I am not Jewish,
as far as I know,
(although a woman once
stopped me and told me
I certainly was,
right around the eyes)
yet sometimes
I wish it were so –
a mighty people dragging
sand-sacks across the desert
of dreams. Finding fluffs of
manna everywhere like
popcorn on movie night.
Flocks of quail dripping
from the skies like feathered rain.
And in September, I feel
the yearning even more.
Who else paints the new year in shades
of aching, a shimmer of tension between
gold and red? Who remembers
to forgive, forgives to forget,
and forgets to remember?
Who seals summer with a waxing moon,
impressed into an open envelope of hope?
The Jews. The juicy Jews.
Thousands of years of waiting.
Hundreds of years of wandering.
Decades and days of wondering.
This will be my new year, too –
groping for the manna, chasing great
herds of tufted quail, and
forgiving to forget amid the waning leaves.
Gina Marie Mammano
