Monday, 11 December 2017


by Nanette Rayman

Taste the color of red, a noxious crimson gas the way
you would smell the street after a fierce acid rain. Promise
to tell the extraneous pink dahlias to bless
my people. Our song has always been
blue and white. Press your animal thumbs
to your ashen foreheads, press hard
into your heartless green envy of our survival
beauty. If you cannot get past your gray heritage, try
again slowly. Think of a child stacking block upon block.

After each block, pray for your own souls. The marrow
of my people endures. So insistent is the rain,
we endure and this memorial only makes us know
you are more shameful. We rise like a great tribe
of birds—free. We can soar as high as Ein Sof. The sun
rises alongside the countryside. We rise like a united
fist. We are the birds. Ziporim.
Baruch HaShem.            

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