Poem: The Annex

The Annex

My parents’ house has a large, wood attic, full of closets like caves. There’s a Talmud up there that’s useless. When he hugs me—my father—always as if for the last time (ageless arguments as illegible as any body) I cry as I hold on to Anne’s arm. My grandmother’s name, too.  Her skin is downy, soft, and dark and she smells like dust and like the ocean.

This article appears in February 2010.