Casablanca

by Peter Krass

When they told me we were Jewish,
I figured there’d been some mistake.
Rick Blaine came to Casablanca for the waters.
We too must have been misinformed.
Mother drove a Volvo, Lutheran powder blue,
shopped Talbots for slacks of olive moss.
Father tied a flashy trout’s fly, flew a rainbow
spinnaker, spun yarns of blonde flames,
legs longer than our name.
True, we had the squabbles and the judgments,
the communist uncle, the capital lox.
But who needed a second father,
even stricter than first?
Of all the world’s gin joints,
he walks into mine, tossing down commandments,
counting up sins. I’d have been a regular
dreamer of dreams if it weren’t for my frizzy curls,
my oversized nose, those curses and vexations,
countless signs and wonders. Scattered
among the heathen, I’d have found myself at last,
living proof of everything
the prophets still get wrong.