1 poem by Leah Brand

Jewish American Princess

 

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When I was born, I was swaddled in Juicy Couture.

My mother kissed my cheek when the rabbi

gave me my name and wiped the pink Clinique

stain with her thumb. This is my story.

 

Like the rest, thirteen-year-old fingers popped

the cork on a champagne bottle. Real champagne,

and none of that fake shit Rachel from Hebrew school drank,

the falling glitter from her JC Penny dress muddying

the effervescence of the Prosecco in her tacky flute.

 

This is our scripture. The Torah is flush with short change,

it’s full of stories, of business deals, of diamonds,

of bankers and lenders. It teaches unto us that tzadaka

Is fool’s gold, and only feeds our guilty stomachs.

There’s no morality without interest.

 

We don tallit because it is economical to wear layers.

There is no need to splurge on wool when the coddling

arms of mothers are enough to keep warm.

When our father’s wallets are enough to keep us fat.

 

Yasher Koach, may you have wealth.