Poetry

In Memory of Uncle Leon

Resting in his armchair one Sunday afternoon Uncle Leon dozed and chose to die. I say “chose”, for he’d lived through Auschwitz And was a man who did things his own way, In his own time, when he was ready. To me, always his pitseleh, He only ever made three faces: One lifted eyebrow with vertical lines At its inner end meant: “What you doing, boy? You think that’s a good thing to do?” Both eyebrows raised and the slightest Downturn at the ends of his mouth said, With no need for words, “Go on, surprise me then! Show me…

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