Baruch November
By Baruch November
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The Schmooze POEM: ‘Framework’
Old pictures of us on white staircase walls, lined diagonally upward in little wood frames, lecture us on choices we have made since they were taken — we cannot never argue with former selves who weigh less, have more hair, and the gift of youth’s optimism. We can only cover them, as one does mirrors…
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The Schmooze POEM: ‘On the Machine’
my grandmother did not change my grandfather’s greeting, so his voice ripened my sadness before the tone. I considered how he might find contentment knowing we were checking on the short woman he had left to the heavy warmth of lower Florida, how for the children of Israel, it is customary to leave desperate notes…
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The Schmooze POEM: ‘Late for Work’
so I tell the man behind the coffee counter a made up name, not my Hebrew name, which requires gentiles to practice heavy sounds of machine gun fire at the back of the throat before they get it right. I could have told him my name means “blessing,” but will I ever know for sure…
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