What shadow follows me across the ocean, 
ebbing and flowing beneath the gentle waves 

of this old branch, her insistent tangled roots 
dislodging slabs of Jerusalem stone in an ancient

courtyard—once a hostel for Christian pilgrims 
once a hospital for the destitute, mist from 

the Mediterranean taking its time to breathe, 
to make room for grief. Father, a seagull 

you touch juts out of frame, a sky spilling blue 
is canvassing for your white shirts to dry, 

to stray from a cloud, to hover over fishermen 
married to Elvis street vendors courting tourists, 

Old Jaffa’s mix of Arab & Jew & alley artisans 
crouched over ceramic and silver, I hunched 

over a white page to iron out what’s due: 
you were a poet, too, selling bedsheets 

door-to-door, 1948 Montreal an orphaned 
immigrant, smalltown Hungary healing its way

through broken French resistant English, 
climbing you did to the top of the never-ending 

twisting stairs, a child at the door, “Maman, 
le Juif est là!” You see, father: I am a peddler, 

too, trading your wares for the awe in august, 
the all in prayer shawl; the shadow in Holocaust.