Enough With The Past, Let Me Deal With the Dead

A reckoning with Jewish belonging and alienation, from Poland to Tennessee.

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Enough With The Past, Let Me Deal With the Dead
Fractured Jewish headstones at the Jewish cemetery in Serock, Poland. Image courtesy Rachel Edelman.

גענוג מיט דעם עבֿר; לאָמיך זיך פֿאַרנעמען מיט די טויטע

אַנטקעגן דעם מיקראָפֿאָן, אַנטקעגן דעם גלאָז
האָב איך דערזען די קעגנשטעליקע שיקלדיקײט
הינטער דעם זקנס אױגן,
די אויסגעצױגענע װאָקאַלן
די זעלבע װאָס מײַן זײדע האָט פֿאָרמירט
אָפּצושטעלן אַלע אין צימער.
אַ פּאַמעלעכע קאַדענץ: געדולט
זײ זאָלן זיך צוהערן.
ער האָט געקויפֿט דעם טיש בײַ װעלכן איך האָב געגעסן
צו דער זעט, בײַ װעלכן, אים צו באַגריסן, די טראַפֿן פֿון מײַן רעדן האָבן געקנאַקט
מיט דער האַלבער־גיכקײט.
יאָ, אַ מענטש
קען זײַן צערטלעך,
קען זײַן שרעכלעך רויִק.
װען דער טעמפּל האָט פֿאַרקױפֿט די קאַרקע אין צענטער־שטאָט
האָט מען איבערגעלאָזנט די מתים
און איבערגערוקט די שטײנער. דאָס בערגל האָט מיך געלערנט
אַז אַ מצבֿה־אײַנרײַבונג נעמט אַרײַן
דאָס װאָס אַ שריפֿט אַלײן קען נישט.
דער קײַער מאַכט זיך חרובֿ:
פֿאַרזוכט דעם מינעראַל־ראַנד
פֿון אַ בײן צעמאָלט אין דעם צװאַנג.

Enough with the Past, Let Me Deal with the Dead

Past the microphone, past the glass,
I clocked the resistant squint
cornering the old man’s eyes,
the drawn-out vowels
same as my grandfather formed
to call the room to a halt.
Slow cadence: patience
to make them hear you.
He bought the table where I ate
my fill, where, to greet him, my syllables
clicked to half-speed.
Yes, men
can be gentle.
Can be terrifying calm.
When the temple sold the plot downtown,
they left the bodies
and moved the stones. The hill taught me
how a rubbing holds
what a reading can’t.
The jaw wrecks itself:
taste the mineral edge
of a bone ground down in the clench.

Listen to the audio recording of this poem in Yiddish:

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Author's commentary

A Jewish headstone at the Serock, Poland cemetery. Image courtesy Rachel Edelman.

In July 2026, I visited the Jewish cemetery in Serock, Poland, and walked a path lined with fractured headstones. They were propped up at an angle, like an exhibit, stripped from their bodies — bodies that, according to the placards, were no longer there. As my feet sank into the Polish mud, I remembered the old section of my Memphis temple's cemetery, stones crowded close, stones whose bodies had also been stripped of their names.

Four years into learning Yiddish, the language my father’s parents didn’t teach their children, the matzeyves in Serock made me reconsider those in Memphis. I’d already written a poem inspired by that cemetery. I translated my own words in a fervor, compelled to knit together the bodies' abandonment and the communities’ responsibility to our dead when our burial rituals become fractured.

The English version of “Enough with the Past, Let Me Deal with the Dead” appears in Dear Memphis (River River Books, 2024), my debut collection, which reckons with the alienation and belonging of my maternal Jewish family throughout our five generations in Memphis, Tennessee. On a religious school field trip to the old cemetery, I remember rubbing charcoal over butcher paper to capture the texture of the oldest stones. In translating the poem, I searched for the word for “grave rubbing” in Yiddish and couldn’t find it anywhere. Yiddishist and teacher Annabel Gottfried Cohen told me “we have to invent one,” and offered matzeyve-araynraybung, or  מצבֿה־אײַנרײַבונ. A beautiful thanks to her, for the reminder that we make the Yiddish we speak and for her generous edits.