In my poetry I play with the boundaries of relationships and try to turn identity labels on their heads. I believe that our prejudices stem from our families of origin and reveal themselves as weeds in

subtle and not-so-subtle ways in our various relationships. Parenthood caused me to recognize some prejudices that I didn’t realize I had, thus allowing me to change my perspective through the

eyes of my son. We would all like to think we don’t have prejudices, but it’s the subtle beliefs that can hurt our relationships with others and ourselves the most.

Berlin Prologue

I was born in a city of walls, walls which came down

more than 20 years later. The people rejoiced

and joined in the tearing down of stone:

graffiti on one side,

cold grey and blood on the other.

They even danced on the wall as it came down.

But now that it is down,

everyone is still hung over and in bed

while Berlin gives birth to itself again.

And I float as an embryo down the River Spree.

Family Room

This is my nostalgia mantlepiece of fading

photographs behind chipped glass:

What were my ancestors thinking as they looked off

somewhere behind the camera

with stern, yet somehow wistful glances?

The row of wooden toy soldiers with broken arms

saluting the past slides off the mantlepiece onto

the floor in a tangle of black boots.

Someone still hears the marching.

Nazi girl, you don’t belong here in Elm Grove.

Your accent is wrong and your clothes are odd.

Tea things scatter

As she rises from the floor

Lace tablecloth sliding off her back.

We will no longer play house here.

Grandma doesn’t want to hear about the German relatives.

Tarnished silver scatters.

They used to hand down underwear

Back then, as well as black garters

For stockings that did not cover shivering knees

In the winter time when the berries ran out.

Oma still peels potatoes with bone-lined hands

In the kitchen, sometimes bringing

Apples to her mouth with the blade of the knife.

And I shiver.

Iron Crow

For Gustav, who loves crows

My son tells me that if he could be an animal he would most want to be a crow because crows watch over us, like God.

There is a myth that crows were once white birds that needed to be punished, so they were turned black.

Why do we believe that black is bad? The same reason we fear old age and death.

When I was a child, my mother told me that she loved crow’s feet, the footprints of a life well-lived with much laughter.

I avoid crow’s pose when I do yoga, fearing that my hands will not bear my own weight, yet somehow holding on to the thought that Nazi history is a weight that I am designed to bear.

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