Monthly Archives: August 2024

Minnie Horowitz

by Anne Myles (Greensboro, NC)

At the Seder at my aunt’s house in New Jersey,

as my uncle-by-marriage blessed the matzo,

intoning hamotzi lechem min haaretz,

my mother and her four sisters and brothers 

would chime in not amen but Minnie Horowitz!

Cousin Dan told me that story on the phone—

at sixty I’ve learned the blessing, get the joke.

They’re all gone now, but alive again in this—

that fierce irreverence and joy in their own wit.

Once I was there too, gripping the Haggadah, 

my insides roiling with obscure hungers,

salty greens and charoset on my tongue.

What was I to make of it, that tale of plagues

and miracles, my inscrutable inheritance,

crumbled between jibes and family backtalk?

No one thought it worthwhile to explain.

How much did they grasp of it themselves,

children of Ray, the crown rabbi’s daughter,

transported from Kotelnich to Jersey City,

who when my mother’s friend showed up at dinner

hissed in the kitchen, Tell her it’s veal!

Oh America, what a marvel you seemed then—

land of freedom from law and memory both,

where we gloried in our big brains and mouths,

fanning history away like cooking smoke.

Oh Epsteins, I am formed of you, but wander

lonesome through states you never dreamt of

in a changed century. Oh Minnie, I imagine 

you dancing toward me like some long-lost ancestor

in your best dress, your pale knees plump as loaves,

your candles burning, and your small hands raised,

circling the light before covering your eyes.

Anne Myles is the author of Late Epistle, winner of Sappho’s Prize in Poetry (Headmistress Press, 2023), and What Woman That Was: Poems for Mary Dyer (Final Thursday Press, 2022) Her poems have appeared in numerous journals and been nominated for multiple Pushcarts. Anne is Professor Emeritus of English at the University of Northern Iowa and holds a PhD from the University of Chicago and an MFA from the Vermont College of Fine Arts. She now lives in Greensboro, where she co-hosts the new reading series Poetry on Tap and is belatedly exploring the religious dimensions of her Jewish identity at Temple Emanuel. If you’d like to learn more about Anne, visit her website: annemyles.com

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Filed under American Jewry, Family history, Jewish, Jewish identity, Jewish writing, Judaism, Passover, poetry

Shiksa

by Cheryl Savageau (Boston, MA)

…for Aunt Molly

she said I was 

a shiksa but

she didn’t 

hold it 

against me 

once she knew 

I played poker

You have a cat?

I wouldn’t

eat in your kitchen

who asked you?

I said and threw 

a quarter into the kitty

she ordered the 

old beaver jacket

off my back

took apart the dry skins 

and brought them 

back to life

stitched a new

lining complete

with monogram

I listened to her 

stories of strikes

in the garment district

as she dealt another hand

we’re not supposed to play

poker on Passover

but we’re waiting for dessert

and cards are flying

like the stories she tells

of sisters who fled

the pogroms

walked to the Black Sea

and took a boat to America

I am the shiksa 

who learned to love 

her red horseradish 

and the crystal dish

that held it, the one

on my Pesach table 

the crystal dish

filled now

with red beets 

and bitter root

Cheryl Savageau is a convert and also Native (Abenaki), and her poems are about her first experience as part of a Jewish family, and how she became part of the Jewish people. She has three collections of poetry: Mother/Land (SALT 2006), Dirt Road Home (Curbstone Press 1995), and Home Country (Alice James, 1992).  Her memoir, Out of the Crazywoods, was published in 2020, and her children’s book, Muskrat Will Be Swimming, was first published by Northland in 1996, then in paperback in 2006. This poem is part of a new collection, New Love/Old Love, looking for a publisher. Visit her website to learn more about her life and work: https://cherylsavageaublog.wordpress.com/

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Filed under American Jewry, Family history, Jewish, Jewish identity, Jewish writing, Judaism, poetry

With love, always

by Annette Friend (Del Mar, CA)

I picture my mother

white shmata cleaning rag

like an eternal light in her hand

seeking to brighten the furniture

in our little used dining room,

shining the up-right piano

I practiced on so badly,

I’ll be loving you, always,

Irving Berlin’s ode to enduring love

always on her lips.

I miss her voice, tremulous, soft,

but always on tune.

I miss her nut cake, her famous

desert that friends, loved ones,

neighbors adored and scarfed down

as soon as it emerged from the oven.

Seven sticks of butter and lord knows

how many cups of sugar

slithered down our grateful throats.

I take out her well-loved serving dishes

when my mahjong friends gather.

Red and white ceramic with pictures

of stately castles in Europe never visible

from the shtetl she came from.

They could even be worth something

but I’d never sell them, I still see her hands

scrubbing their delicate surfaces clean.

We always fought, she and I,

her frame of reference

always Europe and the devastation

of the Jews she left behind.

Mine, trying to dwell

and inhabit this brave new world

of America where she had come.

We always fought and I thought

maybe I didn’t love her enough,

maybe she loved me too much,

always wanting to protect me from

the alien world she found herself in.

I always loved her,

I know that now,

maybe as much as she loved me.

In my mind, she wears a red babushka,

slips it off her grey hair

to wave at the bus we wait for.

signals the bus driver to stop.

She yells, “Yoo Hoo, Yoo Hoo”.

Instead of cringing and looking where to hide,

today in my mind, my lips rush up

to graze her lined cheek, with love always.

Annette Friend, a retired occupational therapist and elementary school teacher, taught both Hebrew and Judaica to a wide range of students. In 2008, she was honored as the Grinspoon-Steinhardt Jewish Educator of the Year from San Diego. Her work has been published in The California Quarterly, Tidepools, Summation, and The San Diego Poetry Annual.

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Filed under American Jewry, Family history, history, Jewish, Jewish identity, Jewish writing, Judaism, poetry

An Unexpected Encounter

By Julie Brandon (Downers Grove, IL)

An unexpected encounter at a grocery store

In Downers Grove on a Sunday morning

Pushing my cart down an aisle

Stopping to grab something from a shelf

A young woman and her mother take my cart

Calling after them, I hear them laugh at their mistake

Time stops as they eye my Star of David necklace

And I their hijabs

For a brief terrible moment, we wonder

Threat or friendly strangers

This

This is how fears grows in a Midwestern grocery store

Longing to reassure them, I hurry away to buy a carton of eggs

Julie Brandon is a poet, playwright and liturgical lyricist. She began writing in earnest in her fifties. Her work has been published in Corner Bar Magazine, Awakenings Review, Bewildering Stories, Poetica Magazine, Mini Play Magazine, Fresh Words,  “Am Yisrael Chai Anthology” vol. 1 & 2 and “Writing of Love During War: Poems” among others. Julie’s short plays and monologues have been published and produced in the US and Great Britain. She has taken up the baritone ukulele because that’s what all the cool kids are doing. If you’d like to read more of Julie’s work, you can check out her new collection of poems that she’s written since 10/7: My Tears, Like Rain

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