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.

Top photo: Bigstock