My father still screams some nights
And packs with him
A handkerchief, an apple, a hat, a small bag of nuts, a silver Swiss army pocket knife,
and a parachute
—always prepared, always ready

Anxiously he rocks from one foot
to the other
Foretelling the forecast, the outcome of the baseball game, politics, the state of Israel,
and the war

My father, just short of 5′ 7″
Is a giant
A gigantic giant
strong as Atlas
he carried my family across
state lines, countries, walls, laws, men and suits, swastikas, foreign languages, silences and sirens, cold floors, and roach filled rooms

he stood at the brink
of the world
washing windows on street corners
with homemade Windex
and crawled out of trains
and trenches
and passport checks
and death…

He bears arms, shame, guilt, fear, and wool sweaters
Whispering
“This ends with me”

and I used to think he could fly
all so I could one day say:
“Ya Americanca”

∞

From the Spring 2014 issue of Inquiring Mind (Vol. 30, No. 2)

© 2014 Alla Poberesky