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Early in the book of brothers
and sisters
It's early in the book of brothers and sisters.
We're crossing the lawns of the suburbs
traders on a walk through the stars.
The blue waters of dusk part for us.
The grasses turn to Persian rugs.
In one I carry a velvet bag
and in the other a prayer book.
Soft body of tallis calmed my small shoulders.
Simple body of prayer book kept me from flying away.
Rosh Hashanah.
I can still hear the shofar on the turnpike
can hear its stipple hit the concrete.
A horny toot sibilance, a chaos in the lives of children
men, boys, women, girls.
My memory is wrapped in that wilderness.
Wrapped in beautiful shawls, wings, drapery
in which each person is no less
than a tree, a cloud, a kind of tossing
a kind of thrown together.
If on some days all we have
is a few words to swing life a knife in the dark
on others we sway in our penumbra shawls.
Swaying in and out of our small circles
out of the small shadows of our lives.
Soon we would be returning home.
Soon we would see our house with its excited lights
on.
They're blowing the shofar tonight, I say to myself
looking up at stars' bright vigilance.
Reminded how our prayers fly around like leaves
and how peace comes with anticipation.
Early in the book of brothers and sisters
I crossed the lawns of the suburbs.
In the sky our ancestors were lighting small fires.
The soft body of the tallis touched my shoulders.
The simple body of prayer book
kept me from flying away.
©1997, Jerry Mirskin. Printed in Prairie
Schooner , Vol. 71, no. 1, Spring 1997
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