MY FATHER AND GOD

My father and God
would line us up on Friday night
for the series of prayers
and woe to the sister
who moved a little, didn’t stand straight.
God and father would throw the bottle of unholy water at her.
It stood by the silver-plated Kiddush cup
engraved with a map of the state,
vine leaves and a bunch of grapes.

In the synagogue, God and the other fathers
wanted us to sit at the back,
fluttering decorated lace fans made in Spain
mumbling, choked with the sweetish smell of sweat and eau de cologne,
turning pages with damp fingers in the dim light,
tightening headscarves, cold metal boring into our flesh,
watching the men and God unload their anger in an outburst of redemption
opposite the closed doors of the Ark.

I would have escaped to my God
who patched together tiny buttons
that would suddenly burst out orange and purple with the smell of Eden
from a stalk of dried roses.
I lay on the heavy ground
that watched over the tiny yellow leaves
it sprouted from within,
scraps facing the cold skies rising, and protesting
I am here
I am here

MY FATHER AND GOD