As a kid I couldn't stop

erasing my thick hand

written letters

screaming circles on the floor

who am I for?

​

And silent Papa went to the stone

wall that lines the house,

left from civil war times, long before our

Jewish blood in New England

​

He placed a tomato in my palm, “throw”

he said “throw hard,” and I did. And the mess

of seeds was freed from their membrane

staining ancient soils, taken

by the juice of old tomatoes