On the steam-driven Potsdam,
my grandmother and 3 children
anchored below the Statue of Liberty
in a steamer trunk
all they could carry;
journeyed with little more than hope
(before the ghetto and Auschwitz)
from the only
home they have known,
a village east of Kraków;
gambled their
and their descendants' lives
on rumor, talk, and dreams
(to escape starvation and lives without hope
is worth the gamble, they claimed) ,
though stricken and shaken
through lightening
and storms of the
rolling highway of ocean
they ventured,
huddled on a rough-hewn bunk
singing the stifling steerage blues
(vomit and lice along for the ride) .
Now at the dock
They scour for work,
Which means food and life,
Even to the little ones.
As in the distance Liberty
Cries out again to all:
"Give me your tired,
your poor, your huddled masses
yearning to breathe
Free."
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