Yumpu_Catalogue_Peacemaking

galeriekerstan

An Apple from Dachau

It's the eighteenth day of Nissan,

the first month of the Jewish year, April 21st –

Passover's third day. I’m on a backways cobblestone street.

"Liebling" a woman selling apples says to me

but I don't speak German. She smiles, and nods

to the euro coins in my palm.

It's one fine apple, shining up at me

from the center of my hand. And still

I have no idea how to be sacred.

Any fruit, even just the core

or shed skin, is holy when you’re lonely.

At dusk, with a cup of rum-laced tea, I watch

out my window to where the vendors stay out at their carts

until the light goes dead, eating whitefish

from wax paper, and one half of an orange.

Something so beautiful as to give up seed

is lonely, and to shed its skin for hunger is holy.

If you plant an apple seed in the far town field

where snow never stays, even in winter,

and that seed lives, it’s a holy, holy thing.

Not like Gefilte fish. Right now

thirteen hours east, my mother

is in Brooklyn buying two pounds

of Whitefish, Carp and Pike flesh,

chances are the fishmonger

knows her: You'll never find bones,

it's why my relatives always have

Passover at my parent's house.

Keep the shed skin, my mother will tell the Fishmonger

but she's keeping the head, seed and core. The first

spring I remember smelling those fresh

fish bones, I was five. It was the salt smell

fleshwork of my young hunger. My mother will grind

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