Relfections on not speaking Yiddish

 

She speaks to me

in a Yiddish

that refuses to be spoken,

lowering it from the barbed wire

sizzled into her brow.

She doesn’t remember me

who I also don’t remember.

She remembers our covenant:

the black ink of silence,

our words

neatly folded

stored away

almost touching—

hungry strangers.