Zackary Sholem Berger

City, this Baltimore.
Nearer the campus
bird houses ride
three to a tree.

Dogs raise eyebrows
at stroller’s cargo:
baby, toes dangling.
Off to a coffee.

Shot on a block
not far from here:
Our black neighbors.
I doctor some later.

City is shuddering
Blood on its buses,
its work and play shirts.
Crying in sleep.

Poe did not mean
The tale of these hearts.
Infarcted bodies
Flame in the sun.

Belief is concrete.
Something yet
To build, pay for.
To make, love for.

A mild mannered physician by day, ZACKARY SHOLEM BERGER writes in Yiddish and English and has been known to translate himself for kicks.