Archive - Staff Blog
January 20th, 2017
One afternoon earlier this month, my daughters and I gathered around our kitchen island for a snack. I began asking my eldest daughter about a book she was reading. After a few one-syllable responses, she was tired of my questioning. Looking me right in the eyes, she said:
“’Every man his own priest,’ Mommy.”
The other night, I took the dog for a walk down our driveway.
December 22nd, 2016
For the past several months, I’ve sensed a heaviness in my writing, an unbroken seriousness that leaves me with the uncomfortable feeling that it’s time to crack a joke.
So Bev Megyesi can stop me at the counter
to say, Gary, I didn’t know you were a hunter,
having read my poem in the local paper.
The one the editor chose, because it coincides
with the last weeks in November, deer who have
to be remembered.
I tell Bev it's my poem's speaking voice, the one inside
my head I write on paper. That’s news to me, she says.
It sounds so much like you I thought you were
Maybe I shouldn’t tell you I wear
a star under my shirt.
Having heard two swastikas
were seen magic-marked
on our Havaruh’s door.
Here, in a country town, more
of a house than a city’s
synagogue. Maybe I shouldn’t
say how much or how little
I pray. How disturbing it is
to remember the numbers I saw
inked on a man’s wrist,
when I was a boy.
What, a few weeks ago,
I felt in Birkenau, fields
More stories published this issue