History Lesson III

I pack to leave,

summer has finally burned off

one hour at a time.

Sabta sits on the bottom bunk

holding the cigar box,

familiar now—

[my father, broad-shouldered, 27,

crooked smile on his face]

—this was weeks before

he got sick, Sabta says, holding up

another photo, in 60s Technicolor yellows and browns—

[he lifts an infant high,

her black hair coming to

a widow’s peak]

—your mother, she came to Israel

and took our son away—

[cleft in his chin

can be seen as faint shadow

echoed in the baby’s face]

—We were expelled from our home,

we made a homeland

for the Jews, your father deserted—

[circle of wedding band just visible

at photo’s edge, silver

watchband, my ruffled diaper secure

in his palm]

—My grandmother weeps. I tell him my mother’s words:

you were invited,

you refused to come.

Young lady, he says, America—

[was not]

my home. At my father’s grave,

a candle burned

in a little glass house.