Of Witches

I was born a child of the pogroms
Of Yizkor services where the candles
Glow, emanating all that slipped away
Felshtin in my blood, more lost than present

Not a daughter of witches they couldn’t kill
But of some unlucky coincidence
Handpicked for a brutal battle uphill
Ancestral pains becoming vicinage

Heavy hearts, the only ones I know to be full
Death and love meld into tradition
Memories not mine embrace me in cold
Stews and babkas work as incantations

Through bubbes unknown who I can’t forget
Not untied from loss but forever chained to it