Now Reading
More Than Four Questions

More Than Four Questions

The following piece was originally published in the author’s poetry chapbook, To Set Right

Moss grows on matzeva
like pincushions in tailor shops
Twilight.  Fireflies wink in the ghetto field
as I set out
to meet unlikely friends
second-growth ghosts
within   and without   the cemetery gates.
I take leave of the seder table,
where the Haggadah is read like stale crumbs,
to walk among my real family.
In the dark   distances shrink.
Unclear words   flung like books
land before me   on cobblestones
amid rustling skirts and heels.
Who will meet me at the threshold?
How will I make myself known?
Inscriptions   in Hebrew
that I cannot read.
Son of Cwi and Nacha
daughter of Jakob and Malka

partitioned by gender
engraved birth and death years
some embroidered with palms   and.   stars
burning candles   or rows of books.
I raise my glass   dip   my finger in wine
remove, drip by bloody drip,
the ancient plagues
onto my dinner plate.
Do pastoral aprons bind us still
to unfinished chores and   inward-facing   courtyards?
Each sip of wine   Baruch atah   thimblefuls of memory.
How to reconnect to this land of milking and murder?
Measure the lichen — indicator of good health, blessings.
Measure the wind in the field
like a needle coursing through silk.
I run my fingers   over the tablecloth   hem.
Why is this night different from all other nights?
A final scene with no verbs. I find myself
in the cold   sowing seeds
placing stones
like buttons   whispering
in that haunted language   so I can reconcile
parents with children and children with parents
be my grandfather’s emissary.
My brother-in-law reads the Hebrew.
Someone asks in English,
Who will open   the door   for Elijah?
No one notices
that I’ve already
let in the ghosts.