The passenger train along the Connecticut shoreline moves as if in a
river of wooden ties and steel rails. . .

There are blackbirds singing beautifully at dawn,
Mozart and Shakespeare existed and that’s fine . . .

Tonight, my houseplant child asks about sunlight,
brushes my arm as she stutters on the word,
photosynthesis . . .

When she asked what I wanted
to be when I grew up, my mother
laughed when I said ‘free’

At the End of the Class
The young woman in a hijab thanked/praised/appreciated me
For all I had shown/ encouraged/ inspired in her
Asked whether I observed/ took part in/ celebrated Rosh Hashanah?

I wrote the title of the lesson on the board and underlined it with a flourish. The class listened to my introduction.

I used to ‘see’ you when you were alive,
I mean when you weren’t there. I carry you
around like a photo in a wallet.

All summer the sun scorched the city
and the sky held back its tears.

The night before,
I paced London’s streets
sparkling and fizzing with ideas
the pills used to dull and destroy.
I felt awake, alive.