I am from

I am from crickets and cicadas on hot August nights
from porch swings and hands like paper
I am from grape juice instead of wine
(where God entered papaw’s head every Sunday and flew out his mouth)

I am from fried chicken picked up at the corner store
mingled with the smell of gasoline
(just like heaven, I know)

I am from the sound of your heart breaking
as I left the church
as you gave away your sons
(the secret family, unspoken)
as you buried the dead baby who looked like me

I am from black sheep and hymnals
from baptisms in the river
from dusty roads that snake through the jungle

I am from the pageantry of small town
nowhere

Silence

If this ladle could talk, it would share stories of a life so beautiful
how it worked so hard on the day of rest
The feel of Mina’s soft hands
anticipation of being immersed in the
hot, fragrant soup
as it scooped the matzo balls
floating like heavenly bodies
in the balmy broth

it would tell you about the company kept
how it
yearned to touch the crisp, white tablecloth
nearly stroked the golden braided bread
loved to look at the candles burning in the
sterling silver candlesticks
the scent of cinnamon
escaping the spice box

If this ladle could talk, it would sing to you
about
the music of its life
the rhythmic and ancient prayers
rolling from their lips
the family
joined in joyful songs
papa’s booming voice
as he placed his powerful hands on the children’s heads
and blessed them in the name of
Sarah Rachel Rebecca Leah Ephraim Menache

If this ladle could talk, it would share with you
how Mina’s hands became rough and cold
the soup turned to beets
then water
then air

how it
lay entwined with the tablecloth
no longer white
as they huddled together for warmth
hiding in the floor of the cold, dark ghetto

it would cry to you of how it
hungered for its companions
who one by one
disappeared
the spice box, now empty
the candlesticks, stuffed with cotton
when the candles were all gone

If this ladle could talk, it would sing to you
about the prayers, turned to whispers
like papa’s voice
as the blessings
Sarah Rachel Rebecca Leah Ephraim Menache
all gone

it would tell you
of ____

Response to Writen in Pencil in a Sealed Railway Car by Dan Pagis

Written in Pencil in a Sealed Railway Car- Dan Pagis

here in this carload
i am eve
with abel my son
if you see my other son
cain son of man
tell him that i

(by Suki Highers)

am sorry i ate the apple
but it was red delicious and beautiful
i am sorry that my act
(so human)
created that which we call sin
sin begat sin
murder
the first
brought on by jealousy
from greed

tell him that i
love him
even though
he has put us on this
train
toward death
but it was red beautiful and delicious