it might have been
a menacing sky that greeted him
in new york
in 1938.

if it spoke in english
he did not understand.
his tongue was
polish
polish
polish. he didn’t stop
at go but high-tailed it
to chicago.

his brother had just moved there.
on the train
the other passengers
might have remarked
on his thick, dark hair
& his poet’s eyes.
they might have talked
about his leaving,
about the war. it was rumbling
and thundering.
they overtook cities
as the fields passed by
in the new country.
they might have said
that he’d have been dead
if he had stayed—
a rush of smoke
as the train creaked to a stop,
the conductor yelling
“maintenance.”

later he would decide to americanize
his name. dangerous
to keep the polish
surname, with a j
in the middle.
nie tutaj,
no hebrew,
no polish spoken here—
lo po.
to live in america
one ought to act like it.

and was the statue
of liberty his own to claim—
the words that lazarus wrote?
is this a world where jewish words can breathe?

the train started moving
slowly
slowly
slowly. he saw
the city by the distant lake,
the tall buildings
so unlike the shtetl.
here,
he thought, away from foreign boots
and anxious neighbors
and preludes of war,
the sky is blue.