His parents were doctors, Jewish refugees,  
with a German-sounding name. In Des Moines, 
in a time of war, he’d leave for school each day 
carrying his painted metal lunchbox. Inside, 

the meal his mother packed: braunschweiger 
with brown bread, often—pumpernickel, 
flag of foreign origin, amid 
the white bread sandwiches so many 

kids consumed: peanut butter or bologna
mostly. On his walk to school, he’d stop, unobserved, 
to open his lunchbox above a bin 
where he’d toss that day’s wax-papered

difference, so he could sit at the long table 
with friends, heads together over baseball 
or games. Thus, he favored one hunger 
over the other: to remark in others’ eyes 

nothing special, the casual glance only, 
to know he belonged there and then with them, 
not his parents with their Mein lieber Sohn, 
their love wrapped in what he knew as shame.