Ima

A poem I wrote, hopefully will be compiled in a future collection:

Ima

When I was young, devouring 

books like sweet syrups and comparing

myself to the characters I read,

I wanted to find the power of a name.

I was too old to call her Mommy,

Too friendly for mother, mommy dearest.

 I tried many names:

Mummy (which made her feel like a dead 

Egyptian), mom (too few syllables for whining),

And settled on Ima. 

I read in a Jewish magazine,

Some special subscription for Jewish girls

With caring mothers who ordered them magazines

About their faith. Paper pages and creased covers,

Lined up on top shelves in labeled bins.

I called her Ima because I had tried the others without luck.

I called her Ima because she said she liked the sound of it. 

I call her Ima because that’s tradition now,

Like the way my ancestors walked through the desert,

the way the Sabbath candles are lit on Fridays at sundown.