Asterisms of migrants approach in
bands, they proclaim, stretching out like
constellations that haven’t been
discovered yet, or are considered too
early in the process to be named.
Folks, we have always accosted
grafts of land like this: Whoever
holds it—by force turned into
indelible tradition—gets to
justify what happens to it. Yet after, say,
Kristellnacht, which Jew knew to
leave first? When was the exact
moment that one said: enough,
never again? What collections of
omens or actions solidify into
policy, precisely timed as
quartz wristwatches sewn into hems,
straps of gold for trading out of
terrible situations? Now the
undercarriage rusts, those same Jews
verbose with support for building
walls in regions already inhospitable.
Xenogenies against the new “plague”
yielding the worst results at Seder, they
zip-tie our tongues with ancient arguments.