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Holy Candle Too

My great-grandmother, Rebbetzin Dena
Of Zamosc, Poland,
Direct descendant of Sephardic Jews,
Inquisition survivors,
Freely offered the town’s poor on Fridays
Candles from her family’s factory
To brighten their gloomy lot:
“Dear Jews, let us kindle Shabbat lights
That joy may dwell in the entire world.”

In the Belzec death camp
She had only the candle of her life to give,
Extinguished by those
Imprisoned in a hellish pit
Of demonic hate forged
In the darkness of the human heart.

Enlightened

The impression of an impression—
a cloud like the wing of an angel, but
indistinct, and in ten minutes
shape-changed. This is how data reach us
from beyond, seductive, blurred
and imprecise.

We’re determined to understand.
We study and discuss until we think
we’ve reached a conclusion, something
logical and steady enough to stand on.
Until reason collapses like a broken
bridge, inadequate.

All Hail Beyond the Rivers of Babylon

When the teeth of the harps bit our fingers hard,
sorrow lamed our tongues, the cloud lingered,
the psalmist in us rehearsed a slow death in sadness
falling off-key, fainting fast, grunting hums in lowness.

When our lips added weight in want of good news,
tears soiled us wet in a desert of unfallen dews,
darkness poked fun at the rhythm in our souls,
reproach conducted us in an orchestra of silence.

I know a thing

or two about refugees;
and about
being one, too . . .

about the fear for
flight, from the
slaughter of
innocence, wholly

perpetrated upon
parents about to be

-come bereft of a
Life; safety, security
and hope . . .

legislated by some
maniacal despot

his victims powerless
to resist his on
-slaught’s disregard;

whose hubris knows
no border, bound
-aries, nor ethnicity.