Everything is their fault, from the breadcrust economy
to the Tsar’s scraggle-beard. They’re even fined for refusing to pray
for Alexander’s health. The border-door slams behind,

severs them from pogroms and borscht.
With papers forged and hem-sewn, they burrow
in horse-pissed hay on a train across Poland,

         vow never to speak
                  of the left world. No way
                           to know friend from fist –

hold me Pinny,
right here, Mira.

In Argentina, Baron Hirsh buys them a chunk of land,
         some chickens, a plow. Jewish cowboys in prayer shawls
                  and wide-legged bombachas herd cattle,

harvest sunflowers from seeds that clung to pant-legs
         as they fled the Ukraine.
                  Seven years dreaming of America – wait, soon.

With satchels and visas, they sail into New York Harbor,
make their way down the plank,
two ants grasping the tip of a crumb.

Truth

Untruth

We Don't Know and TheyWon't Tell Us

We Don't Know and They
Won't Tell Us