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Four Poems by Robert Hirschfield

(well, image by ddzphoto, on Pixabay)


She plods beyond

the four pullets

in the frig.

Her path to knowing

must be here

in the brilliant cold

where an old carrot

shivers contemplating

the huddled grapes.


The New Moon

Out the window,

where your head is,

you look for the new moon

you left in one of God’s

dog-eared books,

maybe Exodus or Leviticus.

My head joins your head

in the darkness.

The night has the clarity

of stacked deserts.

Stars hide behind trees.

Tree barks yellow behind fig leaves.

Our heads, luminous grottos of mulch,

ripen with forgetting.

We have forgotten everything so completely

we are serene as caves.

We leave no space

for anything new

to appear,

as if it never was.



They pass their mother

back and forth

across the Formica table.

The younger sister says,

She held us together.

The older sister drops

what was held

and vanishes

with the ease of a sparrow.


Blessing the Crumbs

Gathering the crumbs to her

she separates one from the other

like she’s been separated.

The wheel that sprung

laughter from the well

fled with the topsoil.

Wisdom says,

It left behind what it took.

She says no to that.

She blesses the crumbs.

One must know her name.


Robert Hirschfield’s poems have appeared in Salamander, Mudfish, European Judaism, The Moth (Ireland), Noon (Japan), Ink Sweat and Tears (UK) and other publications.

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"She blesses the crumbs.

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