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Another Upon Hanukkah (Poem)
And does it even matter if this year
My menorah remains on the shelf?
When the memories of all the candles we lit,
A story for each night, a small gift given,
Crowd in every night for eight nights?
This is how we remain a mishpocheh,
Passing these traditions from generations down
And then hand to hand among friends.
Such things cannot be destroyed by bombs or guns.
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Upon Hanukkah (Poem)
How many candles would I light this year,
And what would they mean?
When I last kindled just two for Shabbos, I wept.
What used to herald time set apart,
A space made holy by rest and community,
Now fills me with grief and loss.
Quietly, I put my menorah away.
Alone, how can I even contemplate this?
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When I Had Power To Wake The Dead (Poem)
I could not save him, though my family begged.
They thought I had that power, given through the love he bore me.
If I had awakened him from his dying sleep, what would they have done?
He would have been a walking shamble, a ghastly semblance of the man they knew.
His brain destroyed, the basic animal functions remained, and those only for a limited time.
Would they have embraced the figure that emerged from the bed?
Sometimes in bitterness I almost wish I had heeded their command.
