I may be misremembering a lot of this. My parents 
Told me nothing about the war until later, at least 
The part about Hitler killing six million Jews, 
Jews who could have been us, assimilated, 
Pretending we were like everyone else in that 
Southern city. I also hadn’t learned yet about 
The Christian kids at school whose parents didn’t 
Allow them to come to my house or invite me 
To theirs or how it would feel when my third-grade 
Teacher sat on a bench watching as my friend Steve 
Started hitting me, repeating antisemitic rhymes 
That didn’t make sense. We lived in a neighborhood of 
Old brick houses and streets lined with oak trees, 
Not so different from streets in Germany or elsewhere. 
Elsie and Alfred would come to visit my grandfather, 
Who had helped pay the ransom to get them out, 
Twenty or more years earlier. I remember them as 
A frail couple, she, dressed in some kind of beige outfit, 
Her husband narrow-shouldered, in a suit that seemed 
Too large. They usually brought a cake Elsie had made, 
One of my grandfather’s favorites, and spoke in thick 
Accents I could barely understand. My mother didn’t 
Like them much—I realized that. They were Jews 
In a way we weren’t. They were Jews who’d had to be 
Rescued. They were not like her or me. 

George Franklin

is the First Prize Winner of the 2023 W.B. Yeats Poetry Prize. His most recent poetry collections are Remote Cities (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions, 2023) and a collaboration with Colombian poet Ximena Gómez, Conversaciones sobre agua/Conversations About Water (Katakana Editores, 2023). Individual publications include MacQueen’s Quinterly, Cultural Daily, The Decadent Review, Solstice, Rattle, Another Chicago Magazine, The Lake, and New York Quarterly.

Franklin practices law in Miami and teaches writing workshops in Florida prisons. His much-neglected website is: https://gsfranklin.com/