Hebrew School – Mark Burgh

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Books piled in corners that nobody read(s)
still fold words into themselves, striated
lines colored by ethics, marred history.
Nobody’s cleaned the windows you stare through.
Nobody wants to be there, either. Hebrew
letters chalked on slate. Takes me hours to
sound out a word, a dismal slow bell rung
among others equally ignorant.
If I charm the aleph, black dancer, black bird,
knowledge will douse me like gasoline, soak me
in fire, would I find the next letter? Bet
gimel, dalet, hey.  Look at me, Pan Chleb,
living wick. I consume letters, aleph
ashes to memory, dances skyward.