Of Witches

178
Four lit remembrance candles sit in front of a framed sepia-toned photo of a family.

I was born a child of the pogroms
Of Yizkor services where the candles
Glow, emanating all that slipped away
Felshtin in my blood, more lost than present

Not a daughter of witches they couldn’t kill
But of some unlucky coincidence
Handpicked for a brutal battle uphill
Ancestral pains becoming vicinage

Heavy hearts, the only ones I know to be full
Death and love meld into tradition
Memories not mine embrace me in cold
Stews and babkas work as incantations

Through bubbes unknown who I can’t forget
Not untied from loss but forever chained to it

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Zoe Becker is a member of the class of 2026 at School Without Walls in Washington, DC. She's a Creative Portfolio student at Writopia Lab, captain of her debate team, and ethics/moral philosophy enthusiast. Zoe is passionate about literature and when not writing, can be found baking or listening to Taylor Swift.
Accompanying photo: “Yom Hashoah” by Sonja Lippman