Convert

Once in a while I find myself at Auschwitz/Birkenau.

Looking over acres of tortured history
the boxcars, train tracks, workcamps
ton-sized piles of eyeglasses and human hair
discarded suitcases all labeled "Israel" or "Rachel"
And the ovens.

The memory is as soul-crushing today as my visit seven years ago.
I feel the same sense of helpless misunderstanding,
my mind refusing to accept what I know to be true:
yes, we are capable of that.

Pity pours out of me for the 6 million Jews I never knew,
those who watched their families die before being worked-starved-tortured themselves
those of all faiths who died defending Jews they knew,
and those they did not.
Gypsies, Professors, Queers, Dissidents...
And for those who committed the worse sin of all:
the ones who bear the horrible burden
of survival.

I have tried many times to collect my feelings,
to make real something I can understand only from a comfortable distance.
Pictures, poetry, tears - none of them are sufficient.
Meanwhile, religion has floated through my life imperceptibly
without origin or obvious use.

Then came Sam.
As attraction grew, I found books on my doorstep.
Now I go to the class, fumble through the prayers,
contemplate the mikvah.
I find there is another Jew I have never known.

I can't yet explain the difference
between the Talmud, Torah and Tanakh
but ask me again next week... I'm getting close.

White Collar AABB AABB

Over the desk I hunch
Stale popcorn I munch
Keyboard letters linger
on the tips of my fingers

There's a crook in my spine
where my neck is misaligned
and the spread of my rear
goes on for a year

My boss I adore
and it's barely a chore
to try not to look hurt
when he calls women "skirts"

What happened to that girl so proud?
Never afraid to live life out loud
She's somewhere underneath my desk
daydreaming all alone, I guess

I'll check to see if she's still alive
Just as soon as the clock hits "five."

An Inaugural Limerick

We once were some folks who could write
And all those who read prose thought we might
Hit it big with our books,
But instead we just took
More classes, abandoned the fight.

So on came a decade of toil,
With troubles and jobs that did spoil
Our inner desire
To inscribe and inspire;
Trapped by our own mortal coil.

But now, after eons of work
And distractions that e'er do lurk
We've rejoined the cause!
We'll write when we pause
To take leave of a life so berserk.