It is the carp that aspires to become
gefilte fish. It is the trilled yet guttural
sound of poverty, of long, black coats
and floral kerchiefs, of a single water pump
in the market square. It is the squeal
of kheder boys jumping into the river
on Sunday afternoons, the symphony
of Friday night Sabbath blessings
on their little heads, may G-tt make them
like Ephraim and Menashe. Yiddish
is the mameloshn my own mama spoke.
It is the secret code to decisions and laments,
to matchmaker contracts, to dried chickpeas
and raisins.
Yiddish is not the language of the dead.
It is the mamashaynele pinch of the cheek,
the shoulder shrug and eyebrow raise. It is
the rush of the wind through the linden trees
and the stained-glass windows of the shul. Yiddish
is the route to ancestry, to warm fires beneath
thatched roofs and schlepping boots along
graveled streets. It is the holes in pockets
and water pails. It is potato peelings
mixed with dill and carrots.
Yiddish is not the language of the dead.
It speaks in Galician and Litvak dialects,
wanting me to know the difference. It whispers
ancestral secrets. It lets me know
I’m privileged to understand them. Yiddish
stands erect on its serifs.
It may lean to the left.
It may sink below the line.
But it stands.