A tefillah I wrote for Yom HaShoah:

God,

“Zachor” is what my grandfather said to me on his deathbed,

His bright eyes focused on me, one last time,

“Zachor” was written on a pin in my grandmother’s jewelry box,

And now that she’s gone, it rests in mine.

You have branded “Zachor” my back,

Stamped it on my brain,

Burned it into my DNA,

And I am unable to forget even if I wanted to.

You breathe “Zachor” in and out of my lungs,

And it replays scenes I couldn’t possibly remember,

Feels feelings of fear from someone else’s lifetime,

You weave it into my nervous system, during mine.

You whisper “Zachor” in my nightmares,

And I dream of dogs with fangs, hunting,

Broken glass, cutting,

The smell of smoke on the wind.

“Zachor” is stories of people I should have met,

Of empty seats at the table,

Of being named for someone who was murdered,

Of being born to replace what was destroyed.

“Zachor” highlights news headlines,

And brings out urgency

That belong to generations ago,

But You are playing it out in my time.

“Zachor” is swastikas on store windows,

Ripped-down posters of Your hostages,

Hatred from the left and the right,

Pogroms around the world this year.

You have sewn “Zachor” in yellow on my chest,

It hangs with the Star of David on my neck,

Is worn with the map of Israel on my throat,

Is wrapped into the folds of the scarf on my head.

“Zachor” is seeing the crisis when it comes,

And knowing the history of Your people cycles again and again,

Is recognizing that the only thing different today is Your land,

Realizing that for the first time in millennia, we can go home.

“Zachor” is knowing that You remember, too.

That You cry with us, too.

That You mourn for them, too.

That You love us, too.

From Az Nashir: Between Silence & Song, Volume 2.