I am telling anyone who will listen:
I have been writing poetry about the Holocaust,
about survivors, about survival

About frail Leah, and furious Heddy,
incredulous Tova and my like-relative in the elevator

about Zaidy’s visa and Bobby’s mink
(also, yesterday’s wedding, and Wal Mart’s wonders)

This Poetry has simmered in my soul, decades before I was born;
it’s still all there — on some days, even flowing into coherent verse

Oddly, reassuringly, disturbingly
all my poems have already been written.

Some in thoughts, some in memories.
some in countries and languages foreign to my conscious mind.

Why now? Some wonder
For who? Others scoff
Oy vey! A few retort

How important, most reflect
and meaningful, they admit

Worthy work, it is agreed

But don’t you write funny stuff?
They wheedle

Will you tread lightly?
They hope

You are not an authority, the naysayers sniff
You might very well be the voice of this generation, my mother concurs

Dear G-d, help me to navigate this well worn path with grace, wisdom, and strengthened faith
for it is only and always by Your design.