The parents of my parent's parents
made their way to where
I would not know
from hunger pangs, pogroms,
a fate cast in fire
Their memories are for blessing
They cracked the yoke
of violence born
of fear and lack
so that I might bear only
what weight I choose. And I do,
carrying hope and my blood's memory
of slavery and sacrifice
like shiny epaulets, dangling
from my clean, grateful shoulders.
The streets I walk are golden,
I am more at ease
than even in their dreams.
I see this sacred world
not through their bloodshot eyes
and for this
to bless them for this blessing
daring to imagine
and for my children's children
I am a pacifist.