Ovaltine

I peel a ripe banana
and let its fibers bend in my mouth.

This smell of my grandparents’ house in New Haven,
along with a glass of cold Ovaltine,
a piano that played with ghosts.

 The snow piling on Knowlwood Drive,
 that my Poppy would later slip in
 and then slip on to heaven.

 Little glass figures lined up in the attic,
 a record player singing 45s.

 Me, up on the coffee table,
 holding his loving hand.

 You might think Christmas, but we are Jews—
 chosen to suffer, closest to God.

 I hope that doesn’t offend you
 while you stack bricks upon my back.

 Just like the same God

who chose me