For Stephanie
It doesn’t matter
that his name’s not Cohen,
Goldbaum or Horowitz.
He’s tethered by an umbilical
cord. Even when he thinks
it’s been severed.
God died in Auschwitz, he states,
and no longer celebrates
Passover, Purim or even
Hanukkah,
but he fasts on Yom Kippur,
loves gefilte fish and
he cannot walk away.
My name is not Smith,
Taylor or Young but I see
the world from a Mormon
viewpoint, even when
I choose not to.
I don’t attend services
or honor pioneer ancestors
but I still pay tithing
and sometimes pray—
hoping.
My eyes gravitate to
the temple shape
in the distance, and
I cannot walk away.
🡶
Lorraine Jeffery delights in her closeup view of the Utah mountains after spending years managing public libraries. She has won poetry prizes in state and national contests and published over one hundred poems in various journals and anthologies, including Clockhouse, Kindred, Calliope, Canary, Ibbetson Street, Irreantum, Rockhurst Review, Naugatuck River Review, Orchard Press, Two Hawks, Halcyon, and Healing Muse.
🡳
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