Robert Hirschfield

Exile

In keeping with Jewish tradition, when grandpa died the mirrors in our house were covered over. Grandpa was a high-booted, white-bearded hasid from Poland. Wherever he went, Jewish exile went with him. When he came too close, I went to the movies, finding refuge in the great American West of empty space.

Grandpa’s closed coffin stood in the middle of the living room like judgment. Without a mirror to look into, my adolescent self-imaging thirsted among the Israelites.

late dawn
stones in the lot
edgy

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About the Author

 Robert Hirschfield is a New York-based poet and journalist. In old age, the words of his long-form poems began slipping away like thieves, leaving him with lots of empty space. His life as a haiku poet began.

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