I could be a raspberry torte cake, an embroidered, bejeweled bimah, a
bobble-headed Shylock, a tattooed ghost, ribcage-wrought. How to pasture
where I’m from. Luna moth blown from the shaggy bark. Tribe of dancing
aphids powdering branches. Grandmother cradles a tiny klezmer band in
her apron. Uncle assembles a flamingo menorah in the front yard. I
imagine Anne Frank’s shepherd crook leading me to safety in her
sheepfold. Mother turns her dreidel paper weight to gimel so everyone
could win.



Rikki Santer