Archive - Staff Blog
January 17th, 2017
One afternoon earlier this month, my daughters and I gathered around our kitchen island for a snack. I began asking my eldest daughter about a book she was reading. After a few one-syllable responses, she was tired of my questioning. Looking me right in the eyes, she said:
“’Every man his own priest,’ Mommy.”
The other night, I took the dog for a walk down our driveway.
December 22nd, 2016
For the past several months, I’ve sensed a heaviness in my writing, an unbroken seriousness that leaves me with the uncomfortable feeling that it’s time to crack a joke.
So Bev Megyesi can stop me at the counter
to say, Gary, I didn’t know you were a hunter,
having read my poem in the local paper.
The one the editor chose, because it coincides
with the last weeks in November, deer who have
to be remembered.
I tell Bev it's my poem's speaking voice, the one inside
my head I write on paper. That’s news to me, she says.
It sounds so much like you I thought you were
Maybe I shouldn’t tell you I wear
a star under my shirt.
Having heard two swastikas
were seen magic-marked
on our Havaruh’s door.
Here, in a country town, more
of a house than a city’s
synagogue. Maybe I shouldn’t
say how much or how little
I pray. How disturbing it is
to remember the numbers I saw
inked on a man’s wrist,
when I was a boy.
What, a few weeks ago,
I felt in Birkenau, fields
Across the Aisle
My aisle’s a walk across the road I have
to walk. My neighbor’s stripping his bumper-
peeling decal off. We’ve had little to say
to each other these past twelve months.
Guessing where each other stands,
by the flags we wave. By now we’ve had
enough of this, our barely talking.
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