v2
Robe Dipped in Goat Blood
My sisters and I
we no longer talk much these days.
One sits on the sofa with a box of used clothes
and toys from Japan, her two daughters
looking into the box as if they were angels
and it was the world as their mother picks
a stuffed animal to show to the camera.
The other is most likely on a boat
crossing the sea between islands
a hat over her head and sunglasses
over her eyes murmuring what to say
to the next householder whose door
she would knock on
after five kilometers of walking.
I remembered them today
as I was watching a romcom on my laptop
the rabbi, the younger of two siblings,
more handsome and eloquent
a bachelor who pulls all the virgins in the synagogue
while the older brother taller and stronger
yet less intelligent and pathologically unpopular
stuck in an unhappy marriage.
Going to the synagogue
made their differences palpable.
My sisters and I
we went to the Kingdom Hall as children
with our fancy Sunday clothes and leather shoes,
our hairs properly trimmed we sat
at the front row to make a statement
we were the best kids around
didn’t play or brought our toys or ate biscuits
we raised our hands to respond to questions
as eyes gawked at our facies and bodies
and those cold walls made us believe
we will be saved.
But the only thing that saved me in that hall
was the memory of how I looked
at each of my sisters eyes
intermittently as I read the Bible
in front of the congregation for the first time
the podium almost as tall as I was
afraid but assured by those two girls
I will make it through the end of the verse.
A new commandment:
Though shalt not offer brothers
and sisters on the altar.
In a romcom, the rabbi is
the younger of two siblings
more handsome, more eloquent,
a bachelor, pulls all the
virgins in the synagogue.
His older brother taller, stronger,
and yet less intelligent,
stuck in an unhappy marriage,
and pathologically unpopular.
This is a familiar story—
mirror of thousands of homes,
confessions of thousands of mothers
eavesdropping
dropping the wrong fruit
from the wrong tree.
I remember my sisters and the
Kingdom Hall we went to as children.
I remember their eyes locked with mine
while I read the Bible in front
of the congregation for the first time
as if to assure me I will
make it through the end of the verse
alive.
I imagine what our lives would be like
without those cold walls,
without those fancy clothes and
leather shoes, without those eyes
gawking at our hair, our face,
our bodies.
A new commandment:
Though shalt not offer brothers
and sisters on the altar.