Next door, Holiness, defrosted and boiled,
solemnly rises from the pale chicken soup,
surrounds like a halo the mother’s synthetic wig,
and settles therein, permeating it for the rest of the week.
It then descends under the girl’s  big skirt,
from the waist down to the heavy Reeboks, tickling her thighs,
enjoining her to be fruitful and multiply.
The Rabbi - Messiah’s apple cheeks
supervise the scene from a glossy painting.
The candles burn
in silver candlesticks of dubious craftsmanship
acquired as a wedding present
by the joint efforts of three uncles.

Mine burn too - in candlesticks that are inherited
and couldn’t have been gotten by any other means.
And my cigarette burns as well
more self- destructively than heretically.
My girl is resolved to postpone reproduction:
such is the lot of those who inherit their candlesticks
rather then purchasing their own
or receiving them as presents.
While Holiness, Holiness
feels more at home with the people next door.

Remains the sun
that stops briefly on a windowpane stained by pollution,
sets it ablaze,
and sinks abruptly into Our Sea of Reason
to join the dead fish.

 © Iris Dan

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