Attending Night School
My grandmother Yette wrote her name
on scraps of paper and added them to
a pile of completed homework—
She practiced each letter
as if remaining in this country
depended on the way each
letter adhered to form
Twice a week she rode a bus
to her evening English class—
Sometimes she brought the teacher
a piece of homemade honey cake
When she died a stack of her written name
remained on a bookshelf
between a prayer book and a shoebox
filled with Yiddish and Polish writings
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