Be, Hear Now.
This afternoon I sat,
cried and wrote.
In the late 80’s in Paris, I stayed with a friend.
She invited me to have an authentic French
meal being prepared by her grandmother.
That memory just gave me a big smile,
but that reflection didn’t bring tears.
Whenever I rode the Paris metro,
the Algerians looked like me,
and it was the first time
I fit in with a group
of other people,
I knew no
Even that reflection didn’t produce tears
.I just sat looking out at the garden
and in at the walls, art covered,
and at this phone’s poetry,
knowing that not knowing
the primal source of the art,
Amalia Rosenfeld, my mother,
has been a regrettable loss to me.