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temples of salt
I came of age in a land of brick
and cobble, in a walk-up
tenement with the remnants
of a distant culture tied to my
tongue. Where food came not
from the soil, but from the little
shops of the Ashkenazi. Pickled
herring ruled the countertops free
from the green conspiracy of bok
choy. No garden cucumbers,
but a glory of crisp pickles in hand
wrought wooden kegs. No melons,
yet thick wheels of marble
halvah from a mysterious Levant.
No tomatoes or kale, yet whitefish
hung from the ceilings near garlands
of lush dates from Istanbul. Cakes
of stewed fruit and almond, temples
of salt, a moveable feast for those
often forced to move. Unleavened
bread. Jewelry sewn into the seams
just in case.
Published in Whole Terrain
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