On Reading A Translated Poem
Barbara D. Holender

Yiddish poem,
your bones stick through
your borrowed skin.

Poor immigrant,
your relatives are always explaining you
while your displaced persona cries out
in its own voice,
“That’s NOT what I said.”

How anemic you are–
Back in the old country
your blood sang like wine.

You speak to me
of lost family connections,
but in this exchange
I am the poor relation.