SIMCHAT TORAH 2023

i.

In the evening we untie the knot of the congregation
and spool out like thread along the walls of the
sanctuary
unfolding as the scroll unfolds. We hold the holy book
with Kleenex so as not to contaminate its edges with our
human sweat. If a terrorist showed up now, we’d make
an easy target. Too easy a target. Too easy always.

The children run around in circles, not counting
the seven times, playing Hide and Seek
and Peekaboo among the legs of the adults.

ii.

I remember my father, how I cut
off the fringes on the kitchen carpet
so he would not trip and fall. In his 90’s
he’d taken to dancing anywhere
at any time. One must be vigilant!

I watched the red drops of yarn fall
into my trashcan. Sure enough, he went
ahead and died on us that winter.

iii.

Father, father, how do I not (dot dot dot)
let me count the ways.

Hiding my ugly body behind the perfect scroll
I seek the circle it makes. Words
play Hide and Seek within me.
No turning a page here
no turning over a new leaf.

iv.

Oh note that ends one musical phrase
and begins another, how you taught me
to linger. Oh cadential elision! How I
have learned from you, heard in you,
the ways to carry on after the news

(and if you don’t know what I am talking
about, go and count your blessings).

The news that cuts your life in two. Ir-
re-con-cil-able Before and After.

“Hello? Hello? Where are you?”
“In my kitchen. You called my landline.”
“You better sit down.” The news
that cuts your life in two. No wonder
all telephones used to be black. Your
face reflected in a cup of coffee until

your hand begins to shake uncontrollably
making the image disappear. The end
and the beginning crash a meeting as if
by chance, casually, looking at each
other with suspicion and recognition.

v.

The children inside the circle taste
salt and run faster, sensing the coming
storm. Jonah! Jonah, mon semblable,
mon frère, we are drowning. We drew
the shortest straw. We always draw
the shortest straw. The children play
Hide and Seek and Peekaboo
among the legs of the adults.

vi.

Like the scroll, the year unravels. It
resembles the sweater I knitted
for the baby in many colors and types
of yarn. On this day the last touches. Reach
for the thick needle with its big eye, tip
snub-nosed like a whale. Weave together
what’s uneven, mend unintended holes,
broken seams, a lost stitch sliding from row
to row. Catch it! I have sinned! The doors
are closing. Shema Yisrael! Listen to the Ram’s
horn! Line seam to seam and sow them
together. Nothing’s perfect. Not even G-d!
Stretch, push, spread, pull. Allow your elastic
mind to enlarge, broaden, distend, widen.

vii.

Father, father, how do I (dot dot dot)
Let me count the ways
over an old collection of stamps
where words play Peekaboo with my memory, with

a father and his young daughter. “What does it mean?”
she asks pointing at the capital letters DDR
in the corner of one stamp. She can’t yet read a map
but knows enough German to abhor Nein! Schnell!
Verboten! To be eight years old in 1966.

Acronyms not yet in her vocabulary. She sees through
the old trick to make her finish her breakfast when more
milk and sugar on the oatmeal don’t work. “Eat your
porridge, girl, or the Russians will come and take you.”
Grandfather among the white soldiers on skis
along the Finnish border. The cold. The snow. She
remembers her usually kind and patient father
throwing a tantrum over DDR. “They call themselves
‘democratic’ when they are nothing of the sort!”

viii.

But watch, watch! The playful words,
like unruly children and stitches, are sliding
down the seam trying to escape, thinking it’s
a game. Catch them! Tuck them back in! Beware
of the longing between Deuteronomy and Genesis.
Such an old love-story. Bind them together. Roll
up the scroll for this year. Gather the children
who play Hide and Seek and Peekaboo
among the legs of the adults.