From the Fishouse

The rabbi asks all mourners to stand
for the kaddish. The man beside me
rises and begins to weep as he sings.
He wobbles, a yoked ox
near collapse, but still pulling.

**

Three rows behind me I hear my godfather,
a celebrated heart doctor, his singing voice
as rich as the burgundy velvet
that wraps the Torah. Already twice this year
he's been convicted of insurance fraud.

**

The pewter cup is filled with wine
purple as my dead grandpa's lips.
The rabbi blesses it and I drink
to bottom. Within seconds I rush outside
and vomit into the grass. In all prayers since
I hear an echo of cackled laughter.

**

The Torah’s lifted from the wooden ark
and shown to us like conjured fire.
Everyone rises and sings
with a reckless, flame-lit joy.
After that, how could I want anything
but the ability to write a book?