Mr. Levy

The rabbi said, “There’s no translation for Tikkun.”

Hunched over the scroll, writing the Torah,

he had on his white shirt with pushed up sleeves.

He spread out splotchy rags, a square

jar of ink and a pen made of turkey feathers.

“The turkey is the blessed animal,” he said.

Because its feathers are used to write the Torah,

I guessed.  He dipped and aimed between the lines.

The little circles on the Tikkun caution him not to run

a lamed  into a kuf.  

He copied from it and held it over the big cow’s skin

curled on one of the long thin tables shadowed by peering bodies.

Underneath his thick lenses are eyes that go back

to the Grand Canyon, the first synagogue, red raw stone.

Hashem, Sinai, Torah, he spaced over and over

as if placing pins on a hem.

The women under the suffocating wigs

witnessed Hashem’s work through Mr. Levy, the scribe.

It was ninety degrees.

He dragged the turkey feather.

He approached the space where he will

write the Name.

A  boy with eyelashes like fishing rods

looked on.  We smiled, then

shook

with awe.

Wendy Hoffman

423 Woodhill Dr.

Owings Mill, MD 21117

410-581-7764

wendyhoffman@verizon.net

5 a.m.

I rushed my neighbor to St. Joseph’s

 Hospital at 5 a.m.

A chunk of slithering moon hung

 inside haze

that looked like my grandmother’s face.

Three stars froze in their hopscotch game.

At sunrise, the green and red trees will make a checkerboard.

In seventeen years, my grandchildren will be in college,

the cicadas will return

and I will be buried near my ancestors.

Wendy Hoffman

423 Woodhill Dr.

Owings Mill, MD 21117

410-581-7764

wendyhoffman@verizon.net

The Voyeuse

You rushed through the lobby

Saturday mornings with long

strides in polished shoes

barely alighting on the cement

like a skipping stone in clear waters

a tallit wrapped around your shoulders.

Two boys snickered, another threw stones.

“Misfit,” they sneered.  “Dumb ass.”

Your round face softened and your eyes

became a split honeydew

oozing sweetness and vitamins.

Later your boys cleaved to your thighs

as you spread your tallit around them. 

Clouds floated over a gray

dim sky, sparrows rushed into branches

and the geese below exalted their wings

in rhythm with your fringes.

Your torso bobbing up and down

like the birds diving into the choppy

waters pointed east.

It began to pour but through my glass

and your glass, I studied your sheen.

The waters parted and veined the gleaming air.

I learned there was another way.

Wendy Hoffman

423 Woodhill Dr.

Owings Mill, MD 21117

410-581-7764