Lady Rubenstein

ran the deli

by Central Park,

ran her mouth more

than the food, always

had something to

say between our bites of

matzo balls, our swigs

of Dr. Brown’s,

entreating us to

never waste a

morsel, that in Belzec

they would kill

for a single pea,

that the dying

would bury the dead,

climb beside a corpse with

end-of-breath;

so much skin-and-bone

they should have been buoyant

as a feather, floated

up to HaShem

like the fog.

But the day

before she passed:

the hole is

more important

than the bagel,

forever in its

place when even

the final crumb’s

consumed,

whit and seed

are given to the

wind, to divvy

as she does

among the wings,

seldom so opaque

they cannot rise above

the dirt and waft away.

Andreas Gripp

June 3, 2025

RF Image