“From Vlasim, Bohemia,”

is written in metal,

a postage-stamp-like tag

nailed to a wood stave,

one of two staves

heavily darkened

of the old Czech Torah –– 

saved from burning,

repaired in England,

sent by air to Massachusetts.

Now the torah is cradled,

is lain down on a table, unrolled.

Now sounds a clamoring for healing.

Behind the words

the yellowed skin

is taken from a cow

that once mooed at a shtetl moon.

And the scroll has muted gray markings,

the hide shaved translucent thin,

sewn parchment to parchment.

The stitching reminds me of the time

I fell from a bike on a jagged road,

my chin split open,

and, in my father’s solemn office

he closed the flaps with catgut,

wiry inky knots like spiders

under a padding of gauze.

-Joel Moskowitz

Joel Moskowitz is a poet, this is his second piece to appear on the New Vilna Review website.