By Dorothy Shannon
Migration Issue, 2015
The young rabbi fails to show up, lost
while driving to this forgotten graveyard.
Once peaceful countryside, tract houses
push against the cyclone fence.
Our parents’ plots, passed on to them
by their own immigrant parents,
who longed for familiar faces even in death,
lie among our grandparents’ lantsmen.
Children, spouses, grandchildren,
great-grandchildren in arms
circle the grave for a final goodbye,
send our messages to the man
we finally knew in his last years
when he no longer drudged long hours
at work that helped us all move on.
Stalwart Red Sox fan, he claimed
they keep me alive.
We want to tell him how
the prize is finally theirs,
wonder if he helped this happen.