How do you explain
to your children that the
horrors of the world are real?
How will I tell my son, We
found a place you can call home but
your bus might not make it to school.
Do not look too Jewish in this part of town
Do not play in the train station
Do not get used
to the weight
of a machine gun.
Or look my
daughter in the eye and say, someday
you might say “no” and someone stronger than you might
not listen
You will not tell me
Know that this happens a lot
Know that your wrists pinned against a
backboard will
echo in the way you move your hands
for as long as you let it
But
human hands aren’t as heavy as metal shackles
And I’m so sorry
but I won’t be able to
take the weight for you
You’ll wake up in the morning
That I can promise you
You’ll wake up
and your lungs will fill with air
whether you tell them to or not.
One day
I will hold someone
small, with my face
and they’ll cry and I’ll say,
*I know.
I know you’re tied with little yarn strings to the last life
I know it hurts to be here and
(honestly)
you’re never going back
But
the older you get the less you’ll remember
what it was like
before you had a body
when you were made of ash and infinite light
You’ll convince yourself you live here and
that your hands are you,
But remember that once you were boundless
Inside my body, without yours.*