in bed
cold beads
of sweat
catch me
still in the snare
of my nightmare
back at the home
of my childhood
walking past
the front door
realizing
it wasn’t quite
completely closed
I went to close it
on the other side
they were pushing
screaming, shoving
with such force
struggling
I tried to push back
but they were so many
coming for the Jew
spewing incoherent vitriol
their rhythmic battering
sounded the beat of
of an ancient hate
I tried to scream
for in my dream
my son was in the room
my brother used to have
but like my brother
my son‘s door was closed
with music playing
so he couldn’t hear
my strangled screams
dazed and in disbelief
inhuman strength surging
like those stories
of desperate mothers
lifting cars
off the helpless bodies
of their children
I shoved the door closed
despite the heaving mob
pounding from outside
so hard to click
that little lock closed
in suburban New York
First published by The Jewish Writing Project