An open letter from gluten, if gluten were your Jewish grandma.
A poem about my potential encounter with my deceased grandmother one Yom Kippur—and fear, doubt, mystery, and the mystical power of the sun.
Somehow my grandparents didn't seem to fear for my demise like my parents did, which is why they were sanctuaries to me as a teenager.
for
the splendor.
the receiving.
the taste of aleph-beis on my tongue.
the tambourine beating in my blood.
