Who Remembers?
Books were burned first.
Dissenting words
deemed dangerous.
And as the smoke rose
in Berlin, men danced.
Are we prepared
eighty years later,
to form bucket brigades
and douse fires
with the dust of history?
Or have too many
of us forgotten
the smell
of burning flesh?
The Distance on a Red and Blue Map
She was the one I called those weepy mornings
in Georgia, when he stormed out the door,
my self-esteem under his shoes.
Her Joe was a milder version of my Ed.
Maybe my tears made hers burn less.
But I can’t question her patient ear
or the day she helped me pack my car.
When I settled in Brooklyn,
she was the first to get my new address,
the first to hear I’d landed a teaching job.
She came to my second wedding, my son’s
Bar Mitzvah. Never forgot birthdays.
For years, her voice on the phone
was flavored tea in pink china cups,
a hand patting mine.
If she didn’t check-in, I did.
Your mom? Randy’s graduation?
Remodel of your kitchen?
We never talked about the miles
between us on a red and blue map. Politics
was a private matter.
Until a billionaire in a red hat
promised to make America great
by grinding others under his heels.
And the distance between our votes
made the phone too hot to dial.
After the Election, November 2016
These days, I keep remembering
that morning of tornado sirens
at Lake View Elementary.
We herded the kids into the hall
made them crouch for two hours
heads tucked into trembling knees
tears and sniffles dripping.
As a teacher, I patrolled
with soothing words--
offering tissues,
touching shoulders.
Unable to stop
the roar over the roof,
I could only try to ease,
one by one,
the frightened hearts
beside me.
Books were burned first.
Dissenting words
deemed dangerous.
And as the smoke rose
in Berlin, men danced.
Are we prepared
eighty years later,
to form bucket brigades
and douse fires
with the dust of history?
Or have too many
of us forgotten
the smell
of burning flesh?
The Distance on a Red and Blue Map
She was the one I called those weepy mornings
in Georgia, when he stormed out the door,
my self-esteem under his shoes.
Her Joe was a milder version of my Ed.
Maybe my tears made hers burn less.
But I can’t question her patient ear
or the day she helped me pack my car.
When I settled in Brooklyn,
she was the first to get my new address,
the first to hear I’d landed a teaching job.
She came to my second wedding, my son’s
Bar Mitzvah. Never forgot birthdays.
For years, her voice on the phone
was flavored tea in pink china cups,
a hand patting mine.
If she didn’t check-in, I did.
Your mom? Randy’s graduation?
Remodel of your kitchen?
We never talked about the miles
between us on a red and blue map. Politics
was a private matter.
Until a billionaire in a red hat
promised to make America great
by grinding others under his heels.
And the distance between our votes
made the phone too hot to dial.
After the Election, November 2016
These days, I keep remembering
that morning of tornado sirens
at Lake View Elementary.
We herded the kids into the hall
made them crouch for two hours
heads tucked into trembling knees
tears and sniffles dripping.
As a teacher, I patrolled
with soothing words--
offering tissues,
touching shoulders.
Unable to stop
the roar over the roof,
I could only try to ease,
one by one,
the frightened hearts
beside me.
Jacqueline Jules is a Northern Virginia author and poet who writes for children and adults. Her books for young readers include the Zapato Power series, the Sofia Martinez series, and Never Say a Mean Word Again. Her poetry has appeared in numerous publications including Gravel, Sow's Ear Poetry Review, Christian Science Monitor, OffCourse, Hospital Drive, and Imitation Fruit. She is the author of two chapbooks, Field Trip to the Museum and Stronger Than Cleopatra. More about Jacqueline can be found here.
