A Most Traditional Denial

I wanted to wrap

my small arms

round the Torah

and parade with it

down every aisle

hugging the stories

of my past;

but you told me

that it was very heavy

and besides,

that was the Rabbi’s job.

And when

after the Sabbath meal

we’d start to stack dishes

in the candles’ honey glow

you’d insist

that I

quickly

blow

them

out.

Mother,

why did you want

me to be Jewish?

My

nine-year-old eyes

begged you

for a Bat-Mitzvah

for I remembered

my brother’s proud voice

chanting

in Hebrew

the secret words

of Torah.

Why did you tell me

that I needn’t bother?

I wanted to daven

with the men

in the silky white tallit

and sing psalms from

the deep center of my heart

I wanted to dance

in the warm circles

of the Hassidim

and later

study commentary

with scholars

under the trees.

Tonight

you stand by the windowsill

plucking out the

young

coleus

Mother, I speak to you of Leah,

Rebekah, Sara, and

Rachel, foremothers of

our tradition,

you smile with muddy fingers

and ask me for a

handtowel.