your eyes were the color of the sea you traveled through
and your long hair was the color of the finest sunset
you were only fifteen by yourself on the boat
to Ellis island holding only
a tin of cocoa.
I have been trying to find you
in every poem I’ve written
since 10/7
I want to know about the depth of both your fear
and your bravery
you know, you died when I was six so I am left with stories
and ancient photographs
you loved Emma Lazarus, Mary Todd Lincoln, and the Gay Men’s Chorus of Los Angeles
you knew Yiddish, Russian, Hebrew, and English
your tiny hands that baked apple cakes, the same tiny hands that made
matzoh ball soup, cinnamon rolls, that would sew all the children’s clothing,
and take anything out of the oven bare.
you heated a kettle when you drew baths for the children
and as the water would cool down, you’d pour the hot water in the tub
and squeeze the warm water on their shoulders
what did you carry on your shoulders?
I first met you as an infant
when your hair was the color of the clouds and
my options were as wide as the giant sequoias and my future was as
bright as the rainbow eucalyptus, thanks to you
I was already named after you
because you didn’t believe the angel of death would take me instead
I sit here wearing (holding) the smooth black shirt with three quarter length sleeves
with golden embroidery trim with circles and swirls
It’s the shirt my mother bought you in Israel a country
now on fire that the entire world is being taught to hate
I search for you in your library
I want to ask you, would you be scared, if you were me?
I want to tell you that I never knew they hated us this much, still!
Today is the 250th anniversary of America
I want to know when you knew it was time to leave Russia
I read Lazarus, Rukeyser, and Adrienne Rich to commemorate you and our country
feeling like this may not be my home anymore
When will it be time to leave America,
Where our people built the theater, stand up comedy, bagels,
shopping carts and Tootsie rolls
where we wrote all the Christmas songs
and the song “God Bless America,” and the poem “America,”
and the quote on the Statue of Liberty
where in the Broadway Museum, they are erasing our history
as we sing our songs like birds in the cold air
hardy and sickly, sad and festive, angry and bitter, and fresh and new
The author, her mother and great-grandmother
This poem was generated in Ritualwell’s “Sacred Words for a Fragile Democracy: A Jewish Creative Writing Lab,” July 2026
