He expands in my pocket like a tampon filled with blood.
He’s getting bigger and stronger, beats
his way out of my purse. Now there’s a hole in the leather,
wallet and credit cards fall out; I bend down
and pick up everything, wrestle him
into the passenger seat and snap the belt.He starts crying. Can you believe it?
No one ever told me that a golem cries.
Says he’s homesick, where are the shtetls, the rabbis,
and what or who gave me the god-given right
to bring him back from the world of pograms and Anatevkas and what
about this thing we’re sitting in, where’s the blasted donkey cart?
I can’t answer his questions, try to calm him down,
say none of us are too sure about what’s happening these days, either.