Pulled Apart in Rhodos

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My mouth, decorated with silk,
has drunk a glass of bitterness

Inscription on tombstone in the Jewish cemetery,
Island of Rhodes
-1847
…………

 

In Rhodos, all that's left
of the Colossus
are his footrests,
two huge galoshes
planted in the harbor.
I cross the moat
enter the gate
in the fortressed city
cross through a crack
in time where my grandparents'
ancient Spanish language
is a swing hanging
from a branch, or my father
on that swing,
or his mother's voice
calling him in
for evening baths and supper:
Guiseppo, mi alma, Ven aqui
ya es hora de comer.

At the kehila, Kahal Shalom,
where my grandparents prayed for peace
I take a seat and pray for peace.
On the wall of words
I find the family name
engraved in stone-
cold, flat plaque
for the murdered.

O Rhodos, the beautiful,
of white stucco, sweet gelato,
boots marching
through the winding Juderia,
Rhodos, where bright umbrellas
dot the happy beaches,
where German tourists flood
the Calle Ancha, Rhodos
of calm waters rocking
massive warships, 0 Rhodos
uniformed Rhodos,
Rhodos where soft breezes
mimic the hushed secrets of old women
drinking Turkish coffee, Rhodos
a family of strangers is  now lounging
in my grandparents' salon.