It wasn’t the cat who got your tata’s tongue
but depression’s black dogs   jowls clamped   wrenched out the saliva-slathered pull toy.
They tore off his limbs     his shvantz    his face
until he was a man in pieces
alive and buried beneath a top sheet shroud
under a fraying blanket
in bed.

You, your shvester and bruder:
consumed by quicksand quiet.

(Before you told me
I thought being raised with silence
was the stuff of Chaim Potok novels)

Mentored for many years by award-winning author Lynne Kositsky and Coppin State English professor Dr. Roger Stritmatter, Adam recently wrapped up a several-year stint as a licensed musician on Toronto’s TTC, where he accompanied himself on guitar while singing his self-penned folk songs. Having released a CD of his music, co-authored an article in the Canadian Journal of Public Health on digital supports for caregivers of the elderly, and sent out the manuscript for his debut novel, he is now concentrating on poetry.