after Yona Wallach (1944-1985)


Let's have it!
I came for the show!
Strip the Torah
to its essence
where not one word can hide
caress it with your Yad
singing in a lovers voice
an ancient burlesque
and when it's done and dressed again
parade it dancing through the congregation
a fitting encore
to a fine performance
as we almost fall over each other
to touch it
slipping spiritual dollars into its belt
the temperatures rising
like a finished prayer
that even makes the Malachim sweat
in their heavenly heights.

Another woman
gave me the gloves
of another man
and I now take shelter
in these gloves,
and in the hands
of a different woman.

And I think about that man
and the insanity
which drove him
to abandon his gloves,
and I think about
that woman
and the sanity
that drove me from her,
and I think about my hands
in their warmth,
and about that woman
without me or the gloves,
and I think about that man
with his hands in his pockets.

The soil covers your bare feet in a powdery gray dust
like you've walked through an old fireplace that hasn't been cleaned
in the days since the last sacrifice.

There's enough wood to keep us warm through the coldest winter
or burn heretics to any cold heart's content.
This land is full of burnt offerings
and lucky rams
where it doesn't even take the word of god to sacrifice your child
just the word of man,
imperfect as the path you walk back from alone.