Lines That Didn’t Make The Cut #2
They can’t be less inhuman than they are.
The line of people leaving, a living scar
across the flesh that was our home, stretched far
beyond where I, at six years old, could see.
Even now, that child breathes in me,
riding his father's shoulders, hiding the jar
of colored shells he feared they’d confiscate
beneath the coat his mother wrapped him in.
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I'm a poet and essayist. I write about poetry, writing, and translation; gender and sexuality; Jewish identity and culture; and the politics of higher education.
