Image by Dag Endresen

SUM­MER 1945

After Michael Palmer

All birds are hunger.

I have killed two stones for one bird.

A bird dies scream­ing in an attic.

Out­side: light and cumu­lus clouds.

Fur hats weigh heavy.

Mold dances alone.

Humil­i­a­tion and humil­i­ty are the same.

My hand is a stranger to my face.

I fly in the direc­tion of Plontsk,

or some oth­er such dustvillage.

The riv­er drinks itself, sand creatures

crawl dazed and frightened

to the edge of the woods,

meet­ing death in all sty­ro­foam splendor.

It breathes in the back of your face,

forks for eyes, disregarded.

His­to­ry has no name.

Tin stat­ues, call them: exit wounds.

Our pros­ti­tute is a bak­er, stone mill legs of a sophist.

The jack­al recites names.

A hell con­struct­ed from sandalwood

and wrap­ping paper.

O Joseph O Father

O down-torn Patriarch.

They were called the stolen souls

with no eyes.

This is how they were called.

The pros­ti­tute speaks of birds

with him­self.

Who asks for a name in these days.

Birds are nameless.

I have held one, dead as all plexiglas.

Fin­ger­nails own­ers of prophesy.

He asks of your flight history.

He asks of your flight.

And so, young sailor, talk poems at walls.

Wasps seep from the skin of Chosenias.


KOBIL­NIK

Belarus, 2019

It is not much of a revelation

to the flow­ers how we kill and

tend bunch­es of river­sticks and

sweet lit­tle hats for the wheat!

the wheat! it writhes and wags

its many tongues in our tender-

most open­ings lo before us lay

one thou­sand dri­vers with their

carts of ware their exposed bel-

lies the cat with its left eye left

gazes from the tow­er­top while

the wheat! the wheat! calls out

in anger the angel of evenings

tar­ries singing to her comrades

in arms to lay down beside the

the dri­vers and their husbands

to lay down beside the children

and their parcels of ants and in-

testines to lay along their banks

of ache and all the ten­der sense

that seems to have left this town

to escape the heat for the week

at our great uncle’s dacha nest-

led between a horned owl and

a rifle and a field of rifles while

the wheat! the wheat! winks at

its lit­tle friend its only sibling

while the dust from the water

ris­es like steam and the sky is

filled with gold­en dust and the

field grows rest­less with wheat

and the wheat and the children


AN UNHAP­PY PEO­PLE INHAP­PY WORLD

and when we

rest­ed our feet


on clay banks

for just a day


all man­ners of

man­na splayed


under our toes

undi­gest­ed and


lone­ly and cold

orbs of doughy


spit and healthy

feath­ers brightly


engulfed in dew

the angle enoch


had over all men

wasn’t his beard


it was his broads-

words come­ly as


any tri­dent wield

as any lashed eye


as any rollicking

tomor­row god—


This piece is a part of the Berru Poet­ry Series, which sup­ports Jew­ish poet­ry and poets on PB Dai­ly. JBC also awards the Berru Poet­ry Award in mem­o­ry of Ruth and Bernie Wein­flash as a part of the Nation­al Jew­ish Book Awards. Click here to see the 2019 win­ner of the prize. If you’re inter­est­ed in par­tic­i­pat­ing in the series, please check out the guide­lines here.

Moriel Roth­man-Zech­er is the author of the nov­el Sad­ness Is a White Bird (Atria Books, 2018), which was a final­ist for the Day­ton Lit­er­ary Peace Prize and the Nation­al Jew­ish Book Award, among oth­er hon­ors. His sec­ond nov­el, which fol­lows two Yid­dish speak­ing immi­grants from a fic­tion­al shtetl to Philadel­phia of the 1930s, is forth­com­ing from Far­rar, Straus and Giroux. Moriel’s work has been pub­lished in The New York Times, the Paris Review’s Dai­ly, Zyzzy­va Mag­a­zine, and else­where, and he is the recip­i­ent of the Nation­al Book Foun­da­tion’s 5 Under 35’ Hon­or, two Mac­Dow­ell Colony Fel­low­ships for Lit­er­a­ture (2017 & 2020), and a Wal­lis Annen­berg Helix Project Fel­low­ship for Yid­dish Cul­tur­al Stud­ies (20182019). Moriel lives in Yel­low Springs, Ohio, with his family.

Moriel is the cre­ator of the fic­tion­al char­ac­ters Math­ew L. Cohn, Marky Miller, and M. Pin­sky-Appel­baum as part of the series, What We Talk About When We Talk About the Golem.