YOU RETURN THE TORAH TO THE ARK

and I think of the distant past

eins tsvey dray fir now thirty years

since I was a child and used to count

men’s hats in my grandparents’

synagogue the moment everyone

rose up but not the ladies—

they stood and I didn’t count them

finf zeks zibn akht as instead of hats

they wore latticed doilies

pinned to their wigs, scraps

of lace flat as an outstretched hand

conferring a webbed blessing

or folded like wings about

to take flight nayn tsen elf tsvelf

before whom did we stand?

the male Rabbi, the male Cantor

and his oyoyoys draytsn fertsn

fuftsn zekhtsn the ark shuts

in a flash of white an arm

crossing the heart the chest

a house for the body is rending

of garments—a curtain’s pull

zibetsn akhtsn nayntsn tsvantsik

Zichron Moshe, Adath Israel,

Ward Avenue Shul and who knows

what shteebles are demolished are

churches now this second post-war

shtetl of ladies and gentlemen the Bronx

is burning is burned the congregation

sighs into their seats and I think of

cousin Freddy’s story about the Rabbi

(name long forgotten) who would call out

Yankees scores during high holiday

davening ein un tsvantsik tsvey un tsvantsik

everyone could hear the ballpark crowd

cheering through the open doors