A jar of sea salt rests on the table Of the woman whose home is at the edge of the pavement in middle Vermont.Close by, a laptop reveals an image of A beach scene with Saul and Gertrude, Children of Moishe and Rivka.Gertrude is touching the bridge of her nose The way she recalled her grandmother did During happier times.Riddled with survivor’s guilt No children No marriageFamilial echoes of Dachau.The screen flickers and the Vermont woman, Who is one-sixteenth Jewish, misses Seeing her 10th cousin on the monitor as she straightens the table.Perhaps the salt is from the dead seaSaul and Gertrude are not kosher.They do not care.Dreaming of Moishe and Rivka, they light Memorial candles.How they ended up on a beach is anybody’s guess.Could the salt be from Zhirmatov Where Moishe ran a sugar beet farm Until an SS squad rounded them up and away?The woman makes coffee from Sumatra Filtered through paper from China. She has traveled widely: statues From Africa, rugs from Iran, a bronze piece From Morocco decorate her home; all part Of her as are genetic snippets from the United Kingdom, Belgium and an extinct shtetl once in the Ukraine.Saul and Gertrude: Unlucky siblings of survivors Cannot enjoy sun on waves.Off by the horizon a figure retreats.They call out to it.Lot’s wife turns.All that salt is blown in their faces.The woman who lives in a house Where the pavement ends, seasons Scrambled eggs with black pepper from Vietnam and absent-mindedly touches the bridge of her nose.
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