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When I was twelve, I read The Diary of Anne Frank.
I identified with her having to live
stories above a busy street
over a business, and having to keep quiet
for hours at a time.
I’d pad about on…
Can you imagine the air filled with smoke?
It was. The city was vanishing before noon
or was it earlier than that? I can’t say because
the light came from nowhere and went nowhere.
This was years…
Savta, grandma,
could it be our transparent skin,
skin that doesn’t protect the flesh,
not in the least.
This story of ours
has details that are better left untold,
it’s good to leave blots of…