“She Sang Morenika”
for the one who forgot she remembered
She said she was Armenian,
born in Yeghegnadzor,
but I knew when she opened her mouth —
that voice was older than mountains.
She sang Morenika,
not like a visitor,
not like a collector—
but like someone who had
rocked to sleep in Ladino
before she ever learned to cry in Armenian.
The vowels curved too naturally.
The longing wasn’t acted.
She didn't “cover” it—
she released it,
like steam from a sealed jar
forgotten in a grandmother’s basement.
They don’t teach that kind of ache
in conservatories.
Her name said Jaklin,
but her soul whispered:
Rafaela, Reina, Miriam.
She thinks she’s Armenian.
Maybe she is.
But in her lungs,
a Sephardic songbird flutters,
and in her blood,
a silent menorah glows
behind the curtains.
She is Jewish.
And she sings it
without needing to say it.