I have packed away the shirts

The ones that read from right to left

Vowels not included

They’re not needed to

Decipher the meaning

When I pull my keys out

I grip their spinning keychain

And press the words embellished on the surface

The ones that spell the prayer for healing

Deep into my palm

I try very hard to watch my tongue

The one I got from my mother

From her mother

From hers

A far cry from my youth

When I was sure it was behind us

Any vestiges

Just left in my grandmother’s stories

Our family history

Of being booted

From place to place

Survival never certain

I curse the fact that Yahrzeit

Has no English equivalent

It takes a mouthful of words

To say the same thing

With none of the elegance

If I watch my mouth

Insinuate my features

Come from a mix

That it is not the generational trauma

that curls my hair

If I can keep the truth

For the rare occasions where everyone else

Is also holding onto their tells

I can keep the fear

That my final Shema

Will not come from the actions

Of my neighbors, my country

Those who have decided

That my true self

Is unworthy

Of a life