Op/Ed Poetry
Letter to the editor: Sing, Etzuri — a poem with Ukrainian roots
Like you, I have a name behind
my name.
Scratched inside my throat.
Written in a burning book,
in a burning desk.
In a village outside
Kyiv.
A girl, my grandmother slept
on a mantel there
with her mother’s rising
bread. Until she escaped
her name.
Had it traded in
on a sequestered boat,
Waiting in a harbor
here. For the smoke
to let her in.
For the name she burned
for me
inside my throat.
My twice-named Nana,
Who used to pinch
my cheeks.
When she wanted to see
the blood
turn a boy’s face pink.
To give them color,
she said. Like the poppies
exploding
in her backyard.
She wove into a girl’s
crown. She left
for me to wear, too.
Inside my tongue-
twisting real name.
I give to you.
To sing with me.
On this Day of Burning.
Sing, Etzuri.
Gary Margolis
Cornwall
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