Assimilation
I never knew whether to say Amen.
In the vaulted hall silent girls dipped
rosy profiles into dust-freckled sunlight
while I stood dumb-lipped trapped by
the trinity of longing, fear, propriety,
the word still born in my throat.
Alone at thirteen in shadows of Dresden
blue, I bore the guilt of history, somehow
felt the weight of censure for what they'd done.
Head bowed consulting the diamond perforations on
regulation shoes, burnt ashes branded my tongue
with the double stigmata: unbeliever, hypocrite.
I did not know where I'd come from but guessed
at their journey through the snowflecked storms
of some Lithuanian December night
Creeping through purple larch and spruce to flee
the zealous pogroms and their indignant Slavic rage.
Yet I've never tasted the sweet wine of Kiddush.
Beyond the stained-glass windows and the Annunciation
English playing fields stretched printed with
tramline, the watermarks of fair play.
In the back of the cupboard in my father's study
a tarnished sliver samovar lay in waiting for
tall glasses, lemon and a scoop of Russian tea.
