He had the key but not the lock to turn it in;
The bronze relic was a metaphor that opened
The lost alleyways of his Ashkenazic past.
As the mists of time bubbled raindrops on its skin,
It slipped free from the grip of ghetto memory.
When his mother, faithful treasurer, held it out,
He stretched out his hand and took it to his keeping.
She measured walks with a mind-map of courtyard locks.
She’d seen the letters take leave from the burning scroll,
Souls flying into the air, indestructible;
Her baby flung aside, black poison on his lips;
God summoning himself to grieve in a sackcloth.
The aleph stayed silent while the Germans murdered.
No temple plaque is vast enough to remember
Each murdered Jew, no high stone wall is long enough
To list their names, or their hope for regeneration.
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