BAGGAGE As the plane lands a young man in the aisle wraps tefillin bands round his left arm up to the elbow pulls them to a small box over his forehead his head damp as he leans into prayer. I watch him rock as the plane descends his eyes closed his mouth tracing words I cannot heal I mumble thoughts he cannot hear, I ask: How do I avoid the story of my family? What I mean is: How do I stay clear of memories passed back and forth over the holiday table served into gossip simmered into tempers boiled into scalding disappointments. I pray I can leave this baggage behind.
NOTE: Poet Rochelle Mass lives in Israel
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|Date:||Jan 1, 2013|
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