Poet’s Corner – My Father in Havanna
By Rachel Berghash
All his life my father wanted to sing.
Occasionally, in the synagogue, he led
the prayers in a shy voice.
But in Havana, secluded in a shabby room,
my father opened an empty suitcase
and the birds of his life flew out.
Gardenias soothed his soul.
His heart eased like laundry
hung from the painted windows.
He balanced a glass of water on his head
and sang in a full throated voice.
Like the trumpet that greets the day.
Like the cherubs who daily praise
Holy, Holy, Holy.
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