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A Child Of the Melting Pot
I am a child of the melting pot
Throw in some okroshka
And cabbage soup
With a whole lot of cattle
And a slice of Montana sky
Mix it all up
And let it sit
For several generations
Then ladle it into bowls
In the Bronx
And in Albuquerque
And in Chicago
But don’t offer the soup
To my Great Uncle
Because it doesn’t speak Yiddish
Or Russian
Don’t offer it to him
Because it will never know what it is like to fear for it’s life
Just because it is Jewish
It will never fear pogroms
And it will never refuse to turn on the lights
On a Saturday
Don’t offer the soup to my late, great-grandma
Because it won’t ever brand cattle
Or herd them
Or build fences
Or know what it was like
To have to see it’s husband go
Because he was one of the only dentists
In Montana
Idaho
North and South Dakota
Don’t offer the soup to my grandma
Because she is gone
And even if she wasn’t
It would go down funny
Because the soup would be a little too sweet
And naive
To settle next to her blackened lungs
And broken heart
To these people
The soup is just a little to
English speaking
City dwelling
Un-orthodox
To go down easy
So they watch the soup boil
and simmer
And smell it
Stirring occasionally
So that it doesn’t burn
Each dropping in a bit more
Montana
Or cattle
Or okroshka
Or cabbage
When the others
backs are turned
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