shop some bringing bolts of fine cloth and others trusting him knowing that wools and silks were not beyond his reach. Even after they marked his home as that of the Jew, the Captain, who rode through the…
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VILLAGE
The village of my grandfather still stands amid the fields adobe walls stained by soot from the fireplace birds nesting in the summer warmed chimney singing. The ancient scythe leans against the wall, its blade embedded in the crusted soil as the old tractor idles in the field. Armies have trod this ground ignoring the…
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an old writer and his words 