The Hope 

She was born when I was three, old enough
to celebrate but not to understand
the grainy black and white photos
of bodies stacked like firewood.

Oceans apart we grew up together. While her tanned hands planted
saplings, dragged plows through dust, hoses to desert troughs 
and with our cousin pioneers smiled robust smiles and danced on the sand 
here in New York City in January in Sunday School I sang sunlit anthems 

and was treated to almonds, dates, figs and splintery nuggets 
of St. John's bread. By the door a tin blue pushke 
with a slot for dimes and every year a gilded certificate 
etched with the image of a tree planted in my honor. 

Now where orange groves once scented the air
the bitter stink of smoke fills the sky
and concrete bunkers squat near missiles 
aimed at something no longer there. 


Is this poem

an apology
a plea
for pardon
for seeing
and being
unable
to be
silent?

Or do these words
seek mercy
for not speaking?

Susan Sontag said, Imagination is a moral faculty.  As a writer, teacher and visual artist, Judith Taylor depends on her creativity, curiosity and experience to try to identify questions worth asking, and to discover what she has to contribute to the conversations and causes that address contemporary social and global issues.

Image: Firewood 1941 by Hugo Sundström under Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International license.