THE LIMITS OF ONE LANGUAGE

I love seeing your shayna punim

Aunt Ida says over Facetime.

I fell on my tush,

Bubbe explains.

It was a schlep.

I’m kvelling, kibbitzing, noshing.

A shmatte, a schmooze.

Like poppy seeds on a bagel,

my speech is sprinkled with words

baked into my being.

Simple translations

slice too much away.

Simcha names the joy

as well as the event.

Tzedekah means justice,

not only charity.

And a hechsher is the symbol

on the package, proving it’s safe

to bring home to my kosher kitchen.

I can’t remember a time

when only English

had arms big enough

for the world I embrace.

---

---