Not Poland, or Gan Eden But East Boston Where narrative is history And history is geographic
Mensheviks Bolsheviks Trotskyists, of course Those who parse Gematria Or holy alphabet Build ships in Quincy Drive trucks in Chelsea Sew button holes, tailor The wrists of jackets
Pantry shelves Of bottled plums in glass And other things that are preserved In their own juice; Anger, betrayal, grudge, Inescapable memory
To be loved with this kind of love: To be ground like beets for borscht Chopped like opinions Savored like schnapps Lit like candles Blessed like God.
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