In Munich
she watches the pictures
as she sits all day long by herself
in a kitchen of cockroaches
shooting themselves in the arms
no it’s the kids shooting themselves
in the arms, ankles, or between
their fingers, behind their testicles
breathing fumes no longer enough
she shouldn’t watch them like they’re pictures
out of tune they sing what might be
“You Are My Sunshine” redolent spring morning
fruit trees humming at once apricot cherry
apple plum is it latent wop syndrome
to wonder about the Germans she thinks
part German herself the Jewish part
maybe the Italian part too “alles fur
meinen Kindern” that’s what they always said
whether German Italian French probably
Chinese too she still walks in the history
of her people whoever they are they pushed
out of customs stumbling legs numb
eyes and hands cast down wondering
where they were in kitchens with cockroaches
shooting themselves in the arms no that’s
the kids who do the cha-cha-cha revive the twist
all night in tight black jeans then shoot
themselves up they squat on the edge
of Munich she sits all day long by herself
she wants to ask you Herr Announcer
on TV what a German is
why only Jews can be Israeli
but that’s bad to ask
now they with their homeland and Palestinians
none though last year’s el nino caused this year’s
explosive spring kids still sing of peace love
all the fruit trees in tune at once
sing cherry apple apricot plum.
(Winner, International Poetry Prize, White Adder Press, printed in The Chalk Faced Muse, Scotland)
