by Jamie Wendt | Mar 5, 2021The Guests The children press their noses to our bumpy, flawless etrog. They hold it tightly, inhale its zesty scent, pass it on to apparitions over their shoulders. Winged angels – my ancestors – reunite, mingle and drift like holy ushpizin. by Jamie Wendt | Dec 29, 2020Ner Tamid after Solomon Iudovin The shoemaker labors over his leather, his work. A singular lightbulb illuminates his hands, like a ner tamid, stitching perfection, a livelihood. The artist considers him an obsession, a relic to carve, “The Past,” Woodcuts, 1928. The. by Jamie Wendt | Nov 11, 2013Jamie Wendt concludes her four-part essay “American Jewish Women Poets” with a study of poems by Hadara Bar-Nadav and Sarah Wetzel. Read Part 1 here, Part 2 here, and Part 3 here. –The Editors HADARA BAR-NADAV and SARAH WETZEL In Part One of this.
by Olena Kalytiak Davis | Mar 20, 2021sky-blue-prison prism of spin-back-earth for fall is the time of damn-dappled, of drab-drama-ed, of never-liked the-stubble-field-so-much-as-now (and soon a roethke-complicated wait-light) but now, now: the yellow apples: appley, crook’d, under the little- armed. by Jamie Wendt | Mar 5, 2021The Guests The children press their noses to our bumpy, flawless etrog. They hold it tightly, inhale its zesty scent, pass it on to apparitions over their shoulders. Winged angels – my ancestors – reunite, mingle and drift like holy ushpizin. by Kristin Fogdall | Feb 21, 2021When I tell myself this story, all the action takes place under an empty sky. Neighborhood bungalows stare blankly into space; no one cutting grass or walking dogs. I might have been with Andrea, or maybe just alone, walking home from school; long concrete stairs cut.
The Guests
to our bumpy, flawless etrog.
They hold it tightly, inhale its zesty scent,
pass it on to apparitions over their shoulders.
Winged angels – my ancestors – reunite, mingle and drift
like holy ushpizin visiting during Sukkot.
Their ghostliness imitates the seven patriarchs
of our people – uprooted, wounded,
the slash of evil in their bodies
hidden like a tattoo.
a wandering secret they died with.
The sky blackens, and if we weren’t in Chicago,
stars would peek through the slats
of the sukkah’s bamboo roof. They nod, pleased
with my children’s names, their manners,
the colorful paper chains. We tell the children:
The Guests
to our bumpy, flawless etrog.
They hold it tightly, inhale its zesty scent,
pass it on to apparitions over their shoulders.
Winged angels – my ancestors – reunite, mingle and drift
like holy ushpizin visiting during Sukkot.
Their ghostliness imitates the seven patriarchs
of our people – uprooted, wounded,
the slash of evil in their bodies
hidden like a tattoo.
a wandering secret they died with.
The sky blackens, and if we weren’t in Chicago,
stars would peek through the slats
of the sukkah’s bamboo roof. They nod, pleased
with my children’s names, their manners,
the colorful paper chains. We tell the children:
by Jamie Wendt | Mar 5, 2021The Guests The children press their noses to our bumpy, flawless etrog. They hold it tightly, inhale its zesty scent, pass it on to apparitions over their shoulders. Winged angels – my ancestors – reunite, mingle and drift like holy ushpizin. by Jamie Wendt | Dec 29, 2020Ner Tamid after Solomon Iudovin The shoemaker labors over his leather, his work. A singular lightbulb illuminates his hands, like a ner tamid, stitching perfection, a livelihood. The artist considers him an obsession, a relic to carve, “The Past,” Woodcuts, 1928. The. by Jamie Wendt | Nov 11, 2013Jamie Wendt concludes her four-part essay “American Jewish Women Poets” with a study of poems by Hadara Bar-Nadav and Sarah Wetzel. Read Part 1 here, Part 2 here, and Part 3 here. –The Editors HADARA BAR-NADAV and SARAH WETZEL In Part One of this.