Portside

Asylum

By Jed Myers

I’ll offer you passage toward asylum

through the canals of my ears—please come

now, straight from the radio station.

I don’t know who you’ll find here

who speaks your language. But already

my grandmother calls to you in her Yiddish

as she chops beets for our borscht.

Your face, gritty in front page ink—

I think you could hide if you had to

in any odd shadow. But quick—

under these mom-and-pop storefront awnings

my eyelids. Please, come back

behind the shop, where we live—yes,

the kitchen. The future ferments

here in our memories’ brine. We’ve pressed

fine slices of reddened smoked fish,

gift of the parted seas, upon bread

fresh-risen on the yeasts of the West.

And let us eat by the candles we’ve dipped

in the wax of our histories’ hives, our stories

a weave, the wool of our sheep

on our shoulders. Too many have died—

there are all kinds of sudden fire,

and all the sparks one fear—the other comes

seeking asylum, what we’ve secured

only a few breaths before, and what

shall we offer? Here, my grandfather’s chair,

and the shawl he brought across the water.

Jed Myers lives in Seattle where he’s a psychiatrist with a therapy practice. He began to seek publication of his poems as of the events of 9/11/01. His collections include Watching the Perseids (Sacramento Poetry Center Book Award) and the chapbook The Nameless (Finishing Line Press). He’s received Southern Indiana Review’s Editors’ Award among other honors. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Prairie Schooner, Nimrod, Crab Orchard Review, Harpur Palate, Summerset Review, Atlanta Review, Common Ground Review, and elsewhere.  http://www.jedmyers.com