For Romi, Emily, and Doron
My tears are nothing
compared to the tears of the women
who spent more than a year in hell,
who finally escaped through a narrow gap
in that crushing maw of terror.
My tears are nothing
compared to the tears of the mothers
waiting to embrace their daughters
for the first time in 471 days.
My tears are nothing
compared to the tears of the families
who saw their loved ones’ murderers set free
so that the living might become whole.
My tears are nothing
compared to the tears of those still waiting
to find out when—if—they will
see their loved ones again.
My tears are nothing
compared to the tears of those
who hold both joy and sorrow in their soul,
knowing that their own
daughters, sons, parents, and friends
will never return to their arms.
My tears are nothing,
but they are the tears of a nation
whose heart has been shattered
into countless untold pieces.
Three of those pieces are home.
Ninety-four remain lost.
Thousands more are in the ground
or up in smoke, but we carry them
with us every day. We carry them
because we live, because we must.
WEEKEND POTPOURRI:
Currently on repeat:
A(nother) poem:
THE YEAR THE JEWISH POETS DISAPPEARED
By Jehanne Dubrow
It wasn’t as in the disÂtant years, when we were lined against a wall or marched through forests in the east. This time, we weren’t buried with poems in our pockets to sprout like cabÂbages among the dirt. But cerÂtain themes persisted. There were shouts of useÂful slogans in the streets. Our housÂes tremÂbled like old men, and we told stoÂries only to ourselves of all the othÂer buildÂings shuddering through cenÂturies. A few of us were good and well-behaved, permitted to remain a litÂtle longer than the rest. As for our words, they were like an empÂtied city. They were like a room paintÂed over — nothÂing was left of us but smears in the underÂcoat, our small, tenaÂcious shadÂows still seen in cerÂtain pointÂed angles of the light.