Minyan

 

I still
make soup
for a
minyan.
No longer ten men.
Just
ten Jews.

 

Times have changed.
Memory thickens
and recoils from
his/herstory in the
boiling pots and
simmering shadows
cast upon tattooed
arms and shoulders.
Embellishing emptied
eyes and bold cries
in this deserted land
of survivors
standing in line
waiting
for some soup.

 

Storytellers step
up to the mark
in multicultural
lands. Outsiders
looking in
not finding their space
in a time when
pronouns speak
louder than adjectives.
In an age when
searching for home
in a soup
makes sense.