From Fiction Collective:
Farther east begins the familiar grief. Walking up 4th Street into the Lower East Side. Shards of history pricking the devastation. The old Jews gone. Or going. Uprooted Puerto-Ricans in their dolorous tenement flats, or leaning over fire-escapes seeking out sun. Not finding it. Nor finding the thread (or chain) yoking them to their Jewish near-gone brother. A different kind of sun, though it give a similar light. Mole’s love would be to join light to … light:
Mole turns left through a fringe of Chinatown, as there are Chinese “towns” throughout the world. Secretive like the Jews, they work, work against the great void in their chest — which is the vast country where they’ve gone from. Not, finally, much different from the desert of the Jews, nor from the Puerto-Rican’s island sun. Nor from the sign of the heart between the eyes: the black American’s Africa.