The Eyes

A colored psychoanalyst?
Sorry. You want me to sit here?
You look half-Jewish. My wife's friend
Belle nudged me to come. I hope
You're not a Muslim. Do you have
A son? Sorry. "Why?"
I can see pain in your eyes
—My field is ophthalmology,
Or was. I'm not retired, but
I can't work. I guess that's why I've come …

I joined a shul to give my son a home
After I died—with nostalgic smells:
Satin and parchment. Who believed
The Auschwitz God could hear a prayer?
Him!: "When the black plague destroyed
Half Europe's Christians, they fell to their knees
And found cause in their own lack
Of faith." I wanted to stop there
—The satin, the parchment. My wife
Ignored me, dug out her mother's shawl
And bentsht lichtn each Friday night.
And we had seders every spring,
And sang in grass Quonset huts
On Sukkos, and wept Kol Nidre nights …

You want to hear "a dream?" My son
Drifts from heaven in a parachute
Davning, a baby in a swing,
At eighteen pretty as his mother,
Eyes the color of Israel's flag.
SUNSET IN LEBANON—A Dream
With Titles Or, A Dream With Guns!
I mock analysis as I do
All faiths because, because my son …
They brought him back from Yisroel
With heaven where his eyes were!

Back to "the problem," why I've come:
At 6 A M I leave for shul
With my bad heart, trudging
Through drifts of snow.
I, not my son, say Kaddish.
I sit with my forehead
Pressed on the bench in front of me
Till Maariv when I snap
To attention and mumble more …
You seem to know what Maariv is
—All these Yiddishisms.
There's something in your eyes. Are you
A Falasha? Something kindred …

So I sit like a Talmudist
In shul all day
Eating a sandwich from a paper bag
Or curled up, snoring, till the sun sets
—And then it's up like a believer
Waiting for Kaddish in the evening prayers …
But if I don't endure these rituals
How will he find me
When I come to Heaven,
A blur, a shadow
Blabbering because his wife—and Belle—
Are worried for his heart,
A wife who bentshes lichtn still,
His picture like a saint's
In front of her except, except he's draped
In that same shawl—that flag
In which we buried him!

Excuse me, but your eyes seem blurred.
Has my story moved you
Or have you heartache from a son?
You won't say … Silence … Where am I going?
I can get the same from Kaddish!
That picture on your desk, is she
Your daughter, draped in a sari,
Red dot on her forehead, eyes fogged
With that same religious look?
A nod. I need a friend to share
My tragedy, and you have your technique.
I'm sorry. When you see Belle,
Please tell her not to worry. She's blessed
With a pregnant daughter and a selfish son.

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