Witz

other works by JOSHUA COHEN

The Quorum

Cadenza for the Schneidermann Violin Concerto

Aleph-Bet: An Alphabet for the Perplexed

A Heaven of Others

Witz

A NOVEL BY JOSHUA COHEN

DALKEY ARCHIVE PRESS
CHAMPAIGN AND LONDON

Copyright © 2010 by Joshua Cohen
All rights reserved

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Cohen, Joshua, 1980-
Witz: the story of the last Jew on earth / Joshua Cohen. -- 1st ed.
p.cm.
ISBN: 978-1-56478-617-3
1. Jewish fiction. I. Title.
PS3553.O42434W58 2010
813’.54--dc22
2009046093

Partially funded by the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign and by a grant from the Illinois Arts Council, a state agency

The publisher and the author would like to thank Rick Fishbein, Ahron Weiner, and Rabbi Alan Lucas (Temple Beth Shalom) for their generous support of this project

www.dalkeyarchive.com

Cover: design by Danielle Dutton.

In one of our many pious books, we are told the following:

One should not stack books of a lesser holiness atop books of a greater holiness.

Tellingly, in another one of our pious books this dictum is turned on its head—in a story:

A rabbi stacked a book of the Talmud atop a book of the Torah. Another asked him, Why are you doing that? And the rabbi answered him, In order to preserve the book of the Torah, because by covering it with this I will save it from the dust and the ashes that might fall upon it.

Regardless of which one follows, the book you are holding now should, when stacked, always be placed in the middle.

This book you are about to read contains no holy words or letters, neither words nor letters in the Holy Tongue, and nowhere within it are mentioned any of the many names of God.

Therefore, this book may be ripped or torn, burnt, otherwise destroyed, and whatever remains require(s) no burial.

“              ”

—God

DEADICATED

to mine enemies,
without whom none of this would have been possible

and Thy write hand shall save me…

Witz:

being, in Yiddish, a joke;

and, as the ending of certain names,

also meaning son of:

e.g. Abramowitz,

meaning son-of-Abram

(also found as –wic, –wich, –wics, –wicz, –witch, –wits, –wyc, –wych, –wycz, –vic, –vich, –vics, –vicz, –vitch, –vits, –vitz, –vyc, –vych, and –vycz).

Contents

I

Over There, Then

A First Helping

II

III

2

IV

V

Preparations

6

Welcome to Whateverwitz

In the Church

The Last Supper

The Museum of Museums

Punchlines

I

Over There, Then

IN THE BEGINNING, THEY ARE LATE.

Now it stands empty, a void.

Darkness about to deepen the far fire outside.

A synagogue, not yet destroyed. A survivor. Who isn’t?

Now, it’s empty. A stomach, a shell, a last train station after the last train left to the last border of the last country on the last night of the last world; a hull, a husk—a synagogue, a shul.

Mincha to be prayed at sundown, Ma’ariv at dark.

Why this lateness?

He says reasons and she says excuses.

And so let there be reasons and excuses.

And there were.

A last boat out, why didn’t they catch it? They didn’t have their papers? their papers weren’t in order?

He says excuses and she says reasons.

And so let there be excuses and reasons.

And there were, if belated.

Misses Singer strokes her husband’s scar as if to calm him. But what she calls a scar he knows is his mouth.

Late because they’re stuck in one exilic fantasy or another; late because the adventure of ingathering doesn’t seem all on the up and up; late because they’re owed payments, and you’re goddamned right they’re going to collect…what’s yours? I’m just waiting for this one deal of a lifetime to come through, and, when it does, God! the moment it does, you’d better believe I’m out of here…

Singer stops, stoops to pick up a shoe, sized wide, fallen from his withered foot last step.

Nu, it’s been like this ever since he was born, and those long, hard years have all been as yesterday’s toll: the bridge crossing, the bottomless price of a boat full with holes, an aeroplane cast down from heaven, betrayed of its wings. And it’s not as if he hasn’t crawled his end of the bargain: wriggling ever forward from garden to grave, he’s trying, just ask him; if he hadn’t married so well, he’d have to gnaw down a branch for a cane. And then what: you pray for a splinter, you get a tree in return, from whose flesh is made paper and from whose fruit is sucked ink, both of which collaborate in God’s writing of Laws whose words and even the letters of which bless you beholden to meaning; and so we receive knowledge, such as the following, and the preceding, and this: in seeking only to stay upright, you fall, are banished then cursed and reviled, condemned to wander a continent you don’t even know where you’re going, only when you’re expected, which is every Friday at sundown though your calendars were never coordinated and what you always thought had been west was really only a left turn taken with your back to the north, in haste and with little sleep, then upon your forehead, the development of a worrying mark.

A meal after Shacharit, which is the prayer of the morning, praising God Who made the light only by saying it illuminating, also, our own saying of thanks to Him for not making us unto them—the animals, women, or sick; for not yet giving us over to the darkness of death—shadows that have no souls for which to pray if even they could, as they lack both voices and hearts, shuffle their bloated, crapulous ways into shul: Unaffiliated, jingjangling keys—there couldn’t be! that many doors…goyim nameless faceless nearly formless, quiet massing hulks emerged out of dim wet here to make a living that’s more a dying. It’s strange, no one understands: they’re here to help, not destroy. Be calm. One sweeps up; another sweeps the seats for articles and personal effects left behind, by night. Yet another stacks books on the almemar, shoves them, balled up crumpled wet, into pew pockets, lays them out on seats swept toward the rear, nosebleed territory from which the Shammes groans in with an enormous what hath God wrought iron key, looped on a rope around his waist, hanging low under his gut, swinging with his stride—which is as long and wide as the last night he’ll spend here, free, unconcerned.

Hours later when hours were still hours as restful and lit as all Sabbath’s day, not the binding celestials of numeral and ordinal, the narrow gauge of comet trains, stardeadline, failing, falling, the tickers of arrival and departure and arrival, diurnal again—the clock centerpieces upon our timetables that not only remind us when to partake but are, simultaneously, the only sustenance left—the Affiliated muster, assemble outside…soon, there’s a congregation beyond: nondenominational, because what does observance mean anyway, irreligious maybe even, or all of them heaped together, thrown atop the burning pile, who knows, with the languages who can tell? Their bloods are their tickets, purchased at a steep price or a long song much in advance. Presence by the pint. They lineup two-by-two, two of each kind, husband and wife. They’ve restedup, washedup, dressedup; they’ve reported for showers and were shorn. There’s last summer’s rose attar, perfume stagnant in air—or it’s smoke, strangely sweet…

Menschs bow down by the curb, bow at the knees and cast fingers, fish around in last regime’s grates and late afternoon’s puddles for anything that’s not yet blown away: loose pages, blots of blatt, daf stains, yellowed newspapers the print of which’s run off to tomorrow with yesterday’s wife, scraps of rag, parchment or is it just skin, God, it’s skin. As a handful of the oldest menschs bow, they fall, are then helped back to their feet by menschs only slightly younger, each of them by another younger by just a wink or a wrinkle, they’re righted, and so now they’re ten altogether, which makes us a minyan. Runoff is wrung out from these yarmulkes, mud knuckled away with spit. The menschs gather these scraps, spread them on glassy bald skulls with thumb’s knife, against the gusts at the doorway, as if they didn’t have these frags and parches, corking it All down, their heads would spill out to the sky. And its vault. Never forget the vault. Windily, they kiss at the jamb, which is marked. An Unaffiliated at the door hands out books, programs inside, both also pressed into yarmulkes.

Yellow over red to brown over black if I’m squinting it right, I don’t have my glasses on me just now, comes to west through the windows. Then, Let there be light, and there is light and if not good, then so-so—eh, though you might prefer feh. It’s not theirs, though: insight is forbidden to the assembled, at least here, and what they seek in their own homes, hosting ruin just past the horizon, and on their own time, which is almost up, is absolutely none of our business. Two lights becoming one becoming two: the Shammes has lit candles, flame, but the fire’s outside. The stainedglass remains dark. The floor’s a mess: remnants of flowing tracery, shards of leaded panes from the windows lancet and rose, long replaced or walled up due to heating costs; pews’ rubble heaped to the side, seating’s splinters, scrapped immature limbs—for use in stoking the furnace.

They’re still late—it’s a long walk and in these shoes…

Those who aren’t late yet they go some to the left some to the right and up the stairs, to the balcony there: the cheap seats, the women, forgive; some have forgotten though they’re forgiven, reminded again. Entering, the audience is shaking hands; they hug, kiss, and make inquiries with the hands they’re not shaking. Shoes echo off stone. Sweeping suits up in their hands, gathering skirts and slacks they sit, Phfoy. Elders should sit first, but the kinder these days threw respect to the dogs, a distant barking the night through. Cushions, where there are cushions, in the first few rows, wheeze out a measure of dust. Coughs and sneezes ensue, allergies. Some sit on benches, others on seats along the wall, at shtenders, a nod to the old traditionalists: a grip on the hat’s brim, a little bow, the upright stooping to become the fallen in greeting, left wordless while the dialect’s still being decided. Everyone’s pooped, the day’s pooped…I yi yi and all that kitsch, it once was. A few sit in pews, they appear ashamed, remote; there are foldingchairs way in the back. The room’s filling up; there aren’t enough seats, never are, no room, no space, no air: some stand rocking for warmth as if they’re their own mothers; others sit on headstones hauled desecrated from the cemetery beyond; there’re a few pieces of remaindered furniture outside, too, holy borax that’s rental on special, on remnants of sample carpeting they sit anywhere they can, on frayed cushions over loose currencies, sagging under weight, on a sofa with corneal slipcover making piecework flatulence when you go to give up your seat to someone with more hope, or is it less luck, I don’t know—to make way for others, people standing on people pouring in through the smashed in shattered out windows slicing their guts open on jagged edges of glass then falling their ways in, intestinal ladders and no, no angels registered, not tonight…though if not now, if you’re such a Hillel, then when—then never: widows and orphans emerging from drafts of pure nothingness and of the absence of pure nothingness, which is just the proof of pure nothingness, yadda; they lean against the walls, crouch in neighboring alleys—with the door left open a crack.

Womenfolk above, the menschs below—the women can’t complain: it’s all ritual, no one’s fault, merely a gesture to what, who remembers; the women disappearing behind the mechitza, then peeking out, disappearing again. Curtains, bodying presences—is that the one I’m in love with? her sister? maybe her mother?

How can the room hold so many, their light—so fresh, so clean, such blushing about the face? Virginal, their apples intact, if desperately ripe. For the purposes of swallowing them the shul seems to expand, a snake’s mouth, releasing an inky venom decreeing the digestion of a millennium, slower. The Fire Marshal Who art in Heaven has bestowedeth upon them His blessings of numinous capacities and maximal occupancies, illimitably, which means nevermore up for renewal…a great oven, heating.

Authorities up on High have dictated All.

A group huddling past the river of three names and of no name, done feeding the waters, done watering them, and so just in time to make the first seating’s lights: they’re rushing in, they’re dripping, taking the steps down to humble, supplication doesn’t matter if meant as it’s imposed from above—this ducking through the portal so that their prayers might rise up from the depths; and, too, so that they don’t smack their heads that’s how low.

Psalm 130, if you know it. An arch.

They’re entering their Father’s House—but is their Father home? Anyone, anyone?

You were expecting what besides miserly decoration, impoverished, no humanity, just faceless lions and onewinged birds, frozen midroar and half tweeting. Above the ark, where the scrolls are kept, where no scrolls will be kept anymore—a tympanum, a woodwork canopy peeling paint and blue mold; deepplanted vaunt, hardened bounty amidst carved drapery, earthen vines strangling eternity, then above, only ribbing. Menschs on the lowest level, their wives and daughters higher, upon the balcony then on balconies decorated in rock flowers and jewels, who knows how many of them on up to the stone seat of the moon, as if one half of the Decalogue, the cleaved five commandments, and who can sneak a look? or else they’re kept to the side, or toward the rear, the women, nearest the western wall, the separating grillwork a veil of metal, an armor of plaits…the menschs keep turning, keep coming up with prayerless occasions to turn their eyes upward, behind. We’re inattentive, weekly; resentful, daily; at all times our souls unprepared—beginning there at the ceiling, its crown, an ornamental rib intended to forsake the vault of a cross. An extra, whether left from Creation or a predating build. An almemar parts the room, though later in the show the staging will remove itself to the eastern wall, the pulpit: another migration, yet another orientation, and so which way to face, though the movements are known, felt instinctually—are up and down and back and forth, in and out and this and that and what where, only now.

Everything known better days. The worn steps up to the proscenium’s ark, arching at the height of the street once again: their cups covered over in dissolute pillows, stuffed with who wants to think. Just inside the vestibule, a lavabo for the washing of hands before prayer’s suffered drought. Those without prayerbooks are to read the prayers that have been written on the walls in a hand unwashed. A hand impure, in that it’s withheld.

At that proscenium, arkways, the House Manager, resident schlockmeister extraordinaire, an obese mensch shvitzing nerves in this freeze, smokes a frond rolled in loose page, fitted into a holder hollowed out from his humerus; he taps ash to the floor, lines of ash indicating staging. All has been blocked since eternity. The pit’s just below; the baldspot on the Conductor’s head blinding the balcony: he’s bent over his score, baton in one nostril out the other, scribbling his cues in fanatical charcoal, circling rests and only the rests. Tacit. His tuxedo’s motheaten, his cummerbund an enormous expropriated armband. A clarinet running scales up from the chalumeau, embouchure cracked, his reed a sliver of skull; a fiddler, a tallskinny mensch to the clarinet’s shortfat, fiddling with the tuner on his tailpiece: if he’s sharp he’s sharp, if he’s flat he’s flat, it’s the thought that counts, condemns; an organist, pulling out all the stops, warming up the webbed pipes; the Copyist rushes in, vaults over the rail, trips over stands, slipslides in spitvalve discharge, hands out parts barely dry, just finished as all work—not just that of Creation but of copying, too—must be barred from the sunset: dusk’s red ink smeared, ink that actually ran out yesterday and is now only blood worried with spit; the Prompter wiping his forehead with the House Manager’s noserag, then numbering cue cards with a quill so sharp his cousin could perform morally impossible ocular surgery with it—a procedure ensuring prophetic hindsight, would help. The House Manager, lapels at his ears, flicking the switch to the Applause sign, ON and OFF then ON again, as onstage, the Emcee the rabbi pops Polyn’s P’s into the microphone smuggled in tonight only.

Testing…

Testing…

One—Two—Three…

Is this thing on?

…

Good evening, ladies & gentlemen…and feedback attends

Try the veal!

…

the fivethirty show’s exactly the same as the threethirty show—and thanks folks, I’ll be here all week…

Nu, that’s what he thinks.

As feedback echoes, feeds back on itself the sound cud, swells in the mouth to air raid proportions, but it’s maybe a drill, let’s hope, or a close relative screaming Name somewhere near—as the crowd alarmed, is made fidgety, restless…a buzz that is its own sting, inspiring of shock, the instinctive Amen that surprises: people whispering to each other, jawing that it’s finally, about time—unannounced, from the leftwing stageright, the cantor comes forward, arrayed in an illfitting white kittel.

Houselights of the world to dim, out; the candles guttering brighter.

They don’t know to sit or stand: there’s a great creaking, an opening of books, a mass cracking of covers, a slitting of page with the forefingernail, honey on the pagetips to encourage as the rabbi intones off the script, introduces himself, yet again; it’s a foreign language, yet another tongue’s trouble: it’s a responsorial without a response, or actually anything to respond to…how’s everybody doing tonight? we’d like to thank you all so much for coming.

Blessed Art.

A buzz at its height, as if a hive dangled down from the roof of the night: people whispering, shouting, screaming final warnings, advice; addresses overseas to be memorized, 36,000 12-Millionth Street, Apartment 3B and ring twice; times and dates…the corner of Broadway & Innocence, 1952, 6 pm; lashon hara…it seems here, the pages are different: some have books with oddnumbered pages, others just even; some of the books only have numbers: digits—and dashes; other books have photographs in them, are only photos, images black & white, and uncaptioned, or the pages, whatever they have or say or show, don’t correspond to whatever it is the rabbi or is he the cantor, the chazzan, I forget, he does, too, announces twotongued, in every translation known to this side of the ocean: page 296, two-nine-six, page number twohundred-and-ninetysix, in the white book, you can do your own conversion for the blue.

Old menschs up front flip through their books, shaking heads, muttering Substance at all the blank pages: what should be, what should’ve been, they fill it in with the lip’s drip, the tongue’s ink. Nearest the ark, the oldest menschs standing and swaying throughout as if letters themselves, though letters still in flux, still being developed, not yet bound to fixed form. O the aleph reach, the bet bend, the gimel footforward, as if symbols with bad joints, with stiff cuffs, one leg shorter than fractured heels down below; while up top, roofing: their necks twisted to cripple, though as beautiful then still ruled permissible, kosher. Their books held out as if their own ornaments, as if crowns, tags, and kotz, they’re just black covers, no pages at all. And as for how they’re pronounced, they’re stilted, not inept but unpracticed, hinged klutzy with rust, as if requiring miracle oil, rededication to the task of innermost knowledge…as if asking themselves, who knows their own name? how to say the self ’s secret, pronounceable only if known? Argumentative, they give way to grumbling, learned grumbling, studiously insistent nodding as if their very own lettered bodies in their movements and shapes would, too, give movement and shape to their sounds: arms flowing out into fingery vowels. In the back, where voices still carry, kinder play in the aisles, odd games of lots; the sacred idiot drools into the mouth of the drunk.

Late, they arrive, finally do us the honor of showing up, about time. Survivors, us all—you’re cordially invited to join together with the congregation in this staring at them down the aisle a murmur, through the mess of mismatched to their seats. Reserved. They arrive, can you blame them, as if they didn’t show up the show wouldn’t have started without them; we wait, as they fill in the last remaining seats, except one. Reserved still. One seat’s always left empty, always reserved, still remains: the empty seat and door open a draft are not quite contingencies, but gestures.

And so we might wait for an apology, but who’s listening, no one: everyone catching up, breath, asking after, brides, cousins, do you know whatever happened to her; ordnance outside, or is it just in my head; explosions, shaking the shul deeper into its foundations: every house is built upon its own grave, as if a pit for a brother, at home in a hole pitched seven years’ deep: at least it’s the earth, and as such, livable, knowable—as who can sleep in the sky, who can lie down in the air and be comfortable there? The clarinetist bends a note, and Heaven bends, brass, night’s rainbow of one widened band: darkness, the void, O the Covenant Who forgot.

Air’s typhus, from the Hellenist typhos, an impure word we’ve been infected with, fatal: meaning smoky, a blemishing haze. All around, puddles of lands-men wait to take their place, their places, ours, as brainfog, impenetrable cloud whose controlling deities are also charged with scalping and illegal recording. The first one inside and the last one inside sit next to each other, atop one another, share between them a book, but there aren’t enough books, never are. Ben Someone or Other’s summoned up to the almemar, the bima an island at middle he bridges across on the backs of his fathers; he throws up his tallis, is hugged, kissed, returned, hugged, kissed, then seated again, bound to his chair with tefillin. Outside faces press up against glass, crucified by the mullions, they’re stretched across shards, eventually shattering, each other, themselves; window glass that’s been silvered over, why not, the better to straighten yourself for what’s to come—and so, mirrors in which the waiting arrange hairs, under collars tuck ties, breathe against the panes to know they’re alive.

A sphere makes its way around a sphere, is made.

There’ll be no east one of these tomorrows, there’ll be no rising—an unleavened morning for the wrong New Year.

And the assembled, settle.

Night. Of what colors were left, half were bleached into the moon and stars, deloused into white, an assimilation to air, high and rare above smoke; the other half, though…the afternoon’s sky: only a sleeve salvaged of a coat of many colors come bleeding through the wash outside; hues ripped from rays of the sun, snapped harpstrings the strands of a rainbow—forgotten. Now dark, which nights everything passing through it, none left untainted: a black beyond black, benighting, not so much the color of death as already an aftermath, a survival, what survives dream; black, the last color: the hair of sleeping girls, sent away to work off their breasts and hips, indentured abroad only to exhaust their own fate; the effects of an infinite yellowing: passport pictures curling at corners from fires never extinguished, Never Forget!—a night of the ninth plague, not yet; a night like whole hunks of blackbread in the mouth, soon…a night by the night: its blackness bound by stars without number and nameless, a wall then the river around it of their drained radiations: greater dawn’s strain to make it through its own pricks and dings that, in truth, are the stars, dimmed.

As our rabbi, a firstborn though he doesn’t like to brag much, beadles the floorboards by the pulpit—the tenth plague readies, is kept readied in the wings: the ninth plague sets the stage for the tenth, the arch for its entrance; though the ninth plague’s also the tenth plague’s commandment, then the eleventh’s, the twelfth; how the ninth plague is, ultimately, no plague in itself but rather the condition of all plague: its blackness appropriate, the colluding, concealing dark without morning to bear witness, clear air. And, as this is the very beginning of this last night to plague and be plagued without end, this, too, is the beginning of the very last Sabbath of all time, if not just of their lives; tell me, though, how those aren’t the same, two-of-a-kind? A Shabbos eternal we’re welcoming eternally—as any sun that should ever set again would only ensure a day of rest whose holiness must blush in comparison with the sacrifice of this one, of ours, and so desecrating in retrospect, a defilement made all the graver thanks to its very posthumity. And so, a time for rest now, this day of rest now, such rationed rest that’ll last as long as light will be remembered. An idle worship, given to graven imaginings. Because, with regard to that memory, there’s not much of it left—but still, there’s hope…to be hoped for.

Above the sill of the world, a pair of diamonds suspended. The moon and its stars, and the diamonds, too, are the impurities in the night, of the night, impurifying as those diamonds they’re only poetry, art; casements flecked with white paint, rubbled with plaster chips, remains of parget…these lights—no candles or candlesticks, which have been sacrificed to the rubble, melted down with their wicks wicked away, wisped into smoke with the upward ambition of flame—hover; what’s left is only their purpose: a question…does the light float in darkness? or the darkness around light?

No weather and the roof is maybe, hymn, missing, skullcaps blow off, blown around; there’s no refuge. Whether the roof was bombed through or, perhaps, has been landed on one too many times by messenger storks resting on which season’s way out…or, in another interpretation: there is, indeed, a roof, and from there’s where it’s raining, then snow.

Skypages blow from books that have pages, loose pages blown, wet paper mushed, pulped, wildly flung about and grasped at, stolen and promise to tell no one, they’re killed for; rain to snow, clumps of snow as if stillborn moons, this sleet and hail, this fiery hail, retributive fallings, a weather testamentary, Creation first testing its power: what can my sky do? is what God should be asking…though ignoring that voice, they jump out of their own voices and stoop to grab at skin now, piecing through the pages, this vellum taken in vain, binding themselves back together without a sense for order, with spit dripped from the seams of a beast remade, with weather into the shape of a cloud dispelled: to stoop and shirk from any mumble, that would avail a response to the mumbling of the rabbi who’d begun his own not in prayer but dismay—at their willingness to follow fate, but not his called command. From what illiterate womb is such disorder born? This reading of prayers they’ve read or should’ve read or had read to them lifetimes before, and yet prayers they’ve never, not even once, understood; the ignorance of a tongue redeemed…as they’ve never listened, heard, attended with still and silence. If reading for us is only memory—daily repetition as a guide to the pilpul perplexing, undertaken with any acronym’s help, enlisting all manner of mnemonic wonder and signs—then the following mysticism might preempt, be permitted: In the beginning was the Word, that word was all words, the book, any book, in which each letter falling into the arms of its mother is in itself the word whole—the Shibboleth, the Passwoyd, the Name of God, no one knows. The recitation of a spare set of teeth. While praying, no one knows what they’re saying not because no one knows the language of prayer, but because no one knows themselves, and so they pray: they dress themselves and shave and stoop and bow only in order to hope anew—only to ask for a tomorrow for which they might be dressed, be shorn, stooped and bowed, in which to pray again.

For an end to all this, to all time.

Tonight, though, they’ll be gone, with only their refuse, their lost and never to be found again articles to acknowledge existence, forgetting’s relics already enshrined, cataloged as just so much charity within a book glassed on display, not for use (a ledger, the list)—only to be replaced next week, same moon’s time, by a new shipment, a congregation bound in a box. The shul’s an enormous phylactery; the shul’s swollen like a stomach full and starved. No oneg shall follow, no Kiddush luncheon will save with its sponsor.

Slowly, with the pressures of privation, the weather, they remember, a response or else the responded to, same difference, especially if delivered in the hooked nosespeak of their father’s father’s father; respecting the variations, there are so many on so few—how many letters can an alphabet finally hold before it becomes a language unto itself, and so mysticism, tamei is the code, which is forbidden as bilbul, nonsense not proscribed but worthless, a waste save in how it preserves the minds and lives of those whom we’d otherwise lose to a God Who can be imaged as us—amid the shadow, embarrassment, failure; such intimacies, become parables and are foreseen to have become parables; everything’s known in advance, subsequently incorporated into the liturgy, written into the script in a fire that then destroys the script, ashes to ashes, prophecy received by the dead. All of this happened, and only then was cued—in this house, under the sky, this outstretched armband arching our world, as if a banner shaming the scroll unrolled in representation of the afterlife we’d once been promised, or so we claim in our beseeching of the only power who might grant us such succor: our kinder, who by now have all emigrated, or burnt. At the almemar, the gabbai oldtimers, the altes, the priests and the pillars, they’re still fingering what, cantillation, their arms flapping in approval disapproval all the same this way then that, the dim forms of the nusach for morning—then the roll sign, hands tumbling down a hill; business ensues; many blessings!

As the show ends, the service is what they say now, Ma’ariv it’s usually transliterated as, the rabbi exits stageright, the cantor the chazzan stageleft, Amen, they return along with the entire supporting cast to receive flowers under the proscenium arch, holding aside the petals and those of the ark’s curtain and gushing red, davening still duchening even and everything intensely meant and from the waist and kissing air then waving; the velveteen falls and rises, another round of applause, the velveteen falling, then rising again, a third and final round its applause scattered, Diasporated how they’re just standing around now they’re waving goodbye, then the velveteen falling again this time the last, the house lights go up for a finale as exit music swells from their mouths, zmirot: the players exit stage everywhere, wash, dress, and shave to shuckle through the stagedoor to the street, its grabbing hordes and their faithful hounds…down Prinz, sit.

The Rosenkrantzes and the Singer family rise and Misses Rosenkrantz searches around her seat if she’s dropped or left anything behind, and she hasn’t so she waddles out the row to the aisle to meet her husband who’s halfway already to the arch shining exit, quickly, her fat wobbles; as she reaches Rosenkrantz, there’s lightning, thunder, the house lights go out. A son, the ben Anybody to be made barmitzvah tomorrow if only, he emerges holding a long, thick, threewicked taper, thricebraided then those braids braided, its unified flame illuminating a knot that can only be undone through its melting; wax dribbles, scorches the hand. All stumble toward the arch out, step on each other, essentially trample one another, but politely, exceedingly viciously kind—a friendship’s tumult, unreal, as if faked; how the shul’s shrunk, it’s behind them now, and now the arch seems further, seems larger—as the shul backdrop’s withdrawn into the greater wings; an earthen set, perhaps, or a stage deserted, without fictive ornament or division, barren as if brokendown for the kindling—the deepest pit to be found through a hidden trapdoor…and the group, they find themselves in a field, empty—a nowhere. A sudden abandonment, but with the arch still ahead, and them standing facing.

A lone arch, standing free, with nothing on either side or above them; an arch, which enters and exits onto nothing, Niemandsland never fulfilled. Though it only appears to them far and large, huge from here, it’s a low arch, its opening’s small: to enter, they’ll have to suck and stoop, must become humbled, be made modest again; they usher themselves still in seating order, roughly, elbowing, pushing, it’s madness, keep forward. It’s suddenly hot (it’d been winter): hell if they believe in it should be this hot, that’s how, though they don’t believe, they’re living it here and now, shanking, shouldering, angrily pleasant—and not hot exactly but fevered, a delirium through which they’re wandering, exhausted, heads shvitzing, and pits…sucking under their tongues: a bottle’s cloth teat; a railway ticket used once but unpunched; an edge of ex libris marked with a temperature number.

An arch, pushed up, it stands atop a mound, a hill, a high mountain—the pressure of the arch, the pull and push the very source of its support, and how a force is pulling and pushing them, too: Singer struggling up against his attacking heart, what’s called a preexisting condition; the Feigenbaums, the Rosenkrantzs, Singers, and Tannenbaums, stepping intrados to extrados and all that pagan parsing, the watchwords of idols: the archivolt with its inscription we’re too distant from, too far to read, the soffit, it’s unreadable, also…the vaulted above with its ogive, as sharp as a knife, murderous, then toward the middle of the arch, the hole, the drop, machicolation’s the term, from where the oil or boilingwater would be poured upon any enemy advancing, invading; progress in its deathmarch, slowed as their feet are made shoes themselves through procedures of callus, brass tacks, and metal—and how that wound opens: widens to the dip of the moon that’s only the sweep of a spotlight’s escape, and everything wanders: they grovel before the steps that lead toward it, up, the winding aisles and pillowed stones; stepping high over these hazards, as some are path slates, while others are as snares and barbs, bombs and mines, and how you never know which unless you step, or until. Know this, though: that upon passage through the arch, there’s no mezuzah to forget without kiss—if ever we arrive, and with our mouths survived.

An arch: stones go up then stones go down. Without mortar, it’s pressure alone that holds this thing up.

Once upon a morning, someone would’ve pulled up the sun: an old hand long unionized amid the rigging and tugging, would’ve risen it to shine through the arch with a frayed pole that’d serve as a rope—the sun to be framed in the arch, its face revealed, appearing as if only to receive the glory of the horizon’s siegheiling; then, risen under its own momentum and higher, up to the middle of the sky without middle, millions if not more of an archaic measurement above—it’d fix, be held, sun of Joshua, without shadow, day waiting…

An arch, skysized, though they still must stoop to pass through, to pass over unto—an arch, the entrance to and exit from, with nothingness on either side…

And then, that same Someone would’ve pulled the sun down, lowered it toward the horizon just opposite; hauling in all the properties for dimwatted storage. Even the sun falls, and in now’s inner light, the dinnerguests—because they are dinnerguests, and late, hungry, starving—throw shadows, as they gather themselves toward the set; they approach from the east, advancing, invading, a swarm, freshly showered locusts, shorn with their wives…hauling what they’re hauling you’d be slow, too, but they’re trying.

As they were late for the show, and as the show ended late, now they’re late for their dinner, expected: with a candle still burning held by a boy not so young anymore, melted old in his lasting, then a couple even with flowers, which have been snipped from the wilts of the wayside—essentially stolen, then wrapped up in skin, which is theirs though it be borrowed or bargained or dripping, and wine, which is red, dribbling behind them suspiciously thin; emptyhanded’s no way to arrive, no way to treat a host treating you. As they gather over the land, last explosions are heard, creationary clumps not a warning—smoke to the east they’re fleeing, if east: suns other and younger. They’re fired toward the arch, is the feeling: it’s oy the heat, which is worse though also welcomed as it means they still feel, then the smell, too, the burning, the singe of the sauce: baked chicken, and is that soup cooling on the stovetop above—tell me, I’m that lucky?

They smell; their nostrils open into their faces, eating up their heads into just more empty space to furnish then water with feed; there’s a distant door, opening…gusts: the smells of cedar and pine, lemonlime, which could as much be from the wood polish as the outdoors, from the forest as dark as it’s deep that’ll hide like a mouth as well as it swallows, keeps down; the smells, too, of fat, onion, paprika; they’re desperate for a snort, a schmeck to renew. Their mouths plump; saliva drips from the lip still ahead, trails from them for others to follow: a wandering path of goldening noodles, the more boiled the less hard the less straight and as yellow as yolks, with maybe a little cinnamon dusting, or sugar, that imitation cherry topping, too, not too much to ask; with each false wishniak sac soft in the redness of the #40 dye, how you bite into one and it just seeps into your tongue, you know, as your tongue itself and the pareve of it all’s as a sin: these noodles rise toward them, to greet, as if to wave, curl into their nostrils, then as if the shed skin of serpents, harden again, fossilize fixed, pulling them in, further and near and held tightly. Fumigations, as of the Temple days, but they’re themselves the sacrifices, and yet still how this offering’s intended for them, which means martyrdom. Such expectation, this sense without taste: wafting through their hooks caked in the mucuses of over six million infections; they inhale deeply, a reflex once guilty: enhancing the medicinal effect, as intended: them coming back to life, now that they’ve been called to account…deep in the diaphragm, a lineup at gut, as if reporting; they sneeze themselves into coughs, their lungs milk out a yellow, a responsive pure gold; their forms are wracked, they’re sent into involuntary fits, seizures, or it’s only now that they’re rushing, scrambling, no time to waste.

It’s not only the allergies or infections, though; it’s the promise of food more than the food itself, then the drink, the zissen l’chaim, the mashke, the schnapps, not even that—it’s the old appetite for the as-yet-unfulfilled. Their handkerchiefs, in their pockets, have been in their respective families for who knows how many generations ever since Adam first dressed Eve only in order that she should have a pocket for that apple of hers and so keeping her hands free for tree’s cleaning, the cooking of Eden: napkins stolen from the tables of every diningroom ever liquidated to stain more than could be sopped with a badge or by a country absorbed, clumped into tight balls, into furrowed globes, wadded with snot and liquids in a respiratory ersatz of rainbows. Approaching the summit, this Sinai’s high arch—they clear their throats, an invocation of phlegm, only in order to greet, to meet, say Shalom; only in order to tell their future generations of Adams and Eves about their own passage here—how they came to be at this dinner, how they came to sit and be served only after their crawl through the desert like snakes…the wasteland infertile no good racked an ocean away for the torture, the work details, the lineups, the musters, the no food or drink hunger and thirst, O the ovens!

Everything slows, when, to the kinder, the daughters Israelien all twelve of them Rubina through Batya, their guests, The guests as ours, are even only a few, fifteen minutes late, it’s forever. Rubbed wasted time, what to do. Sing a song, say a story. Tell me about your day, I’ll care as long as they’re coming. Upstairs. Our late wander on on intentions, always, please, and so it’s enough that they want to keep no one waiting, should be. Have patience, and enough with that shuffling. I’ll be up to tuck you in in an hour at 360º. Though this sound can’t be exorcised in that way, as it’s made in no image, has no source in the body that might seek to cool down or drown it: that of blood flowing’s too soft, a heartbeat too familiar, perhaps, makes you think of death’s love and not life, as it’s mechanically measured, pursed out by a Schedule, the pinch of a hand; it’s the tick, the timer’s tock, each tooth as its ancestor was, at the discretion of eternity, to the second, the minute; the sound, it comes from the oven, the oven at the end of the arch, the arch into the oven, then out the other side.

Here is their passing, from the world of the father to that of the mother, her power, again a reparenting: the menschs reduced, exampled less in their shrinking, their squeeze, while the womenfolk only gain, increase, go from strength to strength and further—over the ocean, perhaps the flow, the wetness, made it maternal. Over there, it’d been the Father, the overbearing idol, the loved one hated who’d reigned upon his high clerkdom chair, invested deeply in his dark office raiment, his threepiece, worsted wool suits, tie and hat, his habits of chess, coffee, tobacco, his ledgers kept in scrupulous scripture: sons mulling idle thoughts of patricide, while daughters were ignored, then the mother, too, she was kept marginal if not flipped past forgotten. Here and now, though, it’s the Mother, chesty in her coming, asserted—demonstratively disapproving, her questions as to how late they are proceeding without an apology, in mounting degrees of scrutiny with each tongued flick of the timer, which is the soul of her face tipped with the wag of a finger, accusative, the settling of blame on all but herself—and as for the father, he’s fallen, demoted, let go as the weaker, submissive, stripped bare of his birthright, mortified as made mortal; less meat and more soup: watery broth with its lentils cut up so that Aba won’t gag, it’s too sad. Admit how it’s sexualized, psychology, that science we’ve made to explain our suffering as an internal affair, if only to forgive those truly responsible and so, we hope, to avoid future wrath; the redoubled vengeance of those who do us the one, true, and inexplicable harm, as if nothing’s more natural save how well they keep themselves free from guilt…as if the sons surviving, they’ve agreed to dispense with the middle, the mediating paternal—and to head instead straight for the issue; to dive down headfirst, back into the black from whence they’d issued in warnings better kept private for centuries, generations of gross sublimation, denial: the Mother, the womb…them going into the oven, then out the other side—as another, reborn: not matricide, but an erotic fight—against death.

Her, she’s the head of the household now, around here wears the skirts.

And her tick, it sets even the kinder salivating—Josephine’s hiding under the covers, suckling knees that’re maybe her own. Her mother, our hostess, her timer’s swept through its circle, has timed the rich round of her face in a licking of crumbs from her chins…and yet still—despite the overwhelmingly regular, even attractive, features, the sweet eyes and mouth and the long lashes and small ears behind which the short hair hides as if it fears her, too, her snap judgments, her nosy impatience—and yet still, despite everything made in the mirror, it’s a roundness lamentably random, without relative order, not as much a mistake that can be rectified as it is an object that must be reckoned with in its every imperfection, you have my apologies: her moles and wrinkles, the marks of such an expressioned though meaningless spanse…her flesh morning moisturized and madeup in a false cycle imposed on the raw, is what rankles, puts off, the excess blotchy and loose without cream—ding, ding, Ding. And into all this, with its own history, its own pledges and perils if lesser than any they’d left then no less dire within their own context: counters, a dishwasher, a sink like a pit without bottom, its wastes drained entire counties away—into this, our guests emerge: they come through the arch, the homehearth, the stove he says oven she says and how she’s always right, it’s her kitchen—they enter it, into a world tiled and stainless an ocean away, across, on the wind, on the smoke; with the round white detector making a noise, frightening, an alarm misinterpreted and so, for a moment, until a window’s opened to air, everyone’s frozen, stilled with a bad heart ticked between times…this process not so much a transubstantiation as a forgetting; an experience maybe better controlled with medication, prescription: two pills—one for the heart and one for the head—and they’re Out, then In again…in this kitchen, where their hostess has been cooking away since forever: rushing to the sidedoor in heels matching her mitts, to wave their smoke out into night.

Tonight’s guests, they’ve endured the oppression of that most cultivated, civilizing of structures: an arch, which humbles, makes modest, weathering the threat of its stones to fall, the rocktumbled warning, the tomb’s guard, the sepulcher’s sentry, that that’s served from night immemorial as a gateway through the electrified fence to their keeping, ensuring a bow through the barbs, giving mouth to the fire that would destroy their design even as it feeds its own flames—O the deepthroated, humiliate way, this passage of exile that’s wordless yet punctuated with stark vowels of grief: the songlessness of the conquered, stooped under the arching shade of the willows by the banks of the Babylon rivers; the Roman shuffle as shy as a caretaker, pressed through the cracks between the stones of the Temple, to be remade into either oil or Europe: how they’ve survived if with head hung the terror underlying the form—the arch’s essential destruction, debasement: in its greatest manifestations forcing submission, almost negating of presence; in its least variations standing so tiny and tight that the quills along with the parchment are flayed from any soul processed through—how through this, again, they’ve survived, and miraculously with their appetite still intact…only to emerge from an oven, across the ocean and its lip they’re stepping high and slowly as if poultry themselves, so as not to break or catch anything over the door, opened for their hostess to check on the baking, theirs or that of a surrogate sacrifice—the chicken they’re coming out like, about to be served; still, singeing what hair they have left, snagging their limp, raggedy dresses, worn and torn skirts, their loose, thousandmark suits on wire racks whose grilling appears to mark stripes across their ripped uniforms, too, shreds them into ties, strips into bands to bind tight their hats in their hands. Their glasses go fogged, and so they remove them; they’re all wearing glasses: one schmuck in a pincenez, regular specs the rest; remove them by their bridges, by their noses, their ears, then go groping for the hems of their garments, to wipe. Upon emergence, their stars lose their luster and fall from their breasts, cool to the ground as if cookies or cakes of six pointed flavors, which are as treats for the kinder: holdovers, of sorts, to tide them for bed if they’re asleep come the dawn of dessert. Singer helps his wife out; the Rosenkrantzs, even the wife of them winnowed to bones by now and so dry they’re not even fit for the pot that clouds up above, its soup stirred around with a pinch too much pity—both try to cram through at the same time, but orderly, in step, holding hands. They’ve been conditioned so thoroughly by now, trained, made to follow orders as if a recipe for themselves: a perfect selfpoison, its only and secret ingredient, fear (they all bow their heads save the last of them, Feigenbaum, who hits his); some of them young, some old, some healthy, some sick, some, relatively—they might be related. As a homemaker, a homemacher, as her husband would kid, who she prides herself on knowing her way around every substitute, how to deal with each lack of ingredient, keeps herself knifesharp, spoon-willing, tines tastes herself to ensure: makes piles, takes lists, sneaks groupings and tests; and with no attempt to make separate, between who’s been expected, already counted into the sum of the chairs, assigned placesetting and portion, and who’s been lucky enough to have managed her charity with a spontaneous tip, or on an invitation palmed off secondhand—there won’t be a problem, I’m sure…as she comes back from her guard at the door, how she’s cold to the nose as she greets them whether by name or with respect for their ruses: some meriting hugs with the mittens all thumbs, and with kisses for others, one cheek each or one for each cheek, it depends.

They the arrived late ask altogether, Are we early? or only one or two of them do, of the women, that is, and how it just sounds that they speak for their husbands, as well—and foreheads are slapped…even that of the moon, a gestural smack at the glass, into night. When we don’t know what to do or say or even if, we ask, instead—if you’re uncomfortable in that, why don’t you take it off, change the subject—after the opinion of weather: It was warm today, unseasonally, but we’re in for a coldspell, I’m told…as some assemble as if into fronts themselves around the islands of kitchen, the counterings, a mass of grays and black, already arguing and with lightnings of vein in the eyes that say not that they’re angry, just tired; others begin noshing on what food’s left out, sip water cupped directly from the tap; as some remain in the kitchen and offer to help prepare if just to get away from their husbands, their wives; as others go to hang their Homburgs or their husbands’ in the hall where is the rack: mine’s the third from the left, don’t get any ideas; there are those who take their seats already in the diningroom, which is presumptuous enough though it’s not like they’d sit well with denial: seating themselves down in order of increasing age and infirmity, that would make sense, though not in terms of the actual arrangement of chairs to the right and left of their host at the head, but merely in relation to who’s able to sit first as none of them are much help to those for whom it’s a challenge: their napkins already tucked into their collars loose of a button, or up if weakly atop their irritable laps; their knives and forks held erect, at the ready.

Theirs has been an aliyah, though of a weaker species, a pilgrimage if oppositely directioned: in a distancing turned around at a deadend, before becoming stuck in a loop—a strangers’ sojourn, made to a strange kitchen in a strange house set amid a Development that has been designed so that nothing within it seems strange, which intention feels as if inspired by the divine chance of convenient location, amid a township that—if estranging to many too confused with the materiality of this world that confines them in its tile and grout to ever live freely themselves—was created complete with an excellent school system, too; how we live for our kinder: with its property values nothing to fault save the taxes, how ten cents of every dollar’s been allocated to educating our youngest in the various historical manners by which guests like ours have arrived here alive, if burnt badly; an emergence accounted for, approved, and even financed by the reparate banks of rivers never forgotten through even the unquenchable fire.

Theirs is a life remade, as if a recipe critically revised, secondchances for the not yet overseasoned; a spoil saved what with the mold scraped off with the challahknife of the woman at whose pleasure they’re hosted, these survivors, surviving—only at the indulgence of her slaving, that is, though she’s not letting on how exhausted, especially this week, despite the fact that with that kind of kvetch you run the risk and in slippers of misunderstanding, they all do, and even she herself every once in a while: she’s happy to oblige, though, that she doesn’t have to tell them about slavery.

And so the smile, all pep and pantry rearrangement, it says: we’re so pleased you’re alive, it’s a miracle you finally made it!

Call me Hanna, she asks when Feigenbaum calls her Misses Israelien to ask her whether it’s fine with her for him to sit where he’s already sitting and that without demonstrating any real intention to get up and move, and how she asks it of him sweetly…Hanna’s enough; not like she’d just been made to feel old, even worse: one of them. No problem, please—just stay where you are.

And then how Feigenbaum says, I had a grandmother named Hanna, I think—I think I remember.

I don’t know, it’s my head. You have any aspirin?

O, the queen of this kitchen, the bride who’s married this house into home, the Development’s mother, matriarch of Joysey just an hour’s commute from New York—she’s flushed, hot; worry about yourself, though, it’s only this, which she’s used to by now as if the condition’s become a daughter itself: a moon always full whose light’s to be doted upon, cradled as if a basket she’s hoping to lose to a distant river that runs dark and thick monthly…

Feigenbaum asks, Since it’s bad luck to ask, sometime when we’re not expecting it can you just say him or her so we’ll know. I hope I live long enough to meet, which is it again…I forget.

Nu, grant thee according to thine own heart, if you’re familiar, and, nu, she is and she’s isn’t: familiar because she’s pregnant again, swollen and snippy and thinning of hair, though her other daughters had never overstayed and by so much their welcome, what’s it a week well past due, any night now into day how she’ll spring open a door, the smoke that attends though it’s the doctor who’ll be wearing the mitts…high on the hospital wall, the deliveryroom as if a vacation house that’s how much time she’s spent there, she remembers: her as round as its clock and as pale, that and upon its thirteenth cycle its last how she’s slowing, how quickly she’s stilling, the tick of a timer winding down not just on a tray or dish warming but on the mechanism itself, the entire body she came with, the oven of her womb without warranty as installed too near the soul and too private—and then, at the same time, as she finds herself answering Feigenbaum’s psalm with her silence (behold, she recalls: she that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep), not so much familiar…which sensation she feels moved to explain is almost pregnant itself, as if by itself, selfgenerating in how it’s constantly, circumlunarly estranging me from myself, I’m so lost, but she doesn’t; in the end, timelessly unfamiliar, because—and this she withholds by fingering a knob, a drawer’s navel—not only is it a boy, Mazel Tov, but why does it feel like He’s early?

Their table, like the sun, almost set. In the kitchen, the shades are down anyway. Four are the legs of their table, a table with three legs is suspect, two are impure, and a table with one leg is an abomination in the eyes of God, which are infinite and are less eyes than they are legs upon which we might flee from the gaze of His judgment come the close of the Sabbath, our day of rest. The table sits on its legs, its legs sit on the floor. All is grouted—stayed, put—not moving, nothing rushing anywhere is what, just now no; all is grounded. Upon the ground, we know what is expected of us, and what to expect of others—to grovel for air. Tile tiles—molding molds—laminate void—formica without form—linoleum turf parquet that’s wood real wood, carpet carpets wall to wall to wall to sky; rugged, shagged, we’re just floored. Breathe easy, brotherfriend. We’re here to stay again. House to heavens stilled. Beyond, who knows. And who wants to. Cloud. All’s darkening, slowly—a scurry. Tonight is a night for stray dogs. As the dark is immovable, its shadows may roam as they please. It hurries into their yard up from the sidewalks. Without traffic, however, there can be no streets, there can only be sidewalks, and so every way of the earth is made safe. Finally, we are home. Weather’s wet, dripping ugly, though it hasn’t yet begun raining, or snow. The waters below and the waters above have not yet become separate. We will tell each a lie about the other and they will come to hate one another and they will never come together again except in a storm. That lie will be the oceans are more beautiful than the sky and the sky is more beautiful than the oceans, and though both are lies they are equally true. From a cloud, the threat of clouds. Collarless, tiny. Nameless and without sound. It paws the stoop, then raises its head. Mensch speaks. Woman speaks. None listen. This barks. It barks stray. Bowoof. Arfgr. And at its sound the lights give it a new name, the lights name it dog—flicking on.

A neighbor’s, hopefully—and inside, Hanna, like these lights alert to every motion of the house, those outside it, goes to see who or sends Wanda, thinking can’t be a guest, it’s too early.

Never to suspect her husband, who’s late, always last.

Thinking which door.

As Hanna believed: frontdoors exist only to provide for the existence of other doors, the sidedoors, the reardoors, and, too, to mark for her the meaning of those who might enter her house—for dinner or which meeting home-hosted, whether invited or just dropping in: who her intimate and who not, who’s to be trusted with her keys and her friendship, her family and hospitable heart. Some would enter through the frontdoor, only to exit—meaning Hanna would exit them, holding their hands, or her arm around their waist—through the side, the rear, and so they have gained in trust and love. Others would enter through the side, the rear, even the porch, only to exit through the front—and so losing the goodwill of her soul.

As Israel’s understood it, despite doubting his wife’s belief, always leaving his own home from the side.

Her husband, who even at this late hour sits atop Midtown when and where there’s still light.

The Sabbath to the left of him, Sabbath to the right, but there’s no Sabbath where he’s sitting—the sun stayed above him, just waiting, as he waits, he’s working, he works, is a lawyer, too much.

Of him, the following’s told:

One Sabbath the Sabbath arrived already and he was stuck, going from work to home he was stuck in the tunnel out of town, under the river, the Hudson—the tunnels Lincoln or Holland, depending. And so he arrived home from work only after the sun had set, after the start of the Sabbath. When asked by the kinder how their father could travel on the Sabbath, Hanna answered that a miracle had occurred: that night, behind their father was the Sabbath, before their father was the Sabbath, above him Sabbath, below him Sabbath, too, but wherever their father was, when, stuck in rushhour, in traffic upon the Turnpike or Parkway, there it was not the Sabbath, not yet.

Aha, Shabbos. Father ordains, mother explains. Also, she cleanscooks, sews, comes & goes, pays the cleanerhousekeeper, the tailor, the sitternanny. Wanda.

Today again, it’s Friday, a week until Xmas…the year winding down as if a ribbon unwrapping what present, a question, how many shopping days left—and which is it, anyway, questions: day the fifth or seventh, depending upon which calendar you might believe, which Sabbath’s yours; or else, nu, it might still be the sixth day, as the sun hasn’t yet set to begin the seventh with night and its moon.

Almost the Sabbath, then, Shabbos they say, Shabbos is what we say and have always said every week—Hanna preparing herself and her kinder, the house, too; all must be always prepared.

Hands unwashed crowned by tiny miraculous thumbs part the kissing tips of the tablecloth. Still in schoolclothes, kinder stand facing each other across arborvitæ, place of placesettings, polished to a diamond. One remembers, and so they kiss again the tablecloth, leave it lie. A heap of white to sweep. Another daughter returns, sponge in hand. The floor is dripped upon, there are drips upon the floor, Flood upon the face of the hallway—its mouth a drop, dip your shoe.

A mess, the two of them stare at each other.

One tries to embrace the other and the other runs away squealing, returns as yet another, bearing no gifts and yes grudges, and a rag, too, and so they sponge and rag, they wring and squeeze—they flap the tablecloth once, twice, three times to catch air, bounce angels and archangels into the heavens to bump their heads if heads they have or halos upon the ceiling or chandelier. Glass in tinkling strands. One leaves, returns with a pad for protection: the pad goes under the tablecloth, over the table on its legs on the floor. Order, these daughters are always reminded. And so the tablecloth is swept to the floor, the pad placed, arranged, straightened, rearranged, again the tablecloth flapped, begins the bounce again. The angels of archangels are crumbs, they’re granules of salt, they’re the apologies for spilled wine.

Next is that chairs are counted, check, one to threed on gnawed fingers, the ten seats of the limited hand.

Might not be enough.

They yell to their mother, to their mother in the kitchen as they seem to have a different mother for each room of the house: happy and sad and cooky and cleany but constantly busy, depending.

How many we having tonight?

There’s no answer, they haven’t heard before, what, they yell again, they’re always—we didn’t hear you!

A woman enters the diningroom; what Ima she’ll be they’re waiting to daughter accordingly.

Two Tannenbaums, she answers the last time I’m telling you, plus two Rosenkrantzes, two Singers makes six, then the fourteen of us and the Cohens, the Dunkelspiels, the Kestenbaums, the Lembergs, the Friedmans, the family Weiss and the Feigenbaums make, you tell me—thirtyfour…and then, maybe your father invited his new partner, he never tells me.

Make it, what’s that? Thirtysix.

We need more chairs, they yell once she’s left and they’ve counted again, we’re too short.

There’s no answer, they haven’t heard her, what, they yell, what’d you say!

A voice from the kitchen mouths slowly and tightjawed, enunciating as if each sound a loosed tooth.

And my feet.

Stop. Shout. Ing. Come in here if you have something to say, comes the voice.

Issuance of the drain, a ram’s horn stuck in the garbage disposal.

They stick tongues though they’re warned they might stick there, in the air, at each other and her they roll eyes, toopeopled planets that might be stilled, too.

Chairs are brought in from the kitchen. Four from there to six in the diningroom makes ten. All fingers, sucked. We need more! they shout, then bring them up from the basement—foldingchairs, contingencies of plenty, storaged for the makeshift of joy. They reach for one another, pass the chairs up the stairs from the basement, of which they’re afraid, it’s unknown. And rusty and flaking, smelling by old mold and the noise, they seat themselves out in creaks, blown joints, bad knees. As it is written: Chairs from the kitchen may be mixed with chairs from the diningroom, if the number of kitchen chairs does not exceed the number of diningroom chairs. As it is said: Verily it is permissible to place a chair within one to three cubits from a chair to its left and, it follows, one to three cubits from a chair to its right, no less than one cubit, nor greater than three cubits, which violations are impure. That is, if anyone knows what a cubit is anymore. A forearm’s span, from the finger’s tip to the joint of the elbow. Aha.

What’re we having tonight? Josephine yells through the hallway.

There are only two possible answers, one really for Shabbos.

Hanna finds herself screaming meat through the hall, through which Josephine runs, her mother’s shout spattering a blood blush on her face, anger and fear, vases of dead flowers shake upon low fluted pedestals, Old Master reproductions, prints, posters, and family photographs swing to unevenness on hooks on the wall. Fleischig! Flatware, plates, utensils. The cabinet to your left, a cupboard further. There are no such things as meat chairs or dairy, not yet. And then stemware, the glasses for water and pitchers and jugs, and then the cups, for the Kiddush, which is the blessing over the wine, breathing atop the counter opposite the sink, gleaming thirsty.

What? Josephine shrieks as she arrives at the kitchen, trips over the threshold, falls into the pit of her mouth.

Her sisters gather at the rim to throw at her matzahballs plucked from the burbling soup.

Hanna sighs tongue over lips to keep herself from a reprimand, turns from the face of her daughter sobbing, hulks her bulk into a drawer, opened, bumps it hard and high—the challahknife flies up and falls, twirls across the floor, its handle hits a leg of their brunch table, their daily, and stops, its sharp pointing west; bending over her belly she retrieves it, holds it in the sink, under the water that’s running, soap webbing her hands, over the knife, she rinses then runs a new handtowel across, drying fiercely as if to separate the serrations. Tap remains on, drawer remains opened, a meat drawer. Other drawers, the dairy, are closed, marked in white to benefit Wanda.

Staring at the opened meat drawer, at the assortment of utensils relatived with their difficult, always changing names for their callings, as improved spoons, modified forks winnowed of tines then sharpened to knives for the harvest—Josephine teardried, saved from her mouth having shimmied to safety up the rope of her voice, she’s getting breath, considering thanks. She’s trying to do right, remember the order: the knife for the butterless bread against the fork for the salad, next to the soupspoon (which is table for grownups, a tea for the kinder—for herself, she steals a tablespoon extra, hides it under her napkin), dinnerfork, knife (which is sharp for the grownups, less so for the kinder, sharpest of all for herself), dessertfork then the littlest spoon to stir sugar at the tea or the coffee to be served with the cake—everything Israel’s hair silver, Hannapolished last holiday to the shine of three moons, the New Year.

They’re featheredged, Hanna would explain, vermeil is ordained; the set was a wedding gift, an aunt and her second husband, on her side of course, she’d never thought of him as an uncle—or was it, though we’d registered with…

Josephine heaps the table with silver.

Still, the drawers aren’t all shut, the cabinet, the cupboard, Hanna stops reminding herself, to remind at her daughters—whatever you open you—place the breadplates, breadknives, the huge knife for the challah, handled in arm. Again, there’s an order: the plate for the fish atop the plate for the salad, atop the dinnerplate, then, with the soupbowl, dessertplate and saucer and cups for the coffee or tea to be brought in from the kitchen. Patience, is urged. The plates are set out, aired in a stack. Kinder scrape away sauce that’d dried along a rim, had hardened, though all the plates and the bowls had already been through the dishwasher once, twice, three times or more, cycles of cycles—it’s old, Hanna’d say, about the dishwasher rumbling, rabidly slobbing its soap—almost time for a new one, an upgrade for their anniversary, only if she asks first, then orders herself. And, nu, there’s an order to the dishwashing, too: handwash first, then dishwasher, and then a drying, in threes. Freshly washed then washed again and dried servingplates line the range, atop the stove he says atop the oven she says through which their guests’ll enter tonight. Hanna’s incredulous; you’d be, too. These hands, their wrinkles, this ring—maybe it’s the solution I’m using, you think?

An order, a door is opened, glasses are removed, the door is shut and is glass. Everyone gets waterglasses, only the grownups get wineglasses, all get cups for the blessing of wine later to be poured into glasses then drunk. A glass door’s opened, glasses removed, Hanna shuts it—to the right, to the right’s the reminder. For Kiddush, said to bless the fruit of the vine, sanctifies our crushing of bunches and clusters, makes holy our stompstompstomping. Annoyance. Insistence. Josephine returns to the kitchen, to another cabinet, from it removes the cups, hers and her sisters’ all from a tray, extras for the guests from the shelf above, then from that below the rest—to the left, remember, your other left…Hanna, tired of reminding, with a last reprimand—peace—exiles her daughters upstairs.

Daughters rush to their rooms, the rooms of their own and those rooms shared together depending on age, want, need, habit, lay out their just ironed, folded blouses and skirts, which is Wanda, upon their dressers and beds, pull pleats straight, air out the give inside pressed, wrinkleless pleats, wash their faces at sinks, other faces of hands are washed as they wash their faces with them then swab gargle mint pimple potion, they throw water at each other, scream at one another until Hanna shouts loudly to stop it up there, stomps a foot twice on the tile, rings the kitchen sink with a ladle dried now dirtied, they stop, step into their dresses and skirts, zip each other up and thumb buttons, then stand in line according to an age that corresponds to their heights in the hall and arrange hair in the mirror, littlest ones aren’t able to even reflect themselves, though they pretend to. Hanna’d put the flowers brought by last week’s guests into vases and into the vases she’d poured water from the vases of the week before last and the flowers, they’d wilted and died under the shadow of the kinder’s schoolwork, redletter tests and popquizzes aced, fingerpaint smudge, cutouts and crayon portraits of Ima, Aba, & Me that flap from the wall when doors or that of the oven are opened and shut—there’ll be new flowers tonight, reassures. She notices a photograph of herself that she hates hanging lopsided off at the far sun of the wall, makes her think to stomp another foot, straighten the floor. Or else, to accept disarray. Embrace mess. Exalt imperfection. Too much, every week. Hanna can barely remember her tired. Exhausted, more like pregnant again.

Rubina, upstairs and annoyed, frustrated, goddamn it. She’s in her room that’s hers alone trying to make up the bed she hasn’t yet shared with anyone else. This is what she was told once, never told again, it’s a rule, an order unspoken, old enough she should know better by now: Make your bed!

But the sheets always come off. Rather, the bed is always coming off, up from under the sheets.

Off, up, under: enough that one never stays on or off the other; the two rarely, never, commingle in perfection; she hates it. She’s always kneeling on one edge and stretching the sheet, fitted, over another edge whether opposite or diagonal it can’t, won’t, reach because she’s kneeling on that very edge that would give it enough slack, enough sheet, fitted, to fit, perfectly, the sheet, flat, also mussed, lying in a pile at her feet, whether on the bed or off, massed forgotten on the floor, along with her blanket, or comforter, whichever, what’s the diff.

She’s always adjusting and readjusting, pulling one side to push the other, pushpulling, making taut to obtain slack, slackening to taut an other edge, the bunch, the corner, half on, off half—it’s a mess, a burden…just wait until you go away to college and become an adult; and yet this should be unnecessary—but Wanda won’t be bothered, can’t be this Friday this late despite—especially when Rubina knows that in her sleep she’ll, unconsciously, subconsciously, though she forgets which, tossturn the sheets awry again, away and off, again and again as always, her dreaming all the while that her bed’s less a bed than an ocean, the ocean—her sheets are blue, as is her blanket, which matches her comforter, the pillows—that her bedding’s the ocean’s water, its waters, the surface then the surface underneath the surface, the depth, rising and writhing, the depths falling yet again into wake, and that nothing, no amount, degree, work, hope, will ever succeed in mating the two waters above and below that God created before He slept, too.

It’s difficult, just as, this having of kinder. Hanna’s realization in one mundane moment, in the kitchen, at the sink with waters falling unseparated, unseparatable at the stairs with her kinder ascending, at their bedsides as they sleep amid the lapping of dreams—in one breath borne high above the sky wet with kisses—that these daughters of hers aren’t only her daughters, that they’re themselves, too, people like her and Israel, future husbands and wives and even, eventually, parents, let’s hope. And so we name them, you have to: the names flow out from the mouth as their bearers once flowed born from the womb; the names given them perhaps giving them, too—or just a portion of what they’d become—to themselves; names maybe making the named; naming being in essence a making; the name Itself the sacrosanct secret formula of Creationdom’s breast. Though these names—in this family, so liquid, so fluid, always in motion and moved—sometimes shift, are forgotten, go remembered again, are less reinvented than rotated around, rerotated, stirred then scooped from, filled then poured out; they’re assigned, reassigned, then selected at random, by whom they’re ladled and spooned—the Israelien daughters being bartered and bribed for, erroneously threatened against by intemperate parents, the names forced upon them remaking with chores (Simone’s cleaning of vessels, Liv’s ritual tub scrub, sponging the bath); not that any of this matters to them, even bothers, this calling and changing born of convenience, confusion, as it’s only to begin again with another rotation, clockwise the names handeddown, dripping, a leak: a hole in the ceiling, a wound in the cup of the hands—until one eventide a lunation, as the names freeze over with the stars and the moon, each one of the twelve kinder’s anointed again with her own given name, never His.

And so Rubina—the eldest, the firstborn who’s fragile yet never much worried about, though still a girl, though still a daughter and without any privilege, without an exemption, upstairs folding her wardrobe, fluffing her seniority, her pillows and hair—she’s often known as Simone, the secondborn, though Simone is less Rubina than she is Livia, the thirdborn, who’s sometimes Si and at other times Judy, Hanna insists Judith, the fourthborn, and reverse that (Judy/Liv), or Batya (still the youngest, if often forgotten), and also Isa, the fifthborn, Isa from Isabella Hanna again has to insist, known mostly as Is—just like Israel her father she takes after, and so at least he should remember, though he doesn’t, not much—though to him Isa is occasionally Zeba, the sixthborn and so one of two middlekinder, as Isa or Is is usually poorly behaved—there’s never just one of them crying over a mistaken identity, the milk of her personality spilled—and Zeba’s only occasionally (poorly behaved), Zeb who’s sometimes Dina, the seventhborn and so the other of two middlekinder, who herself is sometimes Isa, and Natalia, the eigthborn, who is occasionally Dina, though Di is never Nat as she’s known who’s often also taken for Gill, the ninthborn, short for Gillian, who’s often Isa who herself ’s often Asa, the tenthborn, easy enough to make that mistake, and reverse that (As/Is), Gillian who’s often Jo, from Josephine, the eleventhborn, while Rubina, Simone, Liv, Judith, Isabella, and Zeba are all sometimes Batya, if seldomly, the last so far and the twelfth, though Batya’s never anyone else with the exception of Josephine then reverse that, and anyway Batya’s more often called Bat, but most often B or Be. As in Must you Be so annoying, so demanding, so loud and insistent why don’t you just go sit on the couch of the sofa and cry your way through a last show on teevee, a toy, play a game by yourself with yourself, any joy, count the cushions, which are islands, don’t you know, and must be kept separate from the pillowy clouds that require your enumeration as well. How many fingers, must you Be so difficult, how many toes. That is, whenever anyone decides to talk with her, to talk to her or even of her, orders and rules, which is hardly ever as she can herself barely speak. Who even knows if she knows her own name.

Daughters of Hanna—and daughters of Israel, too, who maybe wished some might’ve been sons.

He sits in judgment of himself atop his intersection when and where there’s still light. Skyscraping, Midtown. Not much longer. In a chair at his desk, one arm behind his head, the other over his mouth, stroking his beard, going gray to become white, the arch of his moustache, or yawning—tired, he’s always tired, he never sleeps, never gets to sleep, despite the pills, despite the wine and pills, despite his liver; strokes the remnants of his illadvised, inevitably late linner to the floor, the lunch of his dinner he flicks its rye’s crusts, crumbs, and seeds to the rich rug stretching out above the parquet slick, kept exceedingly mopped with what seems to be gribnes, or schmaltz—one day, his fear, he’ll slip and fall, his hip, his broken back, he’ll sue; might as well begin billing himself for the case, he thinks, sucks the seltzer from his moustache, withholds a weakling fart.

Tilting his chair, he props his wingtips up on the desk, stretches himself out, then pulls himself back in, fetally small, knees to lips.

Then pushes out again, tilts back the chair, feet up on his desk, then again.

This is work, if he has to explain it to them, his wife, his kinder, he throws up his hands and tells them, what I do. This is what I do to put a roof over your heads, food on your plates. What. I. Do. This is working as a lawyer for any plaintiff who could afford him. To think, those who do would make for better defendants. A caseload such as you wouldn’t believe. What he puts up with, what he hears, and what he says, too, every day, same old. Tell it to the judge who’s a friend.

His plaint: this waiting, this wasting of the last hour of the last day of the second to last week of the year, the last day of the last workweek he’s working this year. Winter, the sun to set upon early, foreshortened days. He’ll be late. To apologize, make up to them for his irresponsibility, the traffic, the weather. In his family, Israel’s often the defendant. His daughters the jury. With Hanna as counsel, he could do worse for representation.

The office is purging itself, up from the guts of the subterranean parkinggarage, with everyone off to their own—it’s almost Xmas, the holiday all the receptionists, secretaries, and paralegals observe…and a Merry Merry to you, too, to you and yours from me and mine and all of us here at Goldenberg, Goldenberg, & Israelien. With the support staff gone all next week, everyone else takes off—if not for their secretaries, what would get done? Cups without coffee. Briefs long blank. File the lack of an alphabet.

He searches his small office refrigerator—as empty as it’d been gifted to him, by friends of the family, after wasting an afternoon fixing a speeding ticket, assault more like an unfortunate misunderstanding for their son, a classmate of Rubina’s. At least it’s plugged in. Amid the silence, the thing cantors low.

It’s not that he’s still hungry or thirsty—after that sandwich too late, and this with Shabbos stuffed in the oven of home—it’s something else, something different: the refrigerator’s new magnet, TGIF it acronyms THANK GOD IT’S…his secretary, Hanna, no, Lorna, no—wait, he’ll find it, he’d scribbled it down once on the back of a businesscard, just in case—her name’s Loreta, yes, Loreta she’s always picking these magnets up wherever she shops, who knows, his wife’s habit, too, just as bad.

Nothing left to do, nothing expected of him until the Monday after this Monday expected, there’s no reason he’s here, no excuse, he should go home, his wife’s pregnant, expecting any breath, any any, but he won’t, if it’s expectations we’re talking, how he doesn’t, he stays, he works late; wraps a rubberband around his fingers as if in the hand of phylacteries, Shadai, holds a paperweight in the rubberband, tugs to tension, lets go, with the rubberband as a sling today’s paperweight’s hurled across desk, floor, office, through the air, misses the trash—a David he’s not. Around the trash are scattered months of paperweights, all the same model, moonily lucent and round—his secretary’s always picking these up for him whenever she goes on vacation wherever she goes, Loreta, he’ll remember it now: this specimen like the others says MIAMI across the top and he hates Miami, that he’ll never forget, that’s where his father lives, where his mother did, too, but his father; my daughters won’t grow up to marry like that, so he says, my daughters’ll never grow up. Holes in the wall where he’d overshot the trash, when the paperweights’d hit plaster, insulation, embedded.

It’s just around that time for Maintenance, the sanitation engineers due to slink in, dragging with them their pails and mops: he always avoids their eyes on his way out, reddened, sloshy, inflamed with powdered soaps, disinfectant sprays, it’s too terrible—how in their blindness, you see how you’re cleansed. A flesh hunched into woman stops at the door, smiles lone tooth, thumbs at his trash. He nods, she lifts it to dump into her trash kept on wheels.

TGIF. MIAMI. M.y I. A.ches M.y I, why these stupid diversions. Paperweights, there are none in his trash.

Wasting in his office, waiting for the Voice—amid the wilderness of petty dispute, for a test, a message garbled with grace, anything pressingly Urgent, requiring Attention whether immediate in action or reflective in referral and thought, anything to keep him in re: here, and so to keep him away from there, preemptive prophecy rescheduling Them. Home. And a goodnight to the window scheduled to his face. Merry Xmas. Nu, to you, too, take it easy…as he orders his work, shuffles paper, clips, throws all to a drawer of the stomach. Soon, his desk’s empty except for the calendrical blotter, his planner, which is showing two months and this month, the months prior and next shown smaller than this, shrunk, the past inked in with slashes. Fingers stained have marked with dark the month foretold at lower right. A moon revolves around the days of his planner, bleeds through boxes of weeks, wax to wane, fulling and renewing itself.

Too many engagements to appointment his keeping; familiar keys amid the wide, soothing hallway fluorescence: he nods to the janitorial shadow darkening the door to his office, which nods in return as it’s sunned, as it’s setting.

I rest my case, my feet and their boils.

A diploma, hung from a reverent nail, slid verticalways, then fell from the wall last week; he’d propped it on a shelf since, against a wall of family photos, which are doubles of those hung in the house. A tarnished metal nameplate upon the obverse of his door. An artifact already, scrape it with a toothbrush for six million years. If any teeth might survive. His name’s embossed on its brass. Though it’s nearly unreadable by now, quartercentury into this work, his name’s still what it was, and is good.

ISRAEL ISRAELIEN. And then a, a comma. And then it says ESQ., as if you had any doubts.

A sign out front, over Reception:

Goldenberg, Goldenberg, & Israelien

Attorneys-At-Law

The Goldenbergs? Are they brothers? Were they husband and wife, or father and son, mother and daughter, or father and daughter or mother and son? Or else just irrelative? What? May I ask who’s calling, asking who wants to know? Israel doesn’t, he never did, he’s never met them, not even sure they exist, ever existed. He’s now the firm’s senior partner, seniormost, and whoever the Goldenbergs were, if they were, he’s sure they’re long dead, they should be. Forgotten. Goldenberg? I don’t know. Goldenberg? Never heard of him, her, or them. Sorry. Wish I could help you.

I don’t know them from Adam. But his name was Goldberg…

Though perhaps, Hanna wastes thought on later nights—she’d never ask Israel, how to admit to that ignorance after a generation of marriage, she thinks—perhaps they weren’t people at all, rather those two golden mountains, the Poconos, and the silver valley between, where her mother and she’d vacation when she was young and could still swim the lake. One rumor among the secretaries was that the name was originally GOLDENBERG, GOLDENBERG, & GOLDENBERG, ATTORNEYS-IN-LAW, as one of the Goldenbergs had been a woman who’d taken her husband’s—and partner’s—last name, and that the third Goldenberg, Goldenberg Sr., had been Goldenberg’s—Goldenberg Jr.’s, the husband’s—older brother, they’d gossip: meaning they were in-laws, Goldenberg and Goldenberg the wife of Goldenberg, Goldenberg’s brother, née Silbertal as it’s said, and so—with lawyerly respect for the precise, the fineprint—they were attorneys-in-law, as well. Who knows. Though it’s also been said that Israel had started his own practice from nothing, and that the first order of business was to think up two names, to put up front, on the sign, on the stationary, to keep himself humble, in clients.

Quiet. He’s working. Don’t disturb.

In front of that sign the length of the wall, an ergonomic chair keeps the form of a woman at sit: obese, spine troubles around L-4, L-5 and lets everyone know, circulation problems in the buttocks, venous leg ulcers, ingrown toenails, bad breath. A desk keeps the chair. High and wood.

Israel loses himself to his planner: liquids, inks and shavings, rushed meals, spilled coffees and creamers, grains of sugar and sweeteners, unlettered doodles, a scribble of numbers the sum of all times.

Just how late is he? Enumerate this: it’s either the fifth or the sixth day of a week in the third, ninth, or twelfth month depending, December/Kislev whichever way you look at it, he more like squints at his watch though it’d stopped three hours ago. And his eyes. Hymn. Or maybe he’s already dead.

He looks at the hands writ on the wall, he’s alive.

Later, he looks again: the hands are two roots, growing further apart until they’ve grown near, again intertwine. Now it’s nearly a handful of hours past that twinning, their mingle. Fingers, two hands of them, scratch at his beard. He glances up from his planner, prints thumbs into face. Thinking about the time in his secretary’s office. Her clock he bought with the rest of her furniture.

And so he gets up and goes to her office and checks her clock to make sure it’s the same and it is, give or take and he’s taking, a sweet from her snack-drawer, sucks it on his way back to his chair.

Through the window, the sun passes: his fountainpen as the gnomon of the sundial that is his desk, and with it he scribbles a shopping list, oneitemed on an empty matchbook atop his planner at an angle of shadow equal to the latitude of his office, floors high at the top, how he’s risen.

Why not dictation—he’s thinking about calling up Loreta at home, having her take this down: Challah, two loaves.

And then, remind me again, what’re the names of my daughters? Loveneedy, Liv wants hugs and kisses. Judith does the best she can better. Give Simone her space. Easy does it Isabella. Zip it Zeba get a grip. Like father like mother as Asa. Be good to Batya, make nice to praise her effort. Don’t be meaner, support Rubina. How to remember, he’s asking, how could I forget.

And then those two loaves. Period, Paragraph. Loreta, his wife’s called: read it back, he’d ask.

Where’s his coat? She would know. On a hanger hanging in the closet doublebreasted. On the coatrack hobbled in the corner. No. Draped over his chair right behind him. And his glasses? Lost atop his head.

His coat, which none of his kinder’ll ever fit into; the youngest of them could be cradled in one of its pockets, in which she’d find an empty matchbook on which’s been penned a reminder.

Buy challah, it says.

Rolled in a receipt from last week.

From the city, he thinks, because he didn’t take the train today, the drive out to the Developments, what with the delay—an hour, fortyfive if I’m lucky. Which you are, Hanna’d remind, and he’d be reminded, remember, if only he’d call. To stop, run an errand. Just a minute. And then to stop in at shul, too, there’s still that. He’ll park in the lot, walk home in ten. All is actionable, that’s what’s on the agenda. He sips at the fountain on his way out the door. Always the last to leave, despite any nature, no matter what darkness: he’s thinking, O to have an office high above the sun!

Having presented the Gatekeeper with all appropriate identifications, Friday’s permit obtained a moon in advance, and having successfully passed Security, all ten tests, seven days of them and more, the pair idling down the street in a luxury sedan of the latest model—driving, nu, so not everyone’s so occupied with the Law—slowgoing and quiet as they’re trying to find whatever particular arboreally named turnoff, which is particularly difficult, and so requires particular slowness and quiet, in a planned gridded neighborhood of approximately ninety equally leafy, differently treenamed streets, and not just Streets: in a Development of one Elm Avenue, one Elm Boulevard, one Elm Street, and one Elm Terrace—not to be confused with 1 Elm Terrace, home of the Ulms—in a Development named by a committee of hundreds One Thousand Cedars, and not just because the Name rang investmentworthy, which it surely still does. Right turn there then left here where everything’s just soooooooo spread like all the way out, she’s just noticing, he’s thinking morning’s smooth, schmeared like creamed cheese over warmed pumpernickel the last he had to eat as she’s reminded before work with its ten cups of diuretic coffee—out where it’s too far to walk anywhere, ever, no matter what kind of shapely health you’re in and so they drive, three minutes down the Parkway from their neighboring Development.

His window down, hers up, then his up and hers down now his down and hers up again, they’re debating over the passing airs—the unabashed excesses of the stereo, the soundtrack that came with the car.

Gray with white shutters.

What number?

I’ll know it when we’re there.

White with gray shutters.

What tree?

Apple or Fig.

Which water?

There are waters here, too.

Apple River? Apple Lake?

Lane or street or avenue.

Or boulevard or way.

What number?

33?

Why am I thinking 33? and she straightens herself

in the seat and her skirts.

Open a window, he says, in the midst of a pianissimo mistaken for silence, tries to find something else on the radio so that they don’t have to talk. Across her lap a bouqet of irises; in the backseat, a bottle of wine.

What’re their names?

Who?

Their daughters’.

I forget, there’re so many of them, they’re

like locusts.

How many?

I think so.

What?

You don’t listen.

You’re the one who works with him.

And so?

You tell me.

Anyway, I work for him.

And us? she says, looking to the seat where the

wine’s rested itself in a seam.

What? he’s distracted, peers over the wheel into the headlights’ saving arc.

Nothing, she sighs you’re not listening, never, then sinks down in her seat, water from the flowers soaking her sweater through the paper and plastic they’re wrapped in.

He glances from his watch to the time of the stereo display.

Or the frequency, there on the dash.

He leans over once to peep at her watch and she thinks he’s trying to kiss her.

His office is empty, and Israel, who’d hired him just last week, is still sitting in traffic. Why? What do you consider your greatest strengths? Your greatest weaknesses? Where do you want to be in the practice in five years? In ten? The chair had been comfortable and the knot of his tie was of the appropriate size. What judges have you appeared before? What kind of hours have you been used to working? Have you brought sample briefs? His underwear had been new and clean, his socks, too. There’d been too many questions, and he’s expecting even more of them tonight, and more personal. You are married, is that correct? Does she work? Do you mind? Why no kids?

Still, it couldn’t have gone better, then the invitation for Friday night dinner. He’d answered a resounding yes to it all.

And he shows his gratitude through lateness, just perfect. An apology’s required, but he’s feeling more: maybe he’ll offer to wash dishes, or take out the trash.

Why the fear, he already has the job. Never sure.

Hanna, she’d hired Israel for husband already knowing the faults.

Why all this waiting when he has no workwise reason to wait, when he has a home and a meal, hot, and guests, yes, probably guests already, them waiting, too, and a wife and kinder only waiting for him who they themselves have no waitwise excuse—courtesy not having any priority over the coming of Shabbos?

He’s waiting in fear, Israel, out of fear.

His guests and new junior partner, what’s his name and the girlfriend, the wife.

Fear because of cancers, because he thinks he has cancers, because he knows he has cancers, because he has cancers.

And why does Israel have cancers?

Because his mother had had cancers and his mother’s mother had had cancers, his mother’s father, too, then their own parents as well, and then their parent’s parents had all had their own cancers and yadda and blah unto the most rarefied generation; everyone he’s ever been related to all the way back probably forever since even Adam, he’s thinking—whose death at almost one thousand years old isn’t accounted for in the detail that would seem to befit the first death, naturally caused—had had cancers, and then died of them weakened and feeble at whatever unripe young age.

And then fear for his own kinder, too. As those of his wife’s family who didn’t die of cancers, who’d died of anything else, if they’d only lived longer, lived long enough, if the Germans and Russians, among others, didn’t do what the Germans and Russians have been known to do, always, then they, too, would’ve eventually died of cancers, he’s sure of it, has to’ve been—it’s in the family, a blackbox heirloom kept in the basement, locked in an attic’s suitcase, a trunk at the foot of the stairs.

Inherited, dust to dust.

Why? Because. Cancer is a waiting matter. A working matter, only of time.

Why, because you have to wait on your cancers, patience patience patience—having cancers like having guests, expecting husband to father himself home with the challah, in time for the motzi and wine.

Why, because you have to work at your cancers, slowly, patiently, nurturing them, allowing them the room to like you know grow. Like in any relationship, like with wife and kinder.

Israel has all the cancers, and they’re all his kinder: some intelligent, others stupid, some handsome, others ugly, some tall others short, some embarrassing, others to pride. To shep nachas over and above, kvell the tears. To forget—though it doesn’t matter which in the end. Why, because they’re his.

Because he feels it, he knows it, deep down in the cells. He has cancers of the heart and the liver and kidneys and lungs all two of them then the throat and prostate and that that’s testicular, too, leftleg cancer, rightleg cancer, which he feels down to his toes that have cancers of their own to cope with. To deal, with the bladder control, the hairloss; imagining the mirrored shame, hurting as if a reflection of the pain disembodying, gotten under the skin despite the pills, despite treatments. He has eye cancers, nose cancers and ear cancers, brain cancers—and cancer. His cancers have cancer and those cancers have cancer, his tumors everywhere have tumors themselves and those tumors, tumors; tumors unto tumors unto tumors unto tumors unto the umpteenth generation, why not. In his office, Israel sits in what most would think perfect physical shape, recently evaluated, relative doctor signedoff on as maybe, nu, a dessert overweight, like most he could stand to lose say ten, twelve pounds, no more meals after snacks, though in generally satisfactory overall health, except for the—anyway thinking himself, maybe even wishing himself, dead away.

But until that wish might be fulfilled, finalizing him, naming him tensed in the past, Israel names himself, his own tumors—some he gives his kinder’s names and some names he thinks are his kinder’s, some names he would’ve like to have named them: Rubina, yes, Josephine and Batya, Evan and Jake—Jacob, to her—Josef or Joseph and Justin and Samuel, Simon and Steven or Stephen, and Benjamin, yes, Benjamin ben Israel Israelien; he’d always hoped for a boy, they all had, women crying out for a son, for Israelien cancers to come.

Why does he name them? To master them. To ignore.

Israel’s been sitting and naming his cancers, knowing them more intimately than he knows his own kinder, Hanna suspects. While he should be heading home, he reclines, swivels, tilts renal papillæ aching kidneyways to the left in his chair, hunches to count his cancers on his cancerous fingers with cancerous numbers kept orally in the black, deep into the carcinogenically latestage early evening, then thinking, maybe my cancers should have the honor themselves, their own cancers, too, and those cancers’ cancers, it’s only proper—and, soon enough, quarter after advanced, surgically halved, and with Maintenance spilling their own diagnoses in all the languages of Queens far dark down the hall, everything would seem cancer, cancerous, carcinogenic: his chair, his computer never unpacked, still in its box on the floor, and the quarky, panging computer things inside the computer still in its box on the floor, too, and his fountainpen and the dark though washable ink that it looks like cancer anyway, and the door’s a cancer door, his desk a cancer desk, he’s thinking the elemental material of the universe is cancer and that the fundamental quality of the universe is how cancerous it is: how the planets are nothing but tumors, mere carcinosarcomatic growths, verrucous hunks of whirlwinding storm, resistant to all terraformed, their surfaces ringed by heavy clouds of melanoma as malignant as hell; and how space, the orbital push and pull of everything it’s really only this cancerous tissue that’s always thickening and thinning into itself then perpetually expanding out then falling in cancerously until death and everything, it just dies. And then the cancers themselves come to death. And then death itself dies. And then what, he’s still late.

And still sitting, slumped, wasted, waistexhaled all unbuttoned notch expansion, slippers off without socks and in an even more comfortable chair at the head of the table, his, looking down the seats and settings at his kinder, his friends and guests, his new employee, the mensch’s girlfriend or wife unknown be thy name, and laughing at whatever his wife’s laughing lipstick at if only because she’s laughing at it and healthily, strong—the lipstick that says I’m still red and angry, but this is how I want to look to love you with company curious—Israel looks down at his plate and considers the chicken and he knows, don’t ask him how he just knows, that this chicken has cancer, that his chicken died of cancer and died for him from cancer, expressly, painlessly quick. He cuts his cancer with his cancerous cutlery (presents and the plates, too, and all of it from relatives who’d died how, give you one guess), then chews his cancer with his cancerous teeth, swallows his cancer, washes it all down with a glass of cancer from his cancerous glass, wipes his cancerous mouth with cancer metastasized as a napkin, its darkening starch, and then swallows again cancerously feeling the swallowed cancer, the throat cancer, mingle carcinogenically with the stomach cancer its gastric adenocarcinomatic manifesting intestinally and beyond, making for an even stronger, an even more weakening, more carcinogenic cancer cancering all and then turns more to the left, leaning, reclining as if appearing to rest but really in pain says to his Hanna: Hanna, it’s all so delicious and thank you, then across the table to his right and further down toward the kinder to the Feigenbaums there, Mister Feigenbaum now nursing with napkin and ice his head, the wound incurred through the oven, would he sue—him shifting uncomfortably in his seat with the urge to loose himself, sick—Misses Feigenbaum, whatever her name is, maybe Faye, he forgets, make sure she gives you the recipe: chicken, slaughtered and shipped, still feathered a little, frozen in the freezer, defrosted in the fridge, giblets removed for their own preparation (don’t forget to preheat), delicious offal reciped to a malignant perfection; motherchosen last day the seasons stained out of the book, made with prunes, raisins, all sorts of fruity sweetnesses—and cancerous, has to be, these secretions expressed from the bake of its carcass, whose last breast has been excised for the removal of its diseased bones from his plate to his wife’s, and how he sops the seep up with a hunk of the challah he’d bought, those two loaves as if the salted halves of the heart, the kidneys, the lungs, the gizzardy liver, how they all must be bad for you, too.

The drawer was opened and never shut and hung like her mouth.

A door hangs open on its hinges, Hanna shuts it, wipes clear its glass with a cuff.

The screenedin porch’s door’s open as well.

Everything open she needs to shut, she won’t stand for open, which makes her feel slightly ill, mistaken. It’s the pregnancy, her fat with a scapegoat. Let us grow bloated and blame.

With everything shut, everything’s perfect, as if nothing ever went soiled, gone spoiled, as it was and has been clean forever, without taint; she’s talking to herself pure from the very beginning—all that’s dull the life and the knifing made sharp upon the whetstone of her tongue, foods wrapped to keep in her skin, how she’d always served, never served herself, never been served herself, that’s if you forget Wanda and how in her high mighty she daily does. Which is terrible, makes her feel what, slighting, mistaken, and ill. But now she opens a drawer, and leaves it open to feel it, the sin.

In the drawer are the towels, and there folded responsibly, neatly, under the towels, the rags, the ripped pieces of old white dress shirts gone inked, skiddled underwear spangled with monsters. Patched together and held torn with sop. Rags once engaged as veils to hide the about to be wed, the knotted napkin she’d held with her husband for dancing at their reception, then once slit a hole with scissors it’s for knowing each other later that night, while hiding the nakedness, pleasure. And under all the rags folded below the towels at the very rooting bottom of the stack and there almost stuck to the plastic lining of the drawer is the Rag—the dirtiest rag, the unmentionable, the secret, the rag best forgotten, for mistakes made and of them.

This had been a napkin, from her wedding, their wedding, from the banquet or maybe it was a cateringhall she didn’t want it at but—a long story—from the table, from the very placesetting of the mensch she’d thought of as her father, zichron l’vracha as they say, when he was still alive and married himself to her mother: once white (the tablecloths had been offblue, as if ordered prestained, used or rented), this unwashed, neverwashed Rag’s unmentionable as much say as her underwear’s sexy or not, it’s a secret; at most she shakes it out outside, or now in winter off either the screenedin or windowed porches; how she can’t ever wash it, mustn’t, she needs it like this, needs the history, the past and its record of stains and grains—if it were to be found, she thinks it would turn her, sully reputationwise, ruin the marriage, though who would find it, Wanda, and then know what to do with it once found and, nu, why would that or they matter, why should they? The Rag’s soakedup the seas, the sevenfold oceans, encrusted with everything spilled and stained until the stains they aren’t stains, grains or seeds or the cancel of blackmail—they’re the Rag itself, its weep into form. It’s shvitzsoaked, stinks of spoiled milk and meat together—it’s scandalous, isn’t it? when they’d first moved in—after lawschool, even after loans paidoff, through ten years of their runging up the ladder—it’d hung on the oven, that was years ago, two stoves in the past; now it’s stained with everything since, thinking, it’s tough even to think about: it’s bloodcaked in seven species’, it’d wiped up muddy footprints from the tile floor, it’d sopped up overflows and drippings when a lid was unfastened; how she’d strain and shray for Israel who’d loosen and how some liquid would always spurt out, or, slicing a vegetable, like a head with so much between the ears, some seeds would leak all over the formica, to be wiped up always with this.

Now, the Rag’s as hard as a plate and its corners, its edges like blades, as sharp as a shard—as if a piece of the glass it’d wrapped that Israel had broken underfoot at their wedding (whose wine had been cleanedup with whatever’s around).

Hanna replaces the other towels atop, takes the top placed to do the dishes, with which to dry them, Israel’s undershirt shmatte—with it draping each object as if magic or fragile, to decide: which is a bowl and which is a plate, deep and with a stiffly high lip she’s not sure; only to scrape whatever’s been missed by the dishwasher, the machine and not Wanda, her neither—sauce stuck, a crumb caught. Holding a serving of silver, a platter, up to the light; the last to be replaced before darkness, the darkness of its appropriate drawer: she looks at her face looking at her, as if asking whose fault, misdirection; the platter’s edge a rose garland, she likes how it frames her face, which in turn frames the eyes: for a lighter brow, she tilts from; for fuller lips, she tilts toward. That stain, the remains of the afternoon, the morning’s meal ingrained: reflected at forehead, this mole made from a freckle, a kinder’s pox or the swelling of hives, must scrub it away—steelwool as if it’s been shorn from her thighs, grown between them…

Hanna replaces the knife from the floor to the sink to the towel to dry at the edge of the sink and now to its own drawer again, which she shuts; she takes a new towel from the other, adjoining, runs an edge around each tine of a servingfork, finished with the drying; until, she’ll begin a new meal, which begs a new wash.

Batya, still the lastborn though soon, soon enough, to be usurped in that position, standing awkwardly intoed, flexkneed, pudgy, and whiningly shy with her head held down to rest on a shoulder, her hands holding each other, behind her, her hands in her hands, or maybe they’re just stuck together, they’re bound—her hands are always shvitzing, they’re sticky, like stuffedup spinnerets with the webbing, the silkgum, all tangled. She’s tight in a onepiece pajama outfitted with feet, which zippers down her front as if a metallic mark for incision, her gutting—the spill of her feelings.

Her little rodent eyes say she’s left out of preparations, how that makes her feel: excluded and Hanna, never not a mother, notices, hands her a glass to put away on her own. Batya makes it three, four steps, drops, eternity, floor and the glass shatters into they’re millions of shards, not enough hands to finger them falling: a tint to drink, a prism to sweep, under the baseboard, the pantry, the refrigerator, the islands topped in formica, shored in with grout; under the profane weekday table, under the oven the stove, the dishwasher, hard by the trash’s full bag waiting to be taken outside—flung, the glass throws the light, the outside’s last light streamed in and, too, the overhead light, all over the kitchen, glistening upon the tile, which once was white, illuminating shades she’s never previously known.

Her mother goes not forgetting today’s towels in hand to the laundryroom, for a broom, for a mop, remembering, too—not only drawers—to shut that door behind her, as Batya trips into hiding, upstairs. In the laundryroom, Hanna tosses the towels to the washingmachine. And then, begins the cycle again, to be made new again—saving the dryer for later.

Hanna sweeps the light into a pile, mops as she yells upstairs, put on your shoes! steadying the dustpan with a slipper, then the bucket coldwatered from the laundryroom’s sink, rooting around under the refridge Israel says then the freezer nextdoor to the fridge for what’s stray; she slices her hand, holds it, opens a drawer, roots for the Rag, holds the Rag to the seethe then walks upstairs to her youngest daughter calling her name, so concerned she leaves the drawer open.

And then, wending her way to her own bedroom from the room Batya shares with a sister, soon to be made that of the newborn—they’re in the process of moving Batya and Josephine out, down the hall. This is called, Acting out. This is called, Pregnant; what’s that the doctor told me again—I’ve been through this before. Despite any comfort, the tickle of a feather the tear of a pillow, the stroke of her hair a whispery word—an upheaval. Weekly, the lingering suspicion: this house is a mess. A certifiable wreck.

Though the upstairs is left in pitch—the air a modest enough gown over her skin—she knows her way, the touch of space off the walls, each give in every bum floorboard, the yield of the blue wall-to-wall. Hanna touches the door-post, the jamb, the mezuzah affixed thereupon, then kisses at the fingertip that touched and the kiss becomes a sigh as her hand’s wiped on the hem of her skirt. Her pregnancy weighs heavily; she feels with both hands at her puff, bruised with bloat, her filled wineskin of incredible ephahs and kavs, drunk with fat it feels, like she’s thirsty, hungry, too, the yen always for—breathing enormously, long and deep gulps of air’s inhouse twin.

In her room in its bathroom connecting, she runs the sink’s tap, splashes her sliced hand underneath.

Remember to shut all the drawers and the doors, to turn off the taps—her instructions.

This she must remember, too: which door is her closet—some lead into nowhere, gape into void, a walkin with no out.

She takes a white maternity dress from the drycleaner’s hanger, more offwhite she thinks as she holds it up to the just repainted wall, and, softly, with a sweep, lays it all out on her side of the bed, huge and lonely as empty—always been her side of the bed though she can’t remember when or if they’d ever decided. She’d slept on this side, it feels, even as a girl with her mother, and then alone in her twin. This side, closest to the sun’s rise and its brightening of the bathroom adjoining.

Come my beloved to greet the bride—

the Sabbath presence let us welcome

their mother in the Master Bedroom would be an attempt at a prayer impossible to translate, which she sings to herself in a language she only half-knows, hums, then mouths without sound, kicks her slippers under the bed to sleep there with their innumerable sisters and shoes, as she sits on the bed to unburden her blouse and then again rises to step from her skirt.

Her hand she stretches out to the distaff, her palms support the spindle

She still has to make the salad, too, she remembers: artichoke hearts are what she’d forgotten, they’d be on the middle shelf of the fridge. What else, listing mundane. Standing naked in front of the mirror, which is nude itself, motherwide and as tall as all fathers, it’s hard, she thinks, even in this shadow, to feel, what’s the word? resplendent, to even ape resplendence, what’s that; she exhales her belly cheek, tracing the elastic waves made by the panty waistband, those raggedtoothed, scarry wavelets breaking cuts into a flurry of small widening rivers, stretchmark tributaries veined swirly and tidal from her thirteen pregnancies now, is it that many, has it been; cutting a fingernail through the watery grain of her vanity, cedar topped by tile, its dust if you can believe despite Wanda (where’s the nail broken, she looks but can’t find it, not really, forget it, that’s not what I do). Is it still there, though, and if so will it fit? and, then, what is It? all, the marriagebedclothes, the one or two items of clothing she owns for a life lived between the swellings of kinder, the workout apparel she’d bought for that one month fitness jag back a year ago now, the lingerie he’d once bought her, a year or so before their first, so long ago she thinks at the mirror, at herself in the mirror, thinking of resilvering, too; the intrusion on intimacy of practical life, the practicable, dusts: on this great expanse of wood taking up an entire wall—if there’s light enough naturally and not that of those bulbs above kept glareless and silent from hum, upon whose turns she doesn’t want to break her eyes in her forgetting of them over the Sabbath—a few hairbrushes, combs toothsome, tangled up with the week’s losses, mostly grays from her true hair, some six variously styled wigs beneath, shaytels you say, she says sheytels, one for each day and then the Shabbos’ kept under the kerchief of sky, snooded with a tichel, worn tight: straight, wavy, curly corkscrewy, crowned and banged, nipped in the nape, tapered and layered, the Asiatic silky and the synthetics, hitech faux, the Maxi, the Micros and Euros, the Rachel Gold, Leah Plus; these wigs over wigs under wigs she wears, auburning over a chocolate base over her own unadulterated hair, that natural brilliance, all lightening shades of the One True Shade: the naturally lightened if still a little dyed henna of aged dusk, of the olden night dawning in strands, to pluckout if too light to gray or white or to tuck behind the ears, the fall of horizon; then, an odd handful of pins: bobbies, safeties, and straights to prick her with the impractibility of it all, the girlishness; what a fool to fumble among the drawers open and quickly shut again upon another nail, finger, slit hand, for her old tiara, a souvenir from an occasion forgotten, a kitschy wedding or barmitzvah, given away as a favor to another’s celebration—she’d saved it for home, plastic and glittery littering why in its own plasticbag in its own bottom drawer. She rises from her knees to the mirror to try the thing on, sits it askew on her head then turns to look vain over a shoulder, profiling its shadow, holds herself steady at the lip of the vanity while feeling shakes from her belly, from the floor’s carpet a rattle and without her slippers or shoes, fingers for a hold the holes for her earrings removed—hears life coming up from the diningroom below, holds a smile.

Safeguard and Remember. In a single utterance.

And soon, she’s talking with the mirror.

Queen or Bride? she asks, she hasn’t yet chosen, it’s the source of such confusion: who was I last week? her left brow rising, littling slightly her pose, impatience in its patient oncoming.

As silent as a mirror is, and is judging—I think the queen, and so this week the bride.

It’s so simple to forget, isn’t it? like receipts, recipes…tonight, though, the mirror’s agreeable.

To forget like I forget hair things in my purse with the tiny round mirror—to reflect with it my reflection: the Bride, it must be the Bride—how could I forget. Write it down or you’ll forget, I always say. A gumstick, a sucker. It must be, another list…check the Bride, strike through the Queen with a line. Her mouth talks back to her and her eyes, she’s crying—you want an argument? He wouldn’t know, or is it a she, the mirror? her husband would’ve forgotten. Should I wait for him? she asks as she polishes, lowing her shoulder as if trying to palm herself flatter, so less light’s scattered into incoherence, less muddle more flattened slim, dark: licking a fingertip, then rubbing at the mirror as if trying to wipe away its blemish, betrayal.

One day, one Sabbath night, she’ll be the Queen-Bride, she of compromise, the Bride-Queen—she’s tucking her hairs, those of the wigs, some gray naturally, some unnaturally even, if only for the sake of appearance, authenticity, modest verisimilitude, behind the nubby, knobby earlike exudations of the eyeless, mouthless, but kinkily with noses, the brittle, chipped foam, plastic, and plaster busts that are the stands for her wigs, their holders, the heads she has spare, with all of even them thinking the better of waiting for him, Hanna nodding them shook with her hands almost strangling their bases under their chins in the permissive affirmative; and so Bride she’ll be, they’re in agreement, though their noses still snobby, held in the air.

She bumps a leg on the endtable next to her bed at her side as she goes to the phone, dials with half a nail lost to one of Israel’s work numbers—ext. 13, that’s the private, but there’s no answer and so she tries another, 1 through 12…maybe Loreta’s still there.

Hello, your Majesty…she begins to talk before she realizes it’s his answering service, the hiss, that strain of falsity laid over the voice he had even back then, when he’d call from the city out to her on the island, (212) to (516) to here and now Joysey she leaves him a message, telling him he’s the Groom like you’re it.

He’ll want to be King though, that’s the trouble, hangs up with a halfhour in which to try again, and then Shabbos.

What it is, is revelation: the hairs in the drain, clogging, the bald white tub and the showerhead above still adjusted to the morning height of her husband. An opening—it’s the type of translucent slidingdoor that Israel in his early haste hauls off it tracks every now and again, doesn’t quite pay to have someone schlep out here and take a look at it, it’s his temper that requires that service; but now as always for her in her caution at the tangling hair, which is both his and hers, and her beware of slips and falls it slides with efficiency, and Hanna steps over the edge of the metal. Tile surrounding, walling, is patterned in hexagonal agglomerations the same as the pattern of the tile in the kitchen, blue, white, highlighting similar flecks in the carpeting of the den. Or, you know how it is, she’s the only one in the family to call the Livingroom such, a source—seemingly a fourwalled, lowceilinged cell—of major domestic misunderstanding when Israel says Livingroom and she thinks he means what she calls the Familyroom when what he really means is what she calls the Den, take a breather. There to what, replace a lightbulb, water the plants, not too often, not enough. Just as Upstairs to Hanna is the floor closest to the frontdoor, at the level of the grounding earth, and below what Israel calls Upstairs that’s known to Hanna as Upstairs-Upstairs, just as the Basement below them both is called by Israel the Basement and by Hanna Downstairs, usually, to herself, her daughters and Wanda, or else to Israel she occasionally defers, resigns to calling it Downstairs-Downstairs, as the last Israel was down there was when, she can’t remember, for what.

In the shower, on its only low shelf she could sit on to wash her feet in her lap if it wasn’t so cluttered, so full and so pregnant—arranged by height if not by psychosis, tens of bottles, fifty or more tubes and cylindrical cans: shampoos, conditioners, oils, ointments once poured over the head becoming anointments, butters, balms, washes and exfoliant scrubs, all with their motley labels, rainbowing from her squeezing, her crumpling clutching, in their manifold phases of peel, anonymizing, secondshed skins, Now with extra aseptia, and scented with myrrh, with cassia, stacte, onycha, and galbanum with the 10% added bonus of frankincense thrown in for free, alongside numerous plastic dishes below the marble dish that’s part of the wall hosting soapbars, cakes, variously watered away, some merely small lumps suspended within themselves, amid their froth, their expectant saliva greedy for the taste of her skin, others freshnew, and hard, as if ready right from their packaging the valuepak to have their names rubbed from them, their imprintings and inscriptions effaced by the water, her wash, the rash of dish-panning hands on her skin—all the names in the name of her daily ablutions. She runs her hands through her True Hair—Friday being one of three hairwashing days of the week, the last hairwashing day (one Sunday a month, we wash and style the wigs, or rather we drop them off, the salon does)—rotates the ring of the showerhead to her setting favored over that of her husband, then immerses her head in its pressure, not Israel’s pissy sprinkle but a heavy, thickly dropped flow, while bent, head hung, examining the veins running down her legs as if trickles, the slowing of flood, their lapping freezing as nerves numbed to the tips of her toes, then leans back, her hair lashing her shoulders and nipples like the handles H is for Hanna and C for who cares though she’s always thinking about it, so cold; the drain down which the impurities wash, their whirling pool, that spiral navel, picks lint from hers popped, absentmindedly. Stuff grows from the grout, all manner of mosses, lichens, and mold, epiphytic, parasitic, have to ask Wanda, remind her she’s reminding herself. There’s a hardness in her hands, not a stomach or another lump God forbid, but a straight sharp becoming softer by the moment, the spill, variformed. It’s the Rag from downstairs, taken upstairs-upstairs, she lathers with a finger of soap. What sop, the draining of stains. Hanna washes herself with it—outside the spray, its steamy source. A cell in here, so confined, she’s thinking cloistered, what could go wrong. Her hand wrapped in the Rag finding its way into her, wet: bubbles, surfaces popping the light—in from the bathroom’s sconces set unattractively, unflatteringly high over the sinks and that mirror—slip over her thighs, purse through her hairs; she blushes then steps back into the spray to rinse herself thin again, thinned, all this flesh and only a little that’s hers—if only to be rid of this hugeness, the heaviest pregnancy yet, hers or any’s, it weighs…a sea of skin, an ocean lathered as if a storming of soap, a cleansing if dangerously choppy, a purifying surge at hightide. Unbridgeable, uncrossable—this fear, though she’s been professionally told, technologically reassured: it’s not triplets or twins; Israel’s water never divided into the waters of her bags back from shopping, the paper, the plastic, her sack, the rubbernippled breakables stacked above the cannedgoods, she’s thinking, dented herself; the mixed multitudinous salad, undressed, the two loaves of challah I told him to buy, left uncovered…the boiling pot of the sun to burst itself into three stars by which we’ll divine—as many babies as the stove blechs its burners, which I’ll leave on over Shabbos, I’ll forget to turn off, that’s how many it feels, that’s how frazzled…she’s afraid, of this secret she’s keeping, that’s keeping her, how long can this go on, how far can I take it: it’s only one, though that’s not it—it’s that He’s only one: congrats, finally, it’s a boy!

A big one, Uncle Samuel had said, and he’s the doctor, the biggest I’ve ever dealt with. Though how she’d known it all better than him and before, having had the experience; but to confirm—wisdom is your own voice and prophecy, that of another—a brother, the eldest brother of her father had said, her stepfather, an observation a second doctor had seconded, this also an uncle of hers, Doctor Solomon, her mother’s brother, her youngest, concurring: ginormous!

After twelve, though, you should be able to handle it, which one had said, handle Him—Mazel Tov to your husband, a son!

She tells Israel everything, she hadn’t told Israel that—she’s thinking, why ruin it?

Hanna washes her heels and she washes her ears and she washes her One True Hair, the twitchy tip of her nose.

In the shower, she hears: the memory of the doctors’ voices, her own voice, and, within the whirlwindy muffle, gathered in the shower, risen to its tiled peak and lost in the steaming, the voices of her kinder; heard indistinct as to speaker or even age, as impossible to differentiate as to enumerate and yet how she tries, to respond, crying for her girls, and—through the halfdim of a hallway below her daughters slowly assemble, dazedly, pulling each other and pushing, teasing at one another, Rubina then Simone trying to act like Rubina detached, removed, behind the rest and mothering, selfconsciously not engaged in this messing around.

One’s holding candlesticks, the other with candles.

As to involve the others in preparations adult and mature and so, also, to calm them, Rubina hands the candlesticks one to Asa the other to Isa, has them place them on the designate sill, then struggles their candles in, melts, waxy dribble, rolls the wicks in her fingers, wicking them as stretched as their wait, longer, just a moment more’s yelled despite there being no yelling, disallowed as it’s almost time: Hanna comes downstairs in a maternity dress, blue for a boy, she thinks, betraying, whitesashed, not the white dress or shift, the mirror and the heads arranged around it in conference had decided against it, shook no then brushed hair, her white kerchief, her scarf the shade of the window opposite her descent with her heels pecking the tile from the last step to the floor, through the kitchen to leave the Rag wrung out in its drawer, shut, then a tug at the handle of the oven’s door to check, that the timer’s been set for tonight and tomorrow, the Shabbos mode back through the hallway toward the diningroom, her daughters.

From the windows looking in with the eye of the moon above, the sun below—who else is looking in in this neighborhood—she’s only a round taken of darkness, they all are, their shadows merging to mother the night.

Hanna smoothes the tablecloth, white, prepared for the taint of tonight—anything to put off the fire.

But Rubina strikes the match, and holds it there, the other sisters holding that hand.

The lights float in darkness, which interpretively is either something in nothing, or its reverse—and then, after the slightest, when no one knows if they’ll make it, the flickers go to life, in blue, in yellowing white; Hanna’s hands in their sweep, and her daughters, they follow: their words, which are hers, coming lower and hushed—though it’s not as if they’re afraid anyone’d hear—their vowels are stretched, wicked, lit on the tips of their tongues; some of the daughters knowing the words only through sound alone, others through the way their tongue feels in a particular mouthspot, the youngest ones just moving their lips in a manner that seems to them serious.

A blessing not of the candles, but of daughters standing at window without fear of fire, warm, and about to be watered and fed: what riches, what wealth of comfort and beauty surrounding; a pair of diamonds without jewelry, unset, these culets blessing them as if worth all the world, saved for their flee only every Friday examined and polished—valuables struck out of sulfur, dug from their holdings in trunks, dispersions like the spreading of flame…how strange, how foreign it feels to be thinking of how to survive, how to exist, to prepare for a future unknown and yet, inevitable—as the candlelights burning are the impurities in the night, it’s impossible not to admit, though the necessary impurities, they have to insist, that that reminds them of that that remains still unfinished, unlit, in need of repairs.

And then the moon, too, an impurity, and the stars—they’ve all come in pairs. Their house, so lit, the world entire. And everything around it, surrounding, forget it. Banished, unto the basement, unfinished. They disperse, the sisters one by one, each of them ten, a hundred almost, or so it appears to Batya, to her own hallway, or room—except hers, soon not to be—heading upstairs, to sit, upstairs-upstairs, lying in wait, peering out over the yard and the drive through their windows that won’t open, God forbid they should fall from; they’re brushing each other’s hair with their mother’s brushes, combs, they’ve had to wait until she’d finished with them. All except Batya, her tears dried to the quality of the glass she’d shattered, these shards from her eyes: our grief burdens, as it’s converted unto the nature of the responsible sin. She’s itchy, she’s scratched up her face and it’s red and hurts awfully. Now she attempts to sit in the livingroom, the familyroom, the den of her father and his animal life: struggling, shvitzy and angry, barely able to get herself up on a sofa, which Israel calls a couch or else Hanna does and Israel a sofa—the fireplace ledge. The candles are shining from just down the hall, and Batya’s thinking if only to herself why this happens every Friday with the sticks and the wicks and her sisters, it’s so together and pleasant and, she doesn’t have the word, the ideas, but why not every night, every day three times with meals and a cookie, a cupcake. Warming, though confused, babied with hope despite the burn of her cheeks. Atop a table of stacked bills, clipped receipts, President Resident, addressees: Mister Hanna, Misses Israel. A book she can’t read that holds prayers her head knows, a siddur. And a bowl of what’s to her fruit. Batya consoling, fists an apple that’s wax, bites, then replaces it, teethmarks first.

Simple enough, he thought: the instructions had been to buy bread, those were the rules, his engagement, the vows.

She asked, buy some challah—ceremonial bread.

For motzi, the cerement of our hunger—the burial in the mouth of the loaves, two of them, one for each language—and how he repeats this to himself, the request’s order, silently but still in the voice of his wife: on your way home, if it’s no trouble, she’d said, no trouble, she’d added, but not a conditional.

Not too much.

Still, it’ll make him later, this stopping here, twenty minutes out of his way and then shul, don’t forget.

She hadn’t baked. She hadn’t baked? There are fish in the sea and chickens in the air, and she hadn’t baked—it’s unnatural, not normal, it’s not like her, what’s wrong. There’s a kid in the womb, flyingthings in flight and things that swim swimmingly, and then what, nothing at all in the oven, the stove, cooling atop the counter, what gives. And so the order, the request as if for his complicity in a shirking that’s only hers if companioned: buy challah, she’d said, don’t forget as I don’t forgive as thoroughly or as quickly as you; after his shower, while he was dressing, suiting, tying his tie, before he left for work in the morning, before work, at work she’d left with Loreta a message she’d left him before she left for home for the day, the week, the year, before early evening, approaching the dark that’s only as constant as him, he’s flattering, as sure as the sun in its nightly crash to the pavement—stopping outside the storefront, the window display, arranging in its reflection his hairs left, wilted weeds like at the trunks rooting the sidewalk landscaped. He browses past the baskets empty of bread so late in the coming—through to his image, thinking an olderyoungish middleaged: hope, there’s still a little crust left for me yet.

Inside, behind the counter, an aproned mensch about to untie, fold, sweep crumbs, close up, and head home—just a moment, though, wait up, a mitzvah Israel’s asking, lawyerly arguing the Closed for Business he’s earned it, telling and tsking his merit, all these long years a loyal customer fast with exact change and his wife, how he should know him by now and this late, he’s just saying, Mister Baker with the apron and hat and three doughy chins, the floury cheeks, it would pay to know him here every week, and so why not a dozen egg kichel thrown in for free, every once in a while, just asking just asking, two loaves, if you have them, I’m in too much of a rush.

I’m sorry, the baker’s saying, I don’t remember you, Mister…

Israelien, he says, I’m just saying is all, having my fun—and now as if in apology: my wife, she usually bakes.

My wife, he says, doesn’t even know how to cook. I should tell you—feel lucky; except that I’m sorry, all I have left are two loaves.

I’ll take them, how much?

But they’re for me, my wife and my—tell you what, I’ll break with you bread.

Here’s a loaf, one of mine. You can always cut it in two.

Israel blushes the blessing, can’t find the thanks this harried and sanctified in surprise, and so he cleans out his wallet, hands to the counter too many bills.

The baker nods as he takes one of the pair out of their bag to bag it separately now, paper in plastic, the braided better and larger and wider and more goldeny done one, a single loaf challah, honeyglazed fresh, hands it over.

Have a wonderful Shabbos! he smiles Shalom, and he waves, while with his other hand scooping up the money then shoving it all down into the full box for charity positioned alongside the register, which is empty and anyway broken.

Give my regards to our God!

Israel leaves the store to the shrill disapproval of bells, a jingling that reminds him of the phonecall he never made to tell his wife, sorry.

To console: at least I’ll get home before Shabbos the next, but he’d used that the Shabbos before. And so to blame: whether Loreta, which client or car trouble, my shadow’s always making me late; him to tell Hanna later: I only wish it’d come along Monday mornings, there’s barely a minyan at shul.

In the synagogue’s lot, he parks himself over the three spaces of the Rabbi, the Cantor, the Building Supervisor, and leaves it there, the car, to be pickedup come motzei, that Sunday or Monday with Hanna dropping him off or Wanda, more plans, ever more preparations, who knows, maybe he’ll walk, even run, please God and his doctors at once—in a rush, just a duck for a daven, putting in an appearance; after all, he’s the president, too. Arriving only for the last lines of the night, the chazzanut cluck, the salty warble, he speeds his prayers silent then shakes all around hands, fins and wings, distributes free legal advice. Problems solved. Call me later this week, that shouldn’t be difficult. Consulting with the drumsticks and scales: the poultry knobby, the slippery fish, gathered to pray for the grace of a soul. They slither and stomp, they flop and squawk. It’s a commotion, a crowd, how he feels much the same way with his kinder: removed, held high above their messes and fits; the bestial consuming the oneg—he’s tired, so tried. And desirous of quiet.

The street: eternally lamped, but an unholy emptiness, not so much superiority as the need for its silence, him wanting to be left, if only for a moment, by himself, alone…Godless though wellmarked, turns reft and light familiar, then a detour Israel knows isn’t any shorter through the huddling woods, scrubby shrubs and hedgerows, through yards of happinesses (and sadnesses, also, he tries not to think of) he can’t claim, hopes rickety swung see to saw, junglegym to sandbox, to garden and herbplot, steps over scattered toys, the dispersal by wind of deflated balls, the dashed heads of dolls, then up the slate path toward the broad cedar door that guards them inside—suddenly, skirting around, past the enclosure for trash then to the door at the side, he knocks at it softly, as if testing, then opens.

Aba’s home. Bramblebound from the walk. There are steps over the threshold. He shuts the door behind him and locks.

A daughter descends, Isa he thinks, Asa she is, Israel drapes his coat over her head: the coat gray and old and wet a little and hot with him to be hung in the closet and not draped on the pillows of the bed, the foldout, the couchbed, the sofa convertible, in any spareroom whose hospitality has been furnished exclusively for the coats of the guests. He takes off his suitjacket, drapes it on a kitchencounter, then loosens his tie from underneath his collar unbuttoned, leaves it in its knot to remind: the day no longer strangling, not yet forgotten, never freeing; still complex, still coiled, prepared for the tightening come what may the next week.

How was your day? Hanna not waiting for an answer to the both of them asking; her nudging a trunk with a heel then examining, resentment, the damage done to her manicure while he greets his guests, whoever’s arrived. Though with not all of them yet and her not telling him that, letting him search and find only the regulars, the usuals and not his new partner already with his wife or the girlfriend, what’re their names, he comes back down the hall to embrace her—though her hands, without hug, are only held out to take the challah from him, and her mouth, which refuses his kiss, only tells him, instead, in a whisper: go upstairs, get thyself changed.

Hanna sits on this trunk as a handful of the oven’s guests gather, the wives just standing around, loafing, examining Israel’s purchase, passing it around for inspection—the single loaf he’s halved while at shul she hefts in her hands again then puts back in its bag to hand to Rubina who takes it to table.

How it’s unspoken, all of it—obvious to every guest that these trunks have been sitting here forever, for months, for years, incurring feminine disapproval, raised brows, the forcing of coughs; that there’s about as much possibility of them moving them as them moving themselves, though Hanna would explain, smoothing her dress folded around her as if she’s a package, merely wrapping, a box or container herself, short and breasty—her legs dangling, calves white above the veins, their skein’s twine:

We’ve been meaning to move them, but you know how things are…telling them they know, and, as if mystics or prophecy, they know: what with my philanthropic activities, thanks for reminding, how much I volunteer, the tzedakah, the charity with which I chair the meetings of schoolboard and then with the kinder: two of them aren’t in school yet and one, she goes only halfday. Nat.

I’ve got to drop them off then pick them up then drop them, the activities afterschool, extracurriculars, the clubs and the sports, tennis and swimming, enrichment, the study groups and all the projects, the labs and ballet, painting, piano lessons in violin and voice, tutoring, college applications and visitation, the cancer hospice and the old peoples’ home, the youthgroup and shul and, our Wednesday schedule’s the worst…as she leans to pick at the trunk, at a wig’s hairs from a wrinkled length of tape, gray duct that’s lost much of its stick.

Is’ schedule is packed, too, you understand: always running from one thing to the next, like a headless dinner; he knows this jeremiad well, rolls eyes from upstairs, news travels fast: that’s where the kinder get it from, my girls…they’re scared of the basement, and Wanda has today mostly off—explaining the arcane processes of packing and unpacking, of storage and steps, stairwells and ways, of narrow closetless hallways not enough space for all this, yardsale, rummagesale, waspnests in attics, of sumppump problems in the basement still partially unfinished as if to say, so shoot me and sue my corpse, this overworked, overtired body of mine and, nu, we’ve gotten sort of used to them here, patting, petting, the slow fall of dust moonlit through the windows.

We like the whole impermanence of the thing, like if we had to pick up and, you know, leave…like in the middle of the night.

By day, the house entire’s littered with trunks, suitcases and briefcases, boxes and cases, and the lawn, littered with life: a tricycle with leaves rustling through its spokes, a pair of discarded trainingwheels; rakes, some trashbags ripped through with branches, overflowing with clippings, some trashcans tipped to one side with neighborhood opossums and raccoons liningup amid the fleas and gnats gathering for their own feasts at the mouths; milk, how do they drink so much milk, and one of those big cylindrical waterdrums that goy in the black truck he delivers each week that he picks up the empty ones and so what’s this one doing out here with the trash. The mailbox hangs open, but there’s no mail inside and all of it’s bills. From the sidewalk, the house is white with gray shutters or maybe the reverse, three stories at least, too dim.

He stands in the street across from the path, the walkway up from the sidewalk’s street while she stands on the sidewalk itself, curbed at the lowest bend of the Circle she says, Looparound he says the Turnaround or About, taking the whole house in, its round plot. They’ve parked a length from the driveway of across the street neighbors, so as not to be found pulling up front and parking on the Shabbos he says, Sabbath she says, if she has to; there’re only three other vehicles, two so big they can’t be called cars, more like monsters these foreignmade mutations of steel and wheel in the we’ll go with loopabout or arounding (one, the Brooks’ new van, which’ll necessitate yet another garage reexpansion), and he hopes God how he hopes they’re not the last to arrive. Picking up the coat of his second new suit in a week (will Israel notice it’s the same he wore last Friday), draped over the driver’s seat, hunching it on, he shuts his door, stoops peering into the third car, that of a founding partner in another top firm he’d interviewed with that didn’t make him an offer, lives opposite with his wife the nonpracticing doctor and this, their midlife crisis convertible with its top up in winter, and, bareheaded and without scarf or gloves, he’s doing a little light accounting as she picks a stray thread from his pocket, unslit.

I think this is it.

You think?

Me.

Thirtythree?

Three three three…pointing to the numbers nailed once to the mailbox hanging open, then once to the siding its shingles hung off, one three in the latter display slung downsideup and so 3 3.

I’m looking good?

That a question?

She’s drying her sweater off, holding the dripping flowers away from her far while she wipes, like their smell’s sickening, like she can’t bear being near them.

All daughters, yes—how many they have at the least?

At the least, he says, I wouldn’t remember, realizing he’s never seen or met the same kinder twice.

How many times: there’d been that once at the office when the older attractive and the second he thinks were around, don’t think about it how old she is with the breasts and the breath and he’d been here once before her, without her, dropping Israel off because he had a car and Israel didn’t, had left his but where, he couldn’t remember; and there they were, playing in the yard, in the front. Who knows what games. All had the same look around the mouth and how they appeared to swap clothes. He remembers to her one in particular: one outfit not red or yellow, the other fired halfway to blue if blue was like a grandfather’s, what do you call it, he means techeles, that purplish on one or twoish of them. Running around, a dash, don’t get your clothes dirty, your suit you just bought it new. Here, now, in the frontyard, he’s mimicking them at their fun, trying to reenact for her enjoyment: she’s unhappy being here with him and thinks him weak and fearful, acting differently around others, how he’s rushing for props to cheer her, clown around smiles; grabbing them up, balls for baskets and bases and for soccer, mitts, a ripped pinwheel, a fractured kite tailed with a jumprope, a holed pail, rusted spade, making her even more impatient and angry, I can’t believe, a tossing of hair, what I’m doing for you, her walking up the path then the six steps of the stoop toward the doormat—a message there, obscured, dirt laced into itself, Shalom’s script interwoven—then the automatic lights light on and she jumps, stares at him, startled.

Sorry, he says, throws down a weatherworn, handling splintery slugger, rushes up the steps, next to her on the stoop, to behold the light suspended, the candles framed in the window.

They knock, ring repeatedly as if to get in sooner, almost to make as if they’ve been waiting a while. A single unlock, and a stranger opens the door, a woman with real presence, which means impolitely fat as not pregnant, Hanna, can’t be: her hair colored too brightly and the makeup reddening errant over lids and lips, Wanda sloppy in a shiftlike kimono and hurried along. They kiss her anyway and hug her surprised at how forward they are, how intense and excited to please; not stopping to kiss the mezuzah, they step inside by stepping around her, each to a flank and further to what has to be Hanna now next to Israel, his boss and bread changed into casual slippers but into new pants and a shirt, too, just as formal as the suit he’d been wearing; they’re holding each other, these guests, her head on his shoulder as if she’s suddenly tired, and how he tries to shake her hand off to shake Israel’s then say sorry to Hanna; apologies—that’s what I’m good for.

Wanda had Shabbos off, ostensibly, their Sabbaths and not hers, if and only if during the week she’d somehow or other satisfied Hanna, which satisfaction was often as difficult as proving to the most redoubtable of doubters the existence of an omnipotent God: though this can be done, God’s history tells us, there’s nothing impossible; Hanna’s particular brand of cacoethes carpendi, otherwise known as obsessive/compulsive not a disorder, an order, and that’s the idea, a mania known Developmentwide—tempered by only her optimism, her famous can do, oftabused.

On Friday nights, Wanda had to serve, that was it: upon Shabbos eves rare in Hanna’s happiness, her having plucked no fruited fault from the tree whose boughs, pruned daily, would overnight, over eves, branch into all species of tasks, errands, resentment. It was Hanna’s elected responsibility to prepare their family dinner—duty, the Schedule, just doing her part, hauling her own pregnant weight—and then, how she’d sit in the shade of accomplishment, accepting compliments heaped into her cups, bowls and plates, blushing the rose of an apple and eating all the courses from the challah on down to dessert even and drinking her wine, too, and Israel’s as well, though not while with kinder while Wanda would serve. As for those cups, those bowls of fruit and plates—though it was always the responsibility of these kinder, rotating, to set the table, each week, they would groan to their mother, shouldn’t Wanda do this?

I mean, every Friday, what do you pay her for anyway?

As if, to decrease your inheritance.

In any defense, though, Israel offering his with professional husbandry to Hanna’s constant complaint—I might want to fire her but I can’t (I have my reasons), I’m not strong enough and how that calls everything else into question, I might not even want to at all—Wanda did offer to help do this setting as regularly as such offers would be refused, and so today, as every Friday in its late afternoon with the female half of her employment situation upstairs and clattering at cooking, Wanda would lie on her understuffed futon and smoke a filtered menthol or vanilla into her wardrobe, adjacent, her head pillowed listening to the dull slipper and sneakerfalls from the kitchen directly above her room underground, one floor up. Until called for—her smoking complained about despite how much she’d spray even sunscreen and insect repellent and scent with candles and burn incense for hours. After she served, which was a responsibility mostly for show, she would return to her room and sit listening to the kinder haul everything into the kitchen: three steps to a thud, four to a shatter. After Shabbos, a sink full of dirty pots, pans, dishes, and silverware would be waiting, plates and bowls, a pile of shards to be superglued. And leftovers, to scrape to the trash, the disposal, or else refrigerated or frozen for Sunday’s reheating.

Dinner! Hanna shouts, Wanda echoing her way upstairs-upstairs, in that accent of hers fearsome, and yet so endearing her to the kinder flooding their ways down the stairs screaming:

Dinner.

Dinner.

Dinner.

Dinner.

Dinner.

Dinner…

one flight from rooms the floors of which angels and archangels bump their halos and heads upon if heads or halos they have. The stairs take their feet, as if the bent backs of older guests—the Singers hunching their ways to the table, each being the other’s crutch. Batya, the last one though nearest the diningroom, stumbles in from the room living, family, den, her eyes smiling through sniffle, her mouth shaped as if the last teardrop, toothless. Israel blesses her nose wiped with a tablecloth corner, kisses her head; Hanna sighs. Tonight is one of the last dinners—one of the last linners or dunches, not many more of them left, combinations, recipes of the blend, before meals vomit themselves into omnipresence, that voraciously forever cyclical course; into our eating and drinking through not just an appetizer or entrée to late time—as if the arrivals, the youngest the latest among them, were afraid they’d missed everything with even dessert already served until Hanna had said and loudly what would sound like the name of a God and then in that accent of Wanda’s that renders everything foreign and so authoritative, such sense of importance mitigated only in its echo of echoes amid the high giddy swoops of the girls: they’re so excited, forgive them, it’s almost as if they, the guests, had been early or punctual after all; though it’s not them that’s been so long expected, their company, conversationally muktzah their dwelling on business and workaday cares, it’s what their presence finally, ultimately, means to them, to the daughters: the dinner, the dinner, THE dinner…

Hanna turns to straighten Israel’s tie he’s still in, the same tie from the day’s suit retained—to tuck it under a collar again, button it in again, tighten; he holds her hands in his to resist.

How thoughtful, she thinks, he’s wearing it for his partner: set an example, if you love him so much…

There’s a great gathering at table, each to a place and its set—every meal’s mishegas at their settling.

Cork, who has the cork? they ask.

I want to smell the cork, I want to taste it, to suck.

Israel raises his cup and remembers: first to wash ’n’ dry, to bless the bread he’d bought not an hour previously, half that, broken into two loaves and covered over then uncovered and blessed—kneaded asunder, they’ve risen to the occasion, so high. She didn’t bake? rise newly arrived eyes around the table, again, mouthy whispers falling silent, assuring: she didn’t bake. Salt then dinner ensues now with talk, the stir of the soup, conversation never indexed under any number Oxyrhynchus, as it’s all too well known. Why? Save your questions to sweeten the coffee, the weakening steep of the tea. Because everything can’t be forgotten, that’s why we remember, and anyway, guests, they shouldn’t ask too many questions, am I right…be pleasant, host polite, elbows off the table, shoulders straight, no fulling while your mouths talk to rumor, to gossip, or talking to answer while your mouth’s full, I mean—you come from a good family, they can tell…the Who’s? maybe…O any relation to the who’s on the Mainline, of one of the Five Towns, figuring that’s a twenty percent shot, odds are you’re favored? what street, what number, asking, just asking, a daughter’s at, hymn, and a son who’s her husband, the Muttershtups, the Ladlefarts him the surgical judge how he does operations on minorities at risk and for nothing, takes requests, no, on second thought maybe you wouldn’t, but at least you brought a bottle, how thoughtful, how kind, a few flowers for her, a bouquet of bees, an arrangement: isn’t it about time you got married, and so maybe you’d bring your kinder, too, if you have them the two of you you’re so cute together or if not, next time, then what’re you waiting for?

Tonight, and all the Fridays are the same, and how that’s the idea, one of the guests, Feigenbaum his name, head tenderized, rendered as soft as his heart’s always been from his entrance through the oven, shifts uncomfortably in his chair, scoots, scooches, moves himself bald with his seat, shoots glances left, right, then across the table, excuses himself in a voice too soft and unsure to hear or truly know if he excuses himself or not with even him still unsure and so maybe he didn’t, rising, wending his way around his own chair then past those of the others, nimbly, squeezing himself as if greased with the essence of the fish and the chicken to follow through the small occasional apertures appearing between chairs and wall, knocking the hands of dim clocks to chaos and photographs and art, too reluctant and ashamed, too, to ask the seated to pull or push their chairs in a bit, a bissel and so generally upsetting all their eating and drinking and talking even more than if he would’ve asked to be disregarded politely to begin with.

This is his third trip to the bathroom this meal, though this one, and though he’s thought this every time, is no False Alarm. A ringing in the crotch, this bowelward tingle. The trouble is twofold, as it always is, if not morefold, brokenloaved, turning cheeked: one, his bladder, the second, his memory. Or. Though he’s been there twice already tonight, or has it been thrice, he has no idea, for the life of him, no memory whatsoever, of where exactly which bathroom is. Maybe it’s the medication is the easy way out—which leads I don’t know, wish I did. He’s not even sure he went to the same one the two times previous. It’s quite possible he’ll spend time in three different bathrooms tonight—if he doesn’t have to go again, the odds of which aren’t in anyone’s favor: the plumbing and paper supply. Even given the number, not to mention the aesthetic variety, of bathrooms in this house, those options of memory wellventilated, overlit, he still has no idea where the gehenna any of them are. And how to ask for help, for direction. At least, he had his dignity earlier. He’ll find it himself, don’t you mind.

He wanders, quickly now, holding it in, cupping his cheeks, bunching his pants up. A left here and right there, the way the light fell anywhere, and the darkness. That particular wallhanging, print, or mirror. The carpet giving way to tile, or was it a woodfloor, or rug pulled out from below, and if rug then a rug patterned how, over what—wandering into a part of the house he probably hasn’t or doesn’t think he’s ever been in before, maybe a portion that didn’t even exist prior to his wandering it, an annex, extension. Inscrutable. Obscure. He’s feeling for walls, his hands held out to ascertain distances, depths, pushing against the leaning, the pitching hallway, feeling for openness and passages, cavities, cancerous abcesses, pressing turns and doors and deadends. Respiratory difficulties. Senility. Alzheim, I forget. He fumbles with handles, knobs, trips over thresholds, his feet snag on rugs, snare on throw-rugs, nearly toppling honorary plaques and trophies from pedestals, then pausing to right them, pushing against and finally—his third bathroom of the night, a mistake; a door he didn’t mean to open but does, falls against it and there it, or only one of them, is.

He runs the tap to weather the sounds, shpritzes his wife’s, his Felice’s (there’s the name Israel’d forgotten, left in his other suit), less expensive perfume, stolen from home’s vanity and kept leaking in his jacket pocket, to create a cloud for the odor anticipated, then undoes himself, piles pants on the floor. He sits and waits, strains, tries; locked in with the running tap, the noxious atmospherics of imitation scent. Has he gone yet, hasn’t he—who wants to look, to hear, to smell. Not yet. Too pitiful, too embarrassed, to ask for help he sits and waits, taps shoes under his pants as if a stray calf ’s hidden down there and breathing. And he’s there next week, maybe, as if gestating, hibernative unasked after, never searched for or what, at least it seems that it’s his wife again his Felice eating her dinner, and drinking too much all over again, she’ll feel it in the morning in bed with a headache with me still bathroomed, locked in—her talking and always too huge with the wife of the household, not thinking to ask whether she, Hanna he’s searching for the name, knows where he, Feigenbaum, is; him hearing Hanna talking, talking, the woman’s always talking, to his wife just down the hall, the halls, the other guests, about the guests and his wife, about them to them, too, the preparation of food according to special diets, neighborhood tragedy weighed upon the Grecian scale—the walls shaking intestinally, the windows giving gaseous drafts; hearing what must be next week’s preparations in the hallways already, drawers opening, closing, and closets, he sits and waits, wetting wads of tissue, sucking them to formlessness, gumming the soap for his sustenance—they’ll forget about him, always do.

A clattering that’s the clearing of plates from beyond and he’s thinking dinner’s over already, or begun the following week just now ended—but it’s only the next course, he’s missing…

Understand, we have it on good authority, the existence of a first course, and are able to identify, too, a last course: a spoondeep, knifelong affair of talking over coffee with creamer nondairy, dessert then the giving of thanks, which is benching. Blessed art Thou for a spread such as this. But is a middle course not inconceivable, a culinary lull? This, then, is that middle course—the middle of the middle course. Fish, soup, and salad. Then the maincourse with sides then dessert, coffee, decaf or tea.

A matter of course—we are now after the salad but before the main, which is chicken. Fishplates have been cleared from the table, Wanda. Soup in the soupbowls has been brought steaming in from the kitchen, first linedup at the range, ladled, garnished, then served, thank you Wanda.

Soupbowls were then cleared from atop the saladplates—appreciative, Wanda, we all are.

Under the saladplates are the plates for the main—the largest, widest, and deepest plates, able to handle generous helpings of poultry and sides, circumferential enough to handle even the most reckless soppings of sauce, or gravy, and the most unimaginable of allowed forkful combinations.

Now they’re in the nowhere, the untime, of no saladplate, that’s been cleared, Wanda, and an empty mainplate: chicken and its attendant sides have yet to be brought to the table, along with their respective serving utensils…O God and the kugel. This is a moment-of-silence, momentless, without even talk…there’s no ease here—a silence the thinnest sheet of glass, the salival bubble bursting of night, a plate so empty it might not even be a plate, only a smashable absence, a shatterable null…how it would take the right cough from the right person, the right sneeze, the right set of allergies subjected to just the right set of allergens, exactly, to break it all, broken. Windows far away to where they mightn’t be windows anymore, only a clearing, the sky. When the daughters get restless, begin throwing stuffed toys at each other, Hanukah presents some hauled to tableside—they don’t know yet to wait, have to develop their timing.

Ding, ding. Dong.

Not an oven this time, it’s a bell, with someone at the clapper, some tongue.

As it’s rung, the hollow unhallowing dissonance…tinnabulation, as if rippling upon a depth’s faceless surface, it expands, Developmentally extends itself, too far, too deep, rings out to distort whatever’s beneath—a mouthvoid, a pothole, a ditch: drop into drops, as sound into sound, the slightnesses of distance, assimilation, its violation of the still and holying Sabbath…its reverberations illuminating the entryway, in waves that would wear away, after many nights, much night, the door, its frame. The light flicking on, fizzling out. Then, a knock, then three more times, quick, cold and dead cedar. Unconscionable if not unforgivable to interrupt a family and its guests sitting down to their dinner, and at Shabbos dinner of all dinners, but it rings nonetheless, then a knock, and then three knocks again, firmly, no gloved knuckles here; as glasses fall from faces—designer frames all, with one schmuck’s pincenez—fall to the floor under the table, fall silent on the rug, and all of them step on them staring blind one another. A blurring. Those who’ve lost glasses repair to their hands and knees to feel around on the floor, under the table, getting kicked, socked and toed as Hanna’s thinking what guest could it be, counting seats while thinking, too, how as always she’s on her own in all this, gets herself up as risen as any martyr and, her shroudy dress held aside in one hand, hurries for the door—as much as pregnancy might allow. But she’s too late. A daughter’s already opened, the eldest, Rubina, ever her mother’s helper, of late. Growing up.

And at the door is a mensch.

Nu, so you know this joke, too.

As for him, he’s old, at the age when you can’t tell if it’s a woman or not, but it’s a mensch, rest assured, especially if he’s selling pants, door-to-door. How did he get into this privileged neighborhood, you ask? how’d he get past the Gatekeeper then deep into the heart of One Thousand Cedars, especially dressed like that? He did how he did. His mother, obviously long dead, didn’t send him out looking the way he does, don’t blame her—he’s on his own. And standing drenched, a kosher undernourished fivetwo, fivethree at the most, I’d say a 32 short in a puddle of his own making. It dawns apparent, slowly, with the dripping on the mat that, in the diffusion of inside light and, too, his unintended washing, reads Israelien (sh: underneath’s where they keep a spare key)…that and the smell, the heat, the whiteness of the kneecaps as if an oceanic phenomenon—how it’s soon understood, it’s not just any pants he’s selling, he’s selling his own. Also helps that he’s standing there in his shorts. And a dented cap, a sportsjacket, illfitting (38 long), tweed, with elbowpads pleather, once white dress shirt boiled cleanish, argyle socks I’m not sure whether black or blue and scuffed loafers, brown—which is the stain, too, of his shorts, skidded and zipper’s ripped, tornup with holes ostensibly engineered by the Manufacturer of Manufacturers to bare all but his most sensitive parts.

Rubina stares as Hanna stands, removed, at the distance of an arm, her hand to the knob, next to a grandfather clock that’s only halftimed, neglected.

Now, to sell something you have to someone who wants it, that’s not selling. While to sell something you don’t have to someone who doesn’t want it, now that’s selling. But to sell something you don’t have to someone who wants it? There’s a predicament. And then to sell something you have to someone who doesn’t want it? Hymn, that was his stripped existence, the worst of all the worsts day in, day out, and so perhaps the most universal. Funny and not. Working nights.

With a widening smile, which reveals his nine or so gold and silver amalgam or are they mercury fillings, crowded around the tenth, his patinate tongue: loose, frayed threads of bronze, sickly blue, white and yellow, he holds out a pair of gray gabardines, draped over his forearm, pleated with tiny pools across its ribs, here, here, and here around the cuffs, too, onuses, dried into an off crusty residue. That, and the pockets have been long ago cut out. As the mensch’s licking his fingers, trying to rub these blots out and away, he’s shuffling forward, hunching his head into the doorway, foot firmly against the lowermost hinge…his face rising into a squint to gradually assemble, through the middling fallow field of his trifocals, a girl, a woman, perhaps the mothering wife of the house, he thinks, Rubina, hanging onto the handle of the door, her face locked with a frown.

Batya toddles toward them, past Hanna’s hands and between Rubina’s legs to smile beatitude at this latest of guests.

If they keep showing up like this, she’s thinking, maybe there’ll be no bedtime—or, mightn’t his presence sentinel yet another course, she’s hoping a dessert after dessert, perhaps, an eternally refillable treat?

Undeterred, he’s known worse, he asks her is maybe your father home?

You give me…Batya’s holding out a hand sticky with honey and lint, change spared out from under the sofa’s cushions, the couches’ waxwork stems and nesting twigs, she’s insistent—this girl, asking of him again and again a demand, her voice whining from within her tiny fist, shaking out her words of schmutz: You. Give. Me? You! Give! Me!

A hug, love, such dessert—and an endless bedtime story to tell, keep the lights in the hall on all night…

That you can get from your mother…he says in a disappointed whisper, a sigh, hanging his head and chazzaning to the pitch a little prayer of repentance even the Hasids out in Lakewald don’t know, as Batya and Rubina, two daughters the youngest and eldest, just then and whether in his voice or his eyes find in the mensch maybe something, hymn—an incarnation of a forefather known only from the unsmiling frames hung on the staircase’s landings; and possibly Batya only then remembers what her mother’s warnings are regarding talking to strangers: forget it.

Mensch’s confused, pats his breast pocket for his medication: it’s not there, which means he’d taken it, but if that’s so then why doesn’t he remember having taken it? Did it work, is it working, it took? Batya turns to her mother in tears, buries her face underneath her swell, in her crotch, shaking her head in a No to tuck in even deeper, don’t wake me. No thanks. The mensch gathers himself to peep through the doorway, the entryhall through to what he best guesses is the diningroom, leans his miniaturized weight against the jamb, shading his dark over the threshold as Hanna takes Batya’s wrist, slaps it lightly, and Batya, face removed, tots away from her in a fit, kicking at the pedestals and plinths lining the hallway away from the rooms dining and living, family, den, and into the kitchen, bringing their miscellaneously artistic idols and vases stuffed with flowers both lifelike and silklike and all of them real in their ruin down to the floor, crashes with her crying quietly again up the stairs to her room not to be seen or heard from again the whole night. Meanwhile, the other daughters have made their ways to stand behind their mother, passing through the hallway amid its trunks and boxes and packing supplies, mind the scissors, the tape sticking to the fringes of their garments, their trims tangled in twine, with Israel following as if whisked by the wind of their skirts, the guests left to themselves and to Wanda who’s serving—and soon the family entire’s assembled at the door, even her belly’s boy, and Hanna comes calmed, with more assurance, strengthened and safe in her home, frowning from under and staring impassive from over her nose, having gotten a whiff of what to expect, a scent and an eyeful, too, the inclination of an ear: attentive to the chink of mensch inhabiting the crack, and to the drafty drift of the spiel guaranteed now forthcoming.

And sure enough, the mensch mumbles what, it’s impossible to say…a For You Good Price pitch, st-stuttering now of fine material, of finer workmen-schship, a how it’s lasted him for years testimonial, rubbing now a pant leg between two fingers as if summoning a species of foreign dybbuk.

Nowhere! he oaths, because menschs like him have foresworn swearing, nowhere will you find gabardines like this, of worsted cloth the best, made of warm and wefty wool, or coddled cotton, of silk and rayon twill, he stretches out a leg—whichever you want, let them be. Much too long for myself, anyway, much too wide; wicks the leg out almost onto her pregnancy, proffering it to her as if a scarf for the winter outside, waving a cuff between two of her chins.

I’m sorry, Mister? What? A representative calling from the firm of Baggenhatz & Shirtzenpantz. Mister Farbenlint, here for a Mister Boxenbrief…Mister Lispstein, Fallenwallet, or Sloppenputz.

Matzahsock, or was it Latkerot?

Is here Nitz, he says, and what, please, is your name? reaching in to pinch Hanna’s bounty, one of infinite cheeks, oy his eyes.

I regret, Mister Witz…

Nitz, just Nitz, please and only…

I regret that my husband isn’t home, then nods at Israel standing behind her.

So another time I’ll call, he says.

Don’t, please. I can assure you my husband’s not interested in purchasing your pants.

This I can hear from him, he’s cupping his ear into a phonographs’s bloom. A cricket cacophony. Might I interest you, while we’re waiting, in the world’s smallest violin? A pity, you won’t be able to hear it, it’s Shabbos.

Israel has many pairs of pants, is how Hanna goes on, Israel shamed with his silence amid womanly worry—too many, more than he even knows himself, fine pants I can assure you, the top quality finest, though I’m sure yours are fine, too, in their own way…

As if to say, if God Himself can make one fine pair of pants, then why can’t He make many?

Israel’s wardrobe is virtually exploding with pants, we have closets both regular and walkin, I’d take you upstairs, but…of pants in every size skinny, lean, and not so much older, the widening of the thirties the age and its waist, the fall of the abdominal wall—and all of them the basement, the closets and drawers all stuffed fatter than I am, but with pants, I assure you. We’ve even given away so many pairs, charity, tzedakah, you wouldn’t be interested, would you (he’s shaking his head, not declining as much as in disbelief)—though, admittedly, Israel ends up always wearing the same two or three pairs, out of habit, you can understand, though I’m sure that…

So then you should tell me when’s maybe a good time.

Sorry, no thank you, and Hanna goes to shut the door even if it means mangling his foot then the lawsuit.

So maybe dinner’s not so great a time. A hint I can take, a hint even I can take. Shaking his head so much he’s nauseous.

Or it’s the food that’s doing it to him, asking, is that something paprikash I smell?

Please understand, Mister…

Nitz, Rubina says, her voice high and clear, it’s Nitz only.

Understand that we make these decisions, these decisions regarding pants, together, Israel and I, and so if you’d please…

Nu, I can’t see so well but I’m not also deaf. So no pants but what about dinner?

I don’t think…Hanna staring Israel down under the matching interior mat of the entry.

Or, hymn, some chicken for takeout? in a little box you could make up for me maybe? If it’s no trouble. I’ve got some string saved somewhere to tie it all up with, pats himself down.

No, no dinner, sorry, and no pants either, no maybes…Hanna turning away in sour withdrawal, nodding let’s wrap it up at Rubina, let’s not let the next course get cool.

We’re not interested, Mister Vitz or vatever, come back never, don’t let the door hit you on your, Shabbat Shalom.

Whispering to himself another prayer, underrecognized, underrated, another supernumerary blessing of curse and that while tonguing a tooth loose, Nitz steps his three steps retreat, minced, then bows at the knees before turning tush. Rubina shuts the door lightly, her hand feeling the seam, the scarred lining. All disperse, return to the table and guests, with what’s new to talk about with them, where should we begin, and who should. Josephine’s left alone at the door, her face flattened against the spectral stain of its glass. She presses herself to the cold, presses herself barelipped to kiss…the glare from the lights outside, the round belly lamps of the street, thinskinned, brilliant—the membrane of home keeping everything out, so very fragile.

Out front, mounted above the porch with three screws into shingle siding, the automatic light, equipped with a motion detecting, sensorial device type thing—Hanna says to Israel how after Shabbos he should replace it, the bulb—has burnt out. Nitz passes them as unknown as ever, I’ve never. Through the rest of his long, slow ailing walk—an attack of the heart once with the wind, his breath coming harder, was he always this old, without wings—his disappearance down the narrow, wooded slate path heading straight for the gate he forsakes for its intersection with the asphalt of the serpentine drive, from the two, maybe, difficult to tell in this light, three, four, five vehicle garage, then out into the open, just vacuumed street, the still air richly rarefied in its emptiness, and then through it, intruding, imposing and onto the next house, always the next, a mensch as much Elijah material as anyone going on to take in this entire tallhoused, widelawned hemisphere, a world itself in Development, new houses being put up by the day to the west, playgrounds and parks between them cleaved from the earth, lots amenitized with diamonds and turfs, making his way to the Koenigsburg’s, which is across the way though the daughters say always Nextdoor, their walk slated to face in on the looparound, the turnabout, Nitz faces down, shuffling his spindles through puddles of oil prismatic, in a funny, shuddering hunch. Josephine gives a laugh, as he wills himself again to the nerve of his spiel.

In their chairs still, they bench: quickly, murmuring thanks, gratitude formulaic; one part conversation to one part actual prayer, the grace after meals, the mealy, measly gratuity Blessed art Thou King of the belch, the flatulent lounge, each of them though—meaning the guests and, too, the daughters, though never their hosts, the parents, who are immovable, like the boxes, crates, and trunks here at home—seated in a chair other than the one in which they’d eaten and drank, placed now at settings over coffee and coffeecake and tea more appropriate to their talking and dealings, more polite and refined and less of this shouting and screaming diagonally, over heads, under table, all over the room; presently directly across from, or more intimately next to, those whom in the course of these courses their interests have chosen, nearer to those with whom they share the most common worries or the interests of business, with whom they’re most compatible culturally, or if it has to come down to hobbies, pastimes, or the sharing of peeves.

Slowly, gradually amassing but then all at once risen, as if invited, requested by clap, or another bell rung, no one wanting to be the last to leave, to be a nuisance, a pest or worse: to be needed at the sink for the doing of dishes, to be called there without notice or chance for escape; a seizure to fake, a doctor’s note written, a lawyer’s exemption—the guests gather themselves, holding their stomachs full, then shuffling their chairs back under the table; and then: in wary glances and whispers the discharge of last pleasantries, fulfilling the barest, the basest, the least expectations; them offering to help with whatever needs helping: the cleaning, the sweeping or mopping, the prodigious returning of chairs; all gesture no followthrough, and, just as ritually, their offers are refused, refuted: they wouldn’t have offered if there was even the most remote hope of anything otherwise—and so they leave as they’d wanted to leave, with every excuse in the world at the ready and yet, having done the right thing, with their reputations still intact and appreciated, slowly, gradually, too, these goodbyes, and then toward the door, with their coats returned to them by the daughters from the bed of any spareroom upon which they’d been wrinkled.

We trust your girls, who wouldn’t, but they check their pockets anyway, you’d better believe. And then again, goodbye, and all over again this good-nighting, this hug and kiss, Shabbat Shalom and an entire family of finally gratuitous partings, separation leavetakings, you know the Thank You’s, I’m sure—some attractive and likable, others ugly and not. Misses Feigenbaum leaves without her husband, alone. And so maybe some silverware’s missing. Dessertplates, dessertspoons, are cleared, cups, nondairy receptacles, saucers and spoons, the tablecloth’s kissed, to be shaken out outside for the birds, curbside scavenge, washed in the washingmachine, dried in the dryer; it’s stained, Wanda’s bleached prohecy, it’ll come out, Hanna, I’ve forseen it, envisioned such from the detergent’s advertisements and packaging…who spilled, not me, says the eldest, not me, says the second eldest, not me, what about the boy in her belly, a punch or a kick, impossible, maybe, incredible—this pregnancy, it’s known stranger.

The pad’s folded into three parts, the kitchen chairs are returned to the kitchen with Hanna herself bringing the rest down to the basement…the sink’s overflowed and the counters alongside the sink, the refrigerator’s made room in for leftovers and in the freezer, too, and those down in the basement, Wanda’s come up again for air and with Rubina the diningroom chairs are now straightened.

One remembers, returns with the sponge. She cleans the table a bissele, uncomfortable with such despite every week, how she’s going at it lazily and a little distant, distracted, not really meaning it, who me, this kind of work, who do you think I am, and what exactly does being a family, a daughter membered thereof, make me responsible for—suddenly, fearful, she hurls the sponge at another, hits her smack between the eyes, the sponge slides down the nose leaving a wet, wormy trail. As if to say, you’re turning me into my mother…and then, another laughs and throws her sponge at yet another, angrily if not meant that way, and yadda, me three—and soon, they’re soaked in a roil of laughter, a wriggly giggle foamy and wild, with them hiding under the table and behind the chairs hidden and sought, but letting themselves be hit all the while, still tossing. Unparented, who could believe. Each daughter now has her own sponge: specially, and in differently coded colors, each seemingly aged and sized accordingly, sopping weighted, thick with the idle drip of the tap, waterswollen. Wanda moans, retires. As one gets hold of another, her head in her armpit, her head in her mouth, in the skirt’s stretch over the womb of the widely held knees as if in a gynecological lie—and sponges her hair, her feet thrashing her arms and hands along with them and then which are her hands and which are her feet in a whirl as if she’s being drowned upon the floor, warping its wood, they’re laughing still and louder than ever with the spit of saliva, food and drink heavied drool…

When at the Israelien’s, do as the Israeliens. Each family has its own customs, traditions: who does what first, who sits where, says what when, the meaning of certain words as spoken to certain people, what’s allowed and what’s not, prescribed vs. proscribed, and the deepest meanings of their eyes, too, colored in the same blood, they’re so wrecked; these are all given over, wait for it, there…in those looks, the anticipatory glances they give each other when guests arrive, the expectation of the always, the every week, the holy returned. But will things always remain the same, what about change—that’s asked as well: will these customs, these ways of being, of doing, as given over, handeddown to the youngest kinder as good as the Law, still remain? Slowly, gradually, over centuries even and beyond, millennial, hardening. Becoming writ in a script, old enough be believable. These habits, ritualistic obsessions, because the Law is the oldest obsession, with the hardest death, suffering—these are as sponges: how the skeleton remains, the spongin it’s called, after the sponge dies and its cells are scraped away; or else, all becomes synthesized in the spirit. And only then can it absorb, heavily, grow weighty with runoff; become malleable, bendable, stretchy. Wrungout. The sponge fight continues, its natural force unabated. But what is it, exactly, that seeps through the pores of the sponge, soaked in many times its own weight—lenses of soap, facets filling the eye. An unblemishing, a cleansing—each pore is a wound, pouring. Their father, Israel, the only one left at the table, seated sound at the head. His feet are stretched out and his toes are wriggling idly. His hands are on his stomach. Fingers at rest. He parts his lips, about to speak as if in reprimand—but instead, he halfburps, halfhiccoughs, as a sponge flies by an ear, barely missing. And he doesn’t even. Flinch or scold.

Night inhales through his nostrils, exhales in a puff, he slumps deeper, reclines: he’s stuffed, huffy about taking the pills he should, the indigestion, the heartburn, begin working out, the gout, his head…the table’s been sponged, at least wetted enough by the toss of his daughters, by the wastes of their throwing until hard as rocks then dried to stone with the air and the scuffle—and here’s one of them now with a new, laundered tablecloth to be placed upon the table again, then a vase of flowers, too, gifted tonight, irises, Hanna’s birth-flower by the secular calendar, placed atop that; how very thoughtful, and quiet. Unshatterable, a fading of steps, a pit pat, the dribble of daughtering wine to your tired. Makes you drunk with exhaustion. Dregs, disappeared. The kinder, who had showedoff and actedout throughout dinner, have now been exiled upstairs, upstairs-upstairs and are by this time, let’s hope or deny what really goes on around here, either sleeping or hiding, having been dismissed by only the silence, Israel’s refusal to yell—only the sigh of his disapproval, the slight heave of his lungs as lodged tight within the skin of his dinner. A button of his pants birthing loose, underwear thanks fat for elastic. Hanna comes in from the kitchen, and she and her husband moon around the diningroom, emptied. Relax, the drooly flow of smalltalk, lazy endearments, yawny reminders for Sunday’s household repairs…the faucets, they’re still running upstairs, and in Feigenbaum’s bathroom, the drip of the sink without sponge underneath to soak in with silence, the tappy leak it’s enough with it, and the hotwater heater—an industrial forehead, its veins pulsating madly; soup that’s been supped to cool, still frothing over the lip of a hairy pot…and suddenly, wet’s flooding everywhere, flooding from her, from her legs, between them cramped and spasmed, this is It, it might be—the Sabbath and how there’ll be no hospital visit, not because of the holy and its violation as much as because there’s no time and like Shabbos, you just have to believe: darkness eclipsing the diningroom, the candles burned down, absorbed into melt—disfigured weepers in wax, olden idolatrous forms of what she’s become, she’s becoming: a burnt huddle of the mothers before her; the rotations halted, globe’s guttered still, the revolutions snuffed out for the sniffing, their ashes…boxes bursting themselves out of their calendars, spinning emptied, negative, from their orderly orbits: it’s been these however many hundreds of days, xd out on the kitchen luach, the diary, the addressbook’s backcovered page, and some hours, minutes, seconds, prayers, shooty pains the stem of her standing, has to sit now, next to her husband, across, the swell flipflopping, huddling her weight to one side then the other, its haunch as if a cut from the butcher’s, those leanings to glean, the which aisled shelf reachings, hunching on line at the Shoprite, the Acme, ten items or less almost there, at the cashier, conveyor and then, the rush for the sink, the toilet, for the Pathmarked pathway vomiting her stoop, then her home…the shoving at the magazinerack, the candy and gum bumble and push, the elbows as knees and the toes up to tickle at the foot of her throat, the hands of the jaw straining through—the doorhinge, a head inclined in its mouth toward the dark that to Him must be light, has to be. Her shrieks and almost the smell of milk souring, not of treyf in and of itself but of mixtures forbidden, that or another burning…now waking the daughters, rousing them out of their beds, their rooms then down the halls to the stairhead, or, if not asleep—up, their eyes photoreddened already, tented, pillowcaved in their clubs—then pulling them downstairs gaggly ragged and demonstratively sleepy to lineup against the wall of the hall in any order fertility might urge and bear witness, enough room kitchen to dining. This is what you will be, what’ll happen to you. Only if.

Israel, to rip off her dress. And Hanna, she’s tatteredly naked, immaculate, tearing: her hair, her hairs down below and bushcurly, as dense as her eyes, now being emptied she’s leaking all over, deluge through the ears and nose her mucose, stuffed, but runny, and through her mouth how she’s screaming herself by the wick of her tongue it’s on fire, shouting red blessings blackened to curses flaming at once, exhortations and honks from her pits and a fart, I love you, I’m sorry, I don’t…look at me, don’t you look at me, get out of here, stay, bring me a glass water, a couple of, tensing hard, the tush clench of the bottommost jaws, a gurgle boiled of wet dreck and blood—relaxing herself now into pain’s onrush, then tensing again and again. And at midnight, a halfhour later or so, He rises up, and she bears Him right there, loafed upon the table from which he, Israel, swipesoff the tablecloth in one movement deft with his wife and the vase and its flowers above her head, undisturbed—the very table upon which He might’ve been sown nine months earlier, has it really been that many moons ever since—tense, breathe, bearing Him, all of Him enormous, fullgrown, and it is a Him, Israel with joy and the boy with a whine and a beard and, what are those, glasses already, here on the table in the diningroom, late and yet a week just in time, in no way premature for what’s to birth with the coming of Xmas, the New Year, the secular’s turn…even old, old enough, what with those wrinkles and the pruning red and the wizened blue eyes and the mouth that’s ready to say—what’s with all that hair flecked ruddy blond and with these clunky glasses on how the daughters crowd in to get a better look, their drippy frames bent from His passage the better to know His parents by and His sisters, gasping in terror their own eyes, their own mouths as He’s wipedoff, amniotic forewater pissily pooled over his hairily rimmed and pudgily lipped mouth bubbling to burst upon His glasses’ lenses, smudgy with fluid, that and His, nu, you know, too, which is hairy as well, the beard down below and apparently, can it be, already circumcised, or else, an ornamentally tiny, scaly dangle, it seems, just now wiped away with a wrist-flick, soaked up to dissolve by a sponge that Rubina brings from the kitchen her own and with Josephine close at her heels, almost tripping, holding the challahknife with which she’s been entrusted, maturing already, slow down, sharpdown, with which Israel cuts the umbilicalcord then with its handle to smack His tush into breath—a cry upon which their expectations might now impose words, meaning, a life, help me, I love you, go away swaddled…Ima; as Israel, how not to answer, to give in to such a demand, a request so prodigious and especially easy to please, hands Him to Hanna bloody and wet in the tablecloth, which barely covers the whole huge boy, Him.

A First Helping

Serveths twelve (12).

Not twelve fullgrown, nor twelve halfgrown; not twelve male, nor twelve female; neither twelve kinder; not twelve fat, nor twelve skinny; not twelve of the holy, nor twelve of the unholy; but twelve all who art hungry, whose thirst knows no bounds.

And as this recipe doth serveth twelve, she must doubleth—as twentyfour (24) are to dine here tonight.

Verily, these are the Ingredients—as they were received from Someone or Another’s hands at the very beginning of the timer’s wide circle:

2 chickens she has slaughtered, or purchasedeth preslaughtered,

2 onions, which she has peeledeth and quartered and,

4 carrots, peeledeth and slicedeth and,

They’re good for the eyes, Misses Feigenbaum says that’s what my mother Olev HaShalom always told me—I don’t know if it’s been proven or not, just know that’s what my mother

Olev HaShalom always told me…

2 leeks, slicedeth and,

2 turnips, peeledeth and quarteredeth and,

4 celerystalks and their leaves, choppedeth and,

4 sprigs of parsley, which are optional, though as Hanna said in the name of Down The Block Sarah, They are recommended…

Salt and pepper to taste

My husband doesn’t do well by salt, says Misses Feigenbaum.

He really shouldn’t.

And verily these are the Instructions that the Lord thy God hath given unto her this day, through the merit of the Sisterhood Cookbook:

Placeth the chicken in a pot of a capacity of many cubits, with the water, four (4) liters runnething over: Four, and not three, nor two, nor one, neither any other number not obtaining thereto, and bringeth slowly to a boil, removing scum as it forms, as it is written, Thou shalt removeth the scum, wheresoever thou shalt find it in the Land.

Addeth the vegetables, and the parsley, too, if thou shalt so opt, reserving a little for garnish. Seasoneth with salt and with pepper. Then cover, simmereth on low heat for two and one half hours, no less and no more, adding water as necessary to maintaineth original level.

Removeth the chicken after one hour, and take from it its meat so as to not overdo it. Moistenth it in its own broth to be served later, then returneth the chicken’s carcass to the pot for the remainder of the time allotted, again addingeth water as needed.

Straineth the broth.

Thou shalt not skimmeth the fat floating atop.

Before serving, addeth two (2) handfuls of fine farfel (See FARFEL) or lokschen (See LOKSCHEN) or mandlen (See MANDLEN) or plätzchen (See PLÄTZCHEN) or spätzlen (See SPÄTZLEN), or yadda: verily not two large handfuls nor two small handfuls of whichever, but the two handfuls of your firstborn son shalt thou let simmereth until soft.

Ladleth into fine porcelain.

Serveth hot, garnishing with any parsley reserved.

Soup—just the thing for winter.

Being begotten by the begetted begetist whose begattable begettance begatted Big Beggeters and their Big Beggeterers begotally, whose begettability was begotted by other begotterers begatally, and yet other begatterers besides, whose begottance, begettance, or begattance begetally begot he who begat he who beget the begotting of the begotist so burdened with the begatting of the begatist beburdened again with the begetting of this Benjamin, the Ur or First Benjamin, a son of his father’s old age, the oldest known ancestor of the namedafter latterday Benjamin whose first wife’s, the first wife of Benjamin the First otherwise known as Benjamin I, name was Barba, who was out back in the shade of the far mountains gathering fruit from the familytree when this Benjamin he entered his dwelling after a day long and hard herding the flock and there on the floor, which was dirt and, as they commenced with the congress of knowing each other, mud, knew Batya, who was the handmaiden and daughter of this Barba and Benjamin, too, knowing her now for only the first time and in doing so actually making her his second wife: him entering her, him wounding her, then sickening her, having her now vomit out of her mouth the flowing lacey finery of a wedding gown, also her shroud; and verily Batya before she died, or as she died, bore Benjamin Adam, her brother, as well, who he was harnessed to the land as was his father, Benjamin, who had handed over to this Adam his firstborn son as Barba was barren the flock and his land and the sun and moon, the stars and the sands and the mountains, too, and this Adam begat Seth, and this Seth beget Enosh, and this Enosh begot Kenan who lived seventy years before bearing Mahalalel, who lived for eighthundred and ninetyfive years and bore Jared, who beared Enoch who walked with God for only threehundred years, as it’s said, before he was no more, leaving behind Methusaleh whose span was to be threefold that of his father’s, and Lamech and landed Noah, who, once arrived, only to depart again in a wander through ten more deluded, deluging generations, through Shem fathered Arpachshad, Shelah, Eber, Peleg, Reu, Serug, Nahor, Terah, then Avram, who as Avraham fathered a people whose first recorded ancestor, generations later, to be born out onto the landmass known to them as Europa was named Matthew, who was harnessed to the soil as was his father, Yeshu, who had handed over to this Matthew his firstborn son the management of the land of one Count Chmielnicki, say, and verily Matthew begot Mark, and Mark beget Luke, and Luke begat through a Hava who was then the most beautiful woman in the world that was their small village or town of only ten houses around a dirt and mud courtyard and its barren tree (this the fruit of a marriage for which, incredibly, neither were put to death) a John who he verily fell like an apple from favor in the eyes of the Count, though the current Count was almost blind, though the Countess then current, with whom his father Luke had also slept, oversaw all business matters, and though John held a note of credit, nothing helped, he was soon illiterate, without harvest one cold season and bankrupt, in debt to all and so sold himself over to the Other Side, here where he met a woman named Judith whose father had owned and operated the SRO establishment in which John lodged, Judith née Eisenstein who, Judy, bore him Peter who he went on to establish, own and operate an enormously successful lace factory, which would go under as lace began to be made by machine in the early years of the next century dawning, then married Ruth née Stern her name was who would love less him than his money, who bore him before leaving him after yet another bankruptcy Paul, who was raised by his father and who survived him and was himself deep in debt and so went and married another unattractive, wholly repellent though ostensibly moneyed Affiliated woman whose name has been withheld to save her the embarrassment and, too, to assure for at least this Chronicler a shaded place in the World to Come (suffice to say, she was a Lerner, of one of the foremost litigious families known to greater New York), who bore him a doctoring son he insisted on naming Jeb, who grew up then went and wed a Deborah née Jacobson and begat with her Hanna, who she was raised by this Deborah her mother and, after Jeb was hit by a bus in the Park on his way to visit his mistress so way up on the Upper East Side as to be Spanish Harlem, a mensch named Gary Hyman, some hold, though others hold Hymen, whom she, Hanna, anyway called Dad, Aba, a Hymen of the Upper West Side Hymans and not of the Downtown Hymans or Hymens, the ones, the Upper West Side ones, with all of those laser surgery franchises and that son of theirs, Gary’s brother Seymour Hymen or Hyman, a graduate of whatever school, with whatever degree MBA, anyway, very impressive, do you know them, and if you do will you say Shalom for me—though she, Hanna, was, in the matter of her paternity, until at least the night before her batmitzvah, none the wiser, not to be confused with Weiser, which was a surname of second cousins (her mother’s), Hanna whose last name she returned to being Senior after her true father, Jeb, assumed only after the breaking of the news, her subsequently tearful batmitzvah, then the exiling of Gary who’d explained it all to her out to Venice, the one they have now in California, and a new stepfather soon obtained, name of Arnold, Arnie a seller of electronic and personal computing components on commission to friends whom she and her mother loved dearly; Hanna who knew no one, Hanna didn’t know anything, until she knew one Israel Israelien, who’d become converted as much through his love of her as through his love of her people and the incredible tax breaks that came with it all, Israel who was three years her senior as she was three years his junior Senior as they’d tell their Fridaytime guests and then laugh, and so it came to pass that Hanna bore Israel over the period of eighteen years daughters, twelve of them, too many of them if not to love then to at least know by face or by name, and to any degree of difference, or intimacy: and verily they were Rubina and Simone and Liv and Judith and Dina and Natalia and Gillian and Asa and Isabella and Zeba and Josephine and Batya again known as Bat, following whose birth Hanna finally bore Israel their thirteenth, a son, this lastborn of theirs and their only male to be named Benjamin Israelien, known to us as Ben and less often as B, born to them upon the Sabbath at fullsize, at full intelligence, too, whatever there is, who’s born mature already, with glasses and hairy, another beard in the immediate family.

Blond and curly, His head full, frosty it seems sometimes, at other times golden—an inheritance, many have speculated, from a lover of a grandmother six times maybe great, willed to Him by some archduke or other minor noble who’d kept her, others hold, who this landed notable was sleeping also with the woman’s sister, Benjamin’s greataunt five times over. How else are we to explain, the scholars have asked, how else to explicate, to reconcile, call to account: how Benjamin received His own two eyes, as blue as a recessive flame, from a Cossack, even a Nazified Aryan, who’d perhaps raped a grandmother of His, though it’s said she’d liked it. How else to represent His full, Elvis kingfishy labial traits than as an inheritance from an Iberian peddler of fraudulent Scripture; His belly unmistakably that of a bearish Russian, hulking over the scrawny poultry limbs of a Pole; His nose that of a lusty Gypsy priest ordained in the Orthodox church, if only for the salary and shelter, or maybe that of the fake Father’s cow: a sinful snout, gigantically puffed; His heart, that of the most kindly Venetian whore, while others say her pimp, and as for His mind, O His mind—that of a rumpled, sleepless Viennese, who’d breathed feuilletons between aphorisms, his sperm a spurt of ink. As for the horns, though, that later horn in, those He gets from His mother…don’t look at me.

And so if the record above withstands judgment, the Tests, ten or no, and all its facts, names, and dates are for sure, verified, God’s honest, signed, sealed deliverance received with a profusion of thanks due to ineffably named offices as obliging as they might be obscure, then despite all the goyim involved, despite all the Prussians, the Russians, the pull and push of the Poles, His Affiliation is here proven, thus exiling any rumor, defamation, and libel outside the midst of our encampment: that though His father was not born Affiliated (how he’d allowed himself to become converted, out of love and, maybe, to get a job as an outwardly respectable lawyer with a decent firm of impeccable reputation), His mother was, was born Affiliated and, as the Law states more than once and simply, the bloodline lives and dies by the mother: this the opinion of one Rabbi Yosi the Galilean, who’s not to be confused with yet another Rabbi Yosi, whose Talmudic ruling permitting circumcision on the Sabbath would be invoked by both Hanna and Israel throughout the eight days following the Shabbos birth of their son, regaling their family, friends, and acquaintances and even those they’d meet on the street or at the store with the wisdom received—that circumcision, as a covenant that predates that of Sinai, in fact supersedes and defers the Sabbath Herself, and can indeed be thought of as more sacred, holier; how their rabbi had told them that, the same family rabbi who would’ve circumcised Him on that very Shabbos, had he been a firstborn himself, and survived. And what then, we might ask before we’re carried any further away from His origins, into the realm of history being written and rewritten today, what then of Ruth if you know her, Ruth a relative from way back then, toward the Root? Ruth that Moabite, that hardluck, hardliving gleaner, her bundling sheaves enough to last her the bitter cold of the winter that was also her womb, the widow of Mahlon, daughter-inlaw of Naomi and wife of Boaz, that almona aguna whose calling’s the confirmation of everything: her book ending with a genealogy of its own no less confused than that that’s been given above, which leaves her, through the seed of Obed and the water of Jesse, as the bubbe to end all bubbes—the grandmother of King David, and so, as tradition always tells us, the Matriarch of the Messiah: the King of Kings, if you will, May His Name be Perpetuated, Increased, to be from the upwardly mobile egg of a fallen, shellshattered mother; the Moshiach, the son of a convert, who would believe…Israel, are you there—what, if anything, does that explain?

Allow us, then, this walk down the blocks, these blocks or those that resemble them, as it doesn’t much matter, as it’s all the same nowhere, it’s home; the grid of the suburbs. Siburbia, as Israel often called it, if nowhere can be called, if nowhere can be known, the tundra, the wasteland, quarter century later how Hanna’d still laugh when he’d say it, even if he’s late home from the office and hasn’t called her ahead, heard her voice to humor it silent. It’s kept tranquil here, wherever. Our myth is affluent, it ensures quiet, permanency, solitude lit and with multiple zones of heat—whichever way you might turn in this northless, southless world, there’s this sense of perpetual arrival, at stasis, though traditions of ascent are still observed daily: up is always an option, and down is the grave.

Here are the streets, though they lead only to other streets—and all are sidewalks, if not in purpose then practice. Only the road leads out, and only the adults, the grownups, know the one street of the incomprehensibly infinite streets that are all of them sidewalks that leads to the one road leading out, to somewhere or other. Shalom in peace. O the sidewalks, the sectioned pathways here that lead nowhere, only to other pathways leading to nowhere, then intersecting in crosswalks, crossing streets and lanes and avenues, ways and even boulevards and courts in white lines—and that one road still, where is it, where does it go?

Here it’s safe, but Ima says to look both ways just to make sure.

The one road out is the one road in, into the sanctum, the penetralia—a lot where once the Development had planned to build a pool, but the depths were drowned in committee, rezoned.

Instead, His house had been raised thereupon.

And then out—the one road leading into the one wider world, it’s said, into the Unkempt, the Unmanaged, God knows.

Ima says to be careful, don’t talk to strangers.

And yet here, no one’s a stranger—as you might know where they live, with whom, what they do and even how much money they make at it, though you’ve never met them, they’re yours…

Everything inside is the domain of the Gatekeeper.

In this world there are always brotherhoods, clubs, orders, or organizations, nearly illimitable loyalties each with their own mottos, intricate insignia of the fingers secreted in handshakes, all to prove affirmation for meeting nights, dissolving between resolutions into allegiances of individual necessity—and so verily there are fraternities within fraternities, lodges within lodges, loyalties within loyalties, divided then subdivided again and again to a degree of confusion at which you just can’t, don’t, won’t keep up with them anymore and so go and give it up for mishegas, nonsense, cleaving instead to an overly simplistic interpretation of the world, your loss. Our Gatekeeper here is a member in good standing of the Gatekeeping Lodge, they all are, those of every Development—them sharing intelligence, methods, techniques, these guardians of the protocols of entrance, upholders of the rituals pertaining thereto, their loyalties perpetually divided between the efficient maintenance of the flow of traffic and persons in and out of their respective Developments, and a professional satisfaction to be found in proper inconvenience, the pride they must take in postponement, delay. An expert, this Gatekeeper knows every reason to counter excuse, and will countenance no exceptions, nor explanation. His domain is a heated, insulated lodge nearly the size of a house such as those his position’s foresworn to protect, situated parallel with the road at the landscaped mouth of this luxuriously prefab Joysey Development—this Gatekeeper’s last, most deluxe assignment, almost a retirement, he’s still getting paid. One Thousand Cedars its name, but who’s counting?

One Thousand, the slogan goes, bannered across the fence upon the rare Open House, then on the bunting: A Grand Place to Live.

Oy, wasn’t his idea.

With a swig of dietetic soda he gulps the last of his medications, a host of attention deficit pills (last prescribed by a Doctor Klockenmeyer at 82 Oak); he’s waiting—a lay member must not be caught lying down; unto the midnight shifts, with static up on the screen and the ominous crackling crush of the dogwalkers, insomniac, tromping puppies through snow and ice, through to the morning shifts, newspaper funnies fixed featureless to forehead—all those passes and identifications to understand and transmit, Developmentwide. Isn’t easy. Vigilance is key. There among the switches, his sustenance; he lives on snackfood, the carbohydrate bounty of the vending machine Management had installed in his Lodge for them to make return on their investment in him: pretzels low salt and no, these sugarless candy bars and saccharine sodas, now empty receptacles for the sorting of his meds. His screens show the lack of activity around the perimeter, the news, a situation comedy set in a Development much like this one, and Misses Herring’s private bathroom: this latter a measure of personal surveillance, undertaken on his own initiative; though more a hobby than an issue of security, it’s lonely, it works.

He’s the Master of Allowances, of favors granted (though only occasionally, in weaker moments)—he’s the Arbiter of Recognizance, this squat older goy with a gun at his hip for which they’ve never given him ammo, him with a twinkle in his eye and teeth plasticized in infinite, highrising floors to flash at passersby. For her, though, a smile more genuine, unforced, becoming sheer grin: he knows her, of course, this woman, the one with the light hair and dark eyes, the other half of the package—not the Koenigsburg’s, this is H and Is’ woman; knows her not in the sense of Scripture, not that he would’ve refused, not at all, you’re misunderstanding, it’s up to her; no, he knows her more intimately, knows her schedules, arrivals and departures, her weekly forages in the Greater Outside, which is where he’d like to live with her if ever she’d quit her dying Inside. And me here, he thinks, how me, too—in a sort of purgatory, between the two worlds, a barrier, at the edge of two middles. Not quite a coworker, far from the boss. He leans across his desk as she walks up and onto the sidewalk in a slink particular to the refugee or oppressed, keeping his eyes lusting on her until she takes her turn onto Apple. As for her, she never looks over her shoulder, rather faces down, like she’d never turn toward him, no matter what, even if he was barking her name and for her to stop and had his gun loaded and aimed at her head; you’re born knowing to walk like that, and under those conditions, he thinks, if you were born where she was and when, which was he doesn’t know where, neither when, but can imagine—even with the monitoring, that’s what he does.

Wanda walks quickly, her small head knotted into a kerchief to the slight rain, then snow, disappears from his eyes only to reappear up on his screen, heading west on Apple to the house at its loop; she’d gone out to reconnoiter Masses, their hours, for tonight and tomorrow, for herself and Adela.

He’d taken the wreathe out of its storage under the desk, had hung it on his door just last week.

A moment, though, slow up and shtum…he’d thought now might’ve been the time to spring the question: What are you doing tonight, and tomorrow, and with your life after that? Wanda, a Wonda, why the name, and from what?

As our rabbis explain—it’s because when they were building these houses, they cut down one thousand cedars that’d grown upon the face of this earth since the beginning of time.

And where did those cedars end up?

In the houses, on their roofs, as shingles, as siding.

Satisfied?

No.

How Is This House Different From All Other Houses? According to our sages, it’s because this house is the Koenigsburg’s house and all the other houses are not, with the exception, it’s been raised, of the Koenigsburg’s mountainhouse, or retreat, which is located in New York, Upstate, a house she’d wanted and not he, let’s not get into that just now (like every single one of their houses, it’d been too expensive, the mortgage and the upkeep, too, and the property taxes, and yadda). As Rabbi Bill has said in the name of Reb Bob of Normal, IL, the Koenigsburg mountainhouse is different from the Koenigsburg househouse in innumerable ways. And we all say, too long a story. According to the scholars, their househouse is different from all other houses, as well: inside, the arrangement of the furnishings, the disposition of important investment papers, the hides of their wills, passports, forks, knives, and twisted white metal hangers are divinely unique. It’s been said, other households might have some of the same possessions, however no other household has the exact same amalgamation and arrangement of the exact same possessions. And Rabbi Lao Zhang-Zhao goes on to explain—this house has an attic. And in the attic is a steamertrunk, which her grandmother had hauled all the way across the ocean. No other house has the trunk of her grandmother, and, anyway, not in its attic, though to be sure other houses have their own attics and their own grandmother’s trunks, and maybe even grandmothers’ trunks up in attics, though, he expounds, probably none have attics inside the trunks of their grandmothers. Though Rav Martinez does not rule it out. According to Rav Nuncio, it’s its inhabitants that make this house unique. And then there’s the Koenigsburg’s shorehouse…

How Is This House NOT Different From All Other Houses? Across the looping from the Koenigsburg’s, then, Hanna and Israel’s: they’re both immodest houses of outwardly similar size, multiply floored and with finished or partially unfinished attics and basements, and similar shape, a central box or trunk, from which emerge their two wings each, one from either end north to south as if they’re prepared to fly away any moment, each wing with porch extensions of their own (later additions, once they’d made nice with Zoning), wings of wings, out the sides, and in the front and back, too; they have the same number of interior stairs, which is fortyfour, and the same number of rooms, which is twentyeight; they were reroofed the same month a year ago now, and the same thieves, recommended by Management, May Their Debts Grow Higher Than Sinai, did the reroofings; they’re both filled with loving, active, and involved parents of loved, acted upon, and involved with offspring, though the Koenigsburgs have only two kinder and the Israelien’s have twelve, now thirteen.

Another difference is their color, though it’s only an opposite, a reversal: the Koenigsburg’s house’s siding is the color of H and Is’ house’s shutters, and the Koenigburg’s house’s shutters are the color H and Is’ house’s siding.

Both houses have hedges front and back, both kept immaculately trimmed for uniform width and height by the exact same workforce, who work for the houses on alternating Wednesdays as last scheduled at last January’s annual meeting of the One Thousand Cedars Hass or Homeowner’s Association, hosted by the Koenigsburgs; this coming year would’ve been the Israeliens’ turn.

Though H and Is’ house has a basement partially unfinished; the repository of all difference, the sanctum of all secrets however domestic: soggy, micenibbled cardboard boxes, spiderspun hollows of cinderblock, these bulk crates of paper product (toilet tissue, towels), twin battered and chipped foldingtables—those and a host of other accoutrements reserved only for the use of guests both wanted and not: guestlinens, guesttowels, guestshoes and guestmittens and hats, provisions for every possible guestneed and guest-want, guestdesire, demand; toward the back, more boxes, these of moldering books, stacks of old photographs, paintings, and records, too, autographed Zimmerman LPs, an incomplete set of the Brandenburg Concerti, desiccated mounds of jazz sides most of them just sleeves, opera recordings probably worth something, someone should investigate, get them appraised; and even at the decaying bent bottom of the heap a trove of cantorial 35s that’d belonged to their parents, their grandparents, maybe, walled in by a dustbound encyclopedia set featuring the latest maps of the Ottoman Empire, volumes bookmarked with the corpses of worms.

Whereas the Koenigsburg’s basement had been Professionally done, as Edy Koenigsburg would relate during the course of every hosted supper come the Sabbath, the guests stabbing each other with their forks and knives in their hands and jellied eyes, slicing each other and strangling and gagging one another with napkins all to be the first to congratulate her, wish her Mazel—Edy, you say it Eatee—on her Adela’s pierogie appetizers, juicyplump just perfect, as if stuffed with the revivified testes of an assortment of ancient, powerful patriarchs…and how Edy’d always say hors d’oevres and how Adela’d mimic but one night pronounced them Whore’s Divorce, with everyone assembled thinking she was referring to Miss Glaswand nèe Kahl and that whole episode, which involved—no matter, though leading to a situation requiring serious talks undertaken Hostess to Hosted as if a peace negotiation stalled, faltering, failed down in Palestein, ultimately with Adela asked to her room and given the night off with a raise.

Adela’s was a small niche in the basement exactly the same size as the room she’d been born into, the room her five sisters had been born into, the room in which she’d lived with them and hid with them under the sag of the lone bed at midnight from the extra special police who took her father away that one night investigated in the middle of summer across the ocean the size of the greater basement, it was—an oceanic vista of blue carpet dusted with white snowlike puffs every halfstep, tentative, flaky. Here, beyond the rustlegged, moldtopped, or merely green table for pingpong, scuffed of white lines, without net or paddles either and its balls lying crushed, at the white of the wall with its electrical outlets, up against the nylonate red and white flag of her nation whichever and wherever it was draped over her door facing out, and depending on whether she was inside her room or not, out and at work, a pair of footwear stands, soft soled slippers for inside, hard for out, a mat that says Witamy then next to the footwear, at the baseboard and its trim offwhite, an antiquated, toenailyellowed scale handeddown from Edy to facilitate Adela’s daily weigh in. As Edy always thought, any justification for Adela’s obesity might lay in her nationality: Adela was maybe, she thought, possibly, she’d think, acceptably overweight because she was foreign, how Edy had to remind herself again and again as the scale’s indicator, an arrow as sharp as a mean word, would oscillate its tongue toward a sum Adela would always want translated to kilos, as if Edy’d know, as if it’d matter. What can you do—these people, their numerous ways.

Inside, in Adela’s wardrobe, a wooden hulk set against the wall opposite the door, behind a pile of her folded bedding, behind the linen, the mussed sheets patterned out of date and the matching pillowcases, too, worn by sets of mismatched guests, uninvited—an icon of a saint, and behind the saint, a large and roughly hewn opening into a passage widening with its descent under the brights of these sudden chandeliers set between emergency sconces leading under the Koenigsburg frontyard and the sidewalked street then the Israelien frontyard and there narrowing again on its way up through another opening into yet another wardrobe of the same size and shape as Adela’s (though plywood, this unit discontinued, discounted, found by Israel at a firesale—they’d been swearing to get her new furniture for a year, if not for her sake then theirs), past its own saint then past its unwashed bedsheets and clothes and lingerie, smokestained, vodkadamp, all domestic fabrics and sartorial separates that’d been haphazardly stuffed beyond the reach of the iron the girls would wield upon afternoon Fridays—and into a room of the same size and shape as Adela’s though a room in a basement partially unfinished, which Hanna used to say to Edy meant that it was also partially finished: defensively this, Wanda’s room in the Israelien home.

Wanda and Adela, these two sisters from the Pale, far beyond it—you two are so pale! Edy’d shriek, howabout we make an appointment, on me, don’t you worry yourself about anything, you’re more than my maid, my kinder’s sitter, my servant or Slavslave, you’re my friend; what’re you thinking, tanning salon, should we go with sprayon or lights, makeover or just nails, maybe the spa, we’ll soak and gab, make a day of it—they were inseparable these two if sisters then nationed only through river’s blood, umbilicus choice. Anyway, as it’s often said of them, a package deal, a twofer your money maximized, the familysized—when the two of them Edy and Hanna would recite ancient history to friends gathered, maybe at a meeting of the board of the dayschool, or at a synagogue event, a Hadassah function, that’s how they’d talk, the not quite valuepak, two for the price of three, Edy only joking around, and how Hanna would always set her up or even herself wherever whichever one left off: We went down to the Agency together, and wouldn’t you know it, we found the two of them,

The two of them, here Edy’d pick at a thread, a loose strand of tooth’s salad—orphans,

Hanna’d go on, No luggage,

as Edy’d add, They’d arrived with these illegible recommendations, which my greatgrandfather of blessed memory could maybe understand if he weren’t dead now, what’s it been, twenty years…

nodding, laughter—Edy-the-funnyone,

And now Hanna’d say,

And now, Edy repeating—they never rehearsed, would you believe?

And now, how Hanna’d attempt to kill it boredom and curtains, Edy and I are like two older sisters to them, like, aren’t we, Edy?

approval, enabling—Like two older sisters, Edy’d rerepeat like maybe ten times,

sisters we never had, like sisters we never had, like the two sisters we never had…nodding, and Hanna, having always to get the last word in would say, edgewise, Older sisters,

We are, Edy not to be outdone,

nodding, We are, Hanna repeating and, to end it again this time ended once and for all—sealing her victory while unsealing another container of tupperware would add, Have a little more artichoke salad I saved the hearts just for you (I always remember—that’s what I do, I safeguard & remember),

or, And how’s your son making out at whichever school at his whatever new job is he still with that girl who, with the father who, what’s her name?

On the day they’d both arrived incountry, they’d met at the Agency, were transported to work in the same windowless van, Agencydelivered right to the same street, right to their new doors right across the street from one another, behind which locked a thousandfold then alarmed they’d work for their lives in return. This Agency that was wholly owned though operated only on the evenings of weekdays by a descendant of the founder of the very town or village or muddied well from which neither of them came but that was near enough and in the same country at least as were their own towns, which were villages, dirty burrows or caves, though that country had first to become many other countries before again becoming that country once again his and theirs; this owner and operator a descendant of their shared nation, then, who now owned, operated, and exploited his heritage that was only a Heritage in America, exploited, too, the presently disadvantaged situation of their coconspiring country in order to supply this relatively affordable and dependable workstaff to the descendants of a people who had been killed by the ancestors of those who’d arrive here five days a week and without any official sanction, eager and earnest to cook and to clean: among them, though hailing from two estranged, mutually hating and universally hated cities that had become bombed into towns that had then become bombed into villages debased amid respective cataract and cess situated at opposite ends of two nations that had survived only to fall at opposite ends of their now redistributed and so unified nation, how Wanda and Adela had each overheard the other muttering obscenities in a shared, reunified tongue (as if a breathy length of conterminous flesh, which ensured they’d never get too far away from one another), an estranging language that sounded to Hanna like SZCZSZCZSZCZ and was apparently understood only by the three of them, the Agency proprietor, Wanda and Adela, and the dead ancestors of their employers, whose eyes, even in silent stairwell photographs, often retained a moisture that sustained flies the sound of whose beating wings would resemble the buzz of their talk; the two turning each to face the dry tongue of the other, flouncing over shoulders hair washed in dishwater, each dressed in the same model formless sweater purchased at State department stores laden with identical shelves, CZÓSZCZÖSZCZSZÔCZØSZCZÒS it sounded like to Edy, fantastic in its palatework, its display of glottal virtuosity that no one else in the metal and glass lobby of the Agency would understand as the lobby was then at that early hour full only with working mothers and even housewives assembled to haggle over the imports, to handle the merchandise, to argue and to bargain and broker their deals, though only after making deep and thorough inspections according to criteria known only to conscience (firm breasts and sweet breath, good knees, healthy gums); then, it was a hug that neither of them understood, as if without thought, like already here they are being bold, brash, impetuous, fastfriends, these instantaneous Americans, immediately assimilated into this vast and multitudinously faceted citizenry of cheeks, with a kiss lipped amid the down of each, their hug cleaved out from the air between them a mass of wet concrete (the most famous material of their nation, wherever it is, if it still was) that would come to harden into a landmark in their lives, a monument abstracted into intimacy, founded upon nothing save the flimsy linoleum flooring of the landmass known to us as Memory: remember that dictator, yes, the one whose moustache pointed up or the one whose moustache pointed down, either, the one who was bald or the one whose hair was combed severely over to the right indicating the side to which we all would salute, both and his eyebrows, and that regime, sure, the one that took your father, no, the one that took my mother, you mean that one, and then the Revolution, right, where were you when, and what, I almost forgot, who could forget, I was only a baby, I was only a girl.

But not all Undergrounds are the same. There are differences, and not just of depth: the Main Tunnel here, longer than day and wider than fecund womanly hips, seemed in its enormity the work of an unholy, mythical earthworm that’d been burrowing ever since the crack of Creation, and not the hard-won product of thousands of hours of digging with the dulling spoons they’d scooped from the drawers of their Hosts’ fine silver. As far down in the world as Undergrounds go, this was domesticated, even luxury, exceptionally lit with equidistantly staggered fluorescents, its floors lavishly tiled in alternating hexagons of royal blue and the baring whites of their incredulous eyes, decadently furnished with oversized, overstuffed settees set on both sides of the Tunnel against walls slathered by Maintenance with vast murals tending toward the idyllically socialized realist, pastelly archetypal depictions of the happy domestic, overflowed with pillows fat with feather their covers kept immaculate through regular launderings conducted topside, the responsibility for which would lovingly revolve amongst all.

No Siburban legend, digging began on the Underground immediately following the passage, which has it been three years ago already, of the infamous Stay At Home Legislation (Stahl, named after its sponsor, first name Sandra, it’s said), a for your own safety ordinance applying to all aliens living and working within One Thousand limits. Apparently, in years past there had been a number of escapes, not a little scandal attendant. Lawyerhusbands advised not to mention it, lawyerwives invariably agreed. The Development only said we couldn’t go outside, Adela often remarked, after dark with a meal hot in her stomach and a drink in her hand, the smoke of a cigarette burning low, they never said nothing about not taking ourselves Underground.

Though only this past summer did Adela finally receive majority approval to commission an investigative committee tasked with exploring the possibility of an extension, for purposes of access both emergency and daily, her envisioning an eventual network of Undergrounds leading outside the planned community (to be known as OUTCOM—and even now they have a host of personal gardeners divided into Nippers and Tuckers, Landscape Engineers, Pool Scoopers, Odd Jobbers, and I’ve come to fix your cable Repairmen, as illegal here as anyone else, working hard on seven outlying passages when sober, inclined), by this past fall the entire InCommunity (INCOM) project had already been realized, all Domestics now connected, all husbands notified in writing then after thirty days duly billed. The last and largest of INCOM’s major modules was dedicated just the first of last month, in a glorious ceremony ruined only by its policy of compulsory attendance: the Underground Social Union set three floors into earth, deep amid the graves and the plumbing, an auditorium and meeting hall allpurpose, in which Domestics were free to socialize and organize, coordinate coverage, appointments and playdates for their kinder, or just relax, stress down over a tall glass of the house kvass and what would begin as a friendly game of clobyosh.

This Social Union’s situated directly under and could alternately be accessed through the first manhole upon northerly entrance to what’s now known as Synagogue Street, which had been named for the redbrick, steepsteepled church that once shadowed its southernmost terminus: impossible to believe, I know, that at one intersection of History & Joysey not all seven thousand plus residents of One Thousand Cedars had been Affiliated, weren’t almost required to be, that someone or other had once to pay full price for these units, not everyone had an uncle who had pull, or push, whatever weight how he or an aunt’d brought carried water to bear, someone who knew someone who’d execute the due diligence, and that without asking too many questions, or providing too many answers (requiring the recommendations, forms, why in triplicate my W2s?), pushing their applications through the planning tribunal, pulling their relatives, friends, and associates through both loophole and lapse…nu, maybe not an uncle in the sense of relation, though he’s a good friend of the family, now with the auntie wife asleep three floors up aboveground then three floors more up above that at the top gable of their house in its bedroom in bed dreaming of dreams without the interpretation of pills he’s taking his pride with him hard and pulsing below the arches of his immaculately maintained eyebrows on a tour, a surprise inspection of the Underground premises: wrapped in a terrycloth towel provided for patrons with any deposit of valid creditcard, his license, or passport he’s making his way out of the Social Union then through the Hall of Domestic Workers, an expanse forbidding in its sudden and darkening narrowness, lined on both sides with these uniformly small, metalframed photographs of the maids and other sundry employees of Development families who had fallen in the line of duty, become martyred to the profession, each portrait’s frame equipped with the jut of a spike on which a candle’s been impaled and kept burning at all times of Underground day and night in memory of the victim represented on the plaque below both dated and named, though with the smoke from the flames blackening over those plaques and even the portraits, too, eventually all that could be seen of most of these tragic Domestics—fallen upon a broomhandle, slipped to death on a mop—is the staring silver of their memorious eyes, which penetrate through any accretion of soot then into the souls of those like our uncle who must through design pass this way on the ways to their pleasure; the Hall then opening into an impressively spacious anteroom rowed on two of its faces with individual shower stalls walled and floored in tile and glassed, towels also blue, white, and of every fade bruised between hang from gilded hooks, soap dispensers installed on the fundament wall on both sides of its door.

Our uncle, he of the promiscuous towel he hangs on any hook vacant, enters a stall to scrub the wrinkling work of day from the coppery skin and copious hair of his limbs, in preparation for the luxurious adultery of the next scheduled rotation, ignoring in his nude a husband voluntarily repurposed down here for hard labor S & M: there’s a rag hanging from a pants pocket, a niggun on his lips; misting up an enclosure with three quick shpritzes from a pump of noxious solution: Mist Mist Mist, he’s singing, Dadadadadoo, Mist Mist Miss a Spot, Lose a Yacht, Then get mad and sue…through the showering facility now, through its further door, its threshold heaped with mats filched from the trash of houses topside, then into a more spacious expanse this walled with yawning wooden doors as cedar as anything rooted. This room, too, heaped in a decorative disassociative state, schizophrenic, half class half crass, with its variegated pillows and rugs and pelts of fur below the valanced false windows (as we’re now what’s the equivalent of six floors Underground), shaded anyway, possibly for what’s thought of as relaxing effect, with strung nautiluses and conch shells schlepped home from houses timeshared down the Shore, counties Atlantic and Cape May, that fronted the most endangered of dunes. It’s neurotic here, almost insane, as if these Domestics didn’t know what to do with their new country’s bounty, have been irremediably confused by the power of purchase lately acquired; elegance mismatched with pretension jumbled, arranged haphazardly, ungepatched in every imitation of the ideationally venerable, the misguided antique, the fauxworn, the anything-went, anythingworks: plush with loveseats, and with fleshy settees and divans, leatherette taborets, tuffets and tufted ottomans, canapés, flutelegged couches and highbacked gossipbenches, a host of instantaneous heirloom, an inheritance made new on the cheap—thanks to a participating husband, if you have to ask, who’d portfolioed a rash of warehouses stuffed with like kitsch out on the Hudson and was so far free with his inventory and love: this the room to which our uncle will come, and come again and again, the room where the Development’s female Domestic Workers—FEMDOMs, in the know—would whore themselves out at prices reasonable enough to be renegotiated every year to the lusts of their male professional employers (MALPROs), and their firstborn male kinder (FIRMA) as well, many of whom actually brought here by their fathers for their very First Time, an experience in bonding or just light bondage, the virginal both, a sacred rite of the wellventilated, dimly lit passage: sometimes they shared, doubled up, and at other times they took the same Domestic in turns, the fathers always first (respecting at least one half of the Fifth Commandment—Thou Shalt Honor thy Father whether he be timid, or Pharaoh, or God), often the two or more—and whether they’re business associates, carpool friends, synagogue acquaintances or only neighbors not necessarily social or on talking terms—all taking on the very Domestic or Domestics they employed, the maid who’d fix them brunch just an hour later aboveground, with the yolk of the sun just beginning its shine and her asking those who’d bask in it, how do you like your eggs? whether farm fresh, free range, Grade A or doubleyolked, purchased from a facility situated far on the opposite side of the Social Union’s expanse: a supermarket grounding an excellent mall in which, both of them, even the most discerning Domestic would find anything ever itemized on any list whether it be that of grocery, or To Do; special diets no problem, diabetic and sugarfree, sure, lactose, we know, with a kosher section the largest in the state; clothing and cosmetics, too, flowers and jewelry and movies and literature made in native languages for their own pleasure and more—all without the hassle of lines and unseasonal markups, the terror that is public shopping.

And so far everything had remained a secret, as if the husbands, guilty as they were, would talk, many of them being lawyers and in this state women being entitled to half. All Domestics, all with wardrobe access to the Main Tunnel, were circumspect themselves, how weren’t they cautious: protecting their entrances with a holy vengeance, enshrining an assortment of religious icons in their entryways, these idols of saints, graven images. How each Domestic had her own saint to make sacred the rear of her wardrobe, to safeguard her own entrance and exit, and how when there happened to be more Domestics than there were saints, whether due to the enormity of the Development, its increasing need for qualified Domestics, or to the wanting slightness of the eccleisiastical calendar, the slowness of the church to canonize the worthy, or else thanks to the true scarcity of the truly miraculous upon this profaningly ephemeral earth, then saints had to be invented, miracled out from thin air: new arrivals had to fake a saint, which an eager, unilluminated, and yet earnestly religious member of the Maintenance Staff would then mock up in wood, which had been mandated cedar. This despite the belief that to fake a saint was disgraceful if not sacrilegious, a symbol of the new, the foreign and its reminder of confusion, of Babel; as such, it was suspect, looked down upon, sniffed about. Though the only way in which a newcomer could obtain a true saint was for its patronized Domestic to become reassigned, which happened almost never, or to be fired, which happened if rarely, not if her favorite husband could prevent it, if he had say, his own sponsors, connections and contacts among important Hostesses aboveground—or else to quit, maybe, or die, and why not.

This was their embarrassment, the mark of an outcast estate: they’d arrived too late for the real, and so had to make do with the American fake—Wanda and Adela, they’re dealing. When they’d arrived, the assignments were deepening into all taken Decembers; their days setting, feasts starving them out: there was the saint who was first a virgin, then a nun; then there was the saint who’d been martyred by the Muslims at Eleutheropolis; the saint who was first a hermit before coming out of the wardrobe to free his own people from those very Muslims; then the saint who’d married the son of a saint whose own son and his sons then, too, were to rule all the west of Europa, and yadda. Wanda had wanted Saint Anastasia, long spoken for, imaged and installed, her mother’s favorite, too, feasted on Xmas itself, the 25th of December: Anastasia whose refusals to go to bed with both her two husbands had ended in their deaths, whose three maids were then brought before a Roman prefect on the suspicion of witchcraft, were ordered stripped and yet, as it’s been said, how their clothes clung tight to their youth; Anastasia who was banished, exiled out to the island of Palmarola to receive her requisite martyrdom, being burned at the stake under the reign of Diocletian; her mother, Wanda remembered, had always worshipped an Anastasia, though which Anastasia Wanda wasn’t sure, wasn’t sure her mother had ever been sure either, whether hers had been a saint or a Romanov, or only a dream. Adela, ardent adherent of the mirror Edy had hung on the wall opposite her wardrobe, also wanted what had already been taken, made iconic for the sake of another, the saint after whom she’d been named: St. Adela, the daughter of the King of the Franks, founder and abbess of the Benedictine Convent at Pfalzel. After a host of arguments, offered bribes, and the failure to broker chores with St. Adela’s protected, a lifer, Greta from Pomegranate Way, Adela had had to resign herself, reassign, imagined for her use a St. Schwartz, founder of the Order of Absent Fathers. As for Wanda, after the Anastasia disappointment and consultation with Adela her bestfriend and an avidly sardonic churchgoer, she’d settled on a St. Weiss, in her mind the son of a German draymensch and the daughter of eminent rabbis from Poland, a native of Los Angeles, patron saint of media, fish, and eyewear, martyred in an earthquake in an attempt at saving the neighbor’s chihuahua.

Adela arriving home from mass, the eve of Xmas, long past middle night—she’d had the day off, they’d had the day off, had nothing all today save this service, then home to prepare for her shift Underground, which was never off, canceled or closed, which all actually expected to be busy if experience serves. She enters the kitchen, folds the arms of her sunglasses into a worshipful embrace, lays them on the marble next to the sink then turns to the window, its reflection of her as if in dishsoap, wrings the part of her hair, severe, to air naked scalp, how stark her roots show…

The Development surrounding, it’s motionless, noiseless, because all she can sense is herself: it seems no one’s at home or awake. Midnights until Fridays late (Edy’s hosted cousins tonight, relations so far removed as to constellate another spacetime, and even that neighborhood changing, not for the better), Adela would help wash the dishes, sponging away whatever’d been left behind after Edy’s quick rinse, the scraps that’d feed families, the detritus of rind and fat, grease and oil pooled only a gesture above an initial superficial scrub, at this hour Edy usually at the sink herself less working than waiting, like Hanna a maker of one meal a week, and insistent on washing up after it, at least a little, one squirt from the faucet’s long nose; maternal proofwork to herself more than to her kin, washing distracted and so poorly, leaving the salvaging to Adela, once she’d arrived upstairs from the exile of the meal, and before returning Underground for the night. She’s whispering, American lipstick and Slavic dentistry, Eatee, Eatee…throughout the house, seeking order, direction, the host that is mastery: her whispers to rise up the stairwell slat by slat up to the rooms upstairs-upstairs, to sound plank into rooms that uphold the walls, voice to grain away wood. Furniture, possessions, stuff. That that is owned has no right to respond. Only echo, reflecting echo—and even when ordered to respond, it cannot, because it’s not only owned, it’s dead. Adela shrugs, smiles caps, crowns, a mouth full of fools and princes, the cityscape of a world far away, vista of castle and church. Pleased to be alone, to preserve her hands, safeguard her manicure for the favor of night, it’ll be pleased, they always are: her hand strokes up and strokes down, then a milky moon appears above the valley of palm. To leave its dish with the others for the promise of tomorrow, though what’s not done tonight is undone forever, can’t blame. Even upon the Sabbath, Adela has to sign herself into the Register, with the pen left on its table, Alan’s spare fountain: one of two received as a wedding gift a life ago, it’s never been used to sign anything but her own name; then, makes her way down the other slotted stairs to her room, downstairs-down-stairs with her heels heeled off held in her hands she passes there on the walls the albums eviscerated, their remains now framed for inspection, portraits of family, immediate, ancestors, once her fellow countryfolk, never her fellow countryfolk, who knows what they’d have to say about it, their lips held tight, one black, one white, the rest of them predeceased gray. Koenigsburgs long passed on…their eyes compel, then concess and give depth, they aren’t just frames sunk into frames—they’re photographs themselves: each pupil the home of the portrait entire held within its gaze, and within the eyes of that portrait the photograph admitted again and yadda unto infinity and eternality, perhaps, at least the unphotographable. Timeless just means whatever’s no longer. We are not buried below the earth, we are buried atop our own dead. And then, to enter over the threshold.

On the door there is a house and in the house there is a name and as one passes through the door then past the house one must kiss there at the house, whose walls kiss the name—a mezuzah, Edy’d once explained, that this is done to remind people that houses are to be reverenced as homes, and that the very idea of owning or even renting a heaven on earth, itself mortgaged, is a miracle to be recognized upon every pass. As to pass through a doorway is to experience a revelation, especially when over this threshold lies your dead. Adela never kisses, though. As this isn’t her house or home as much as she is the house’s, like a wall when she’s left alone, when working more like a floor. Door shut, there have been no bodies found yet, only basement, paneled in cedar: outside lamplight eking through windows at earth, illuminating fingers of dust, then a pinball machine they’ve never plugged in, and a screen, embarrassingly huge, an entire wall, a world in and of itself. Another passage. Images live on this screen. Images like people, like gods, some appropriate, others not so. Discretion’s advised. Images to Show the Kids to Shut Them Up on a Rainy Day, images Never to be Screened by Anyone Else Save Edy & Alan on Penalty of Grounding, the ratings. Loss of Innocence, labeled. And if screened then alone amid the dead of night, with no one home and the doors and the windows locked and the alarm armed with you know the basement’s code, when that little light thing goes red. An image imagining itself. As for the code, it’s the same used by all these houses, all in secret. Numbers breathe no word or letters even. Eighteen, thirtysix, sums or permutations of the numerals of life.

Little light thing goes red between the two couches, above a recliner across from the narrow hallway to the door to the laundryroom, the name of the room in which laundry’s done, though it could also be named Rachel or Leah, or Adela. Then, her door. Jambed at an odd recline. As if pasted on the wall, a stamp. As if a patch sewn onto the flag of a stranger. Imageless. Alan Koenigsburg—senior partner in Koenigsburg & McQueen, which was how he’d come to own this house, Israel’d recommended for opposing counsel, testified responsibility to the tribunal—having obtained the necessary permits, had hired the brother of a client to sledge his hammer to a wall; the room, and the washroom, too, adjoining, and through another door, to the right, Storage—all was redeemed from nothingness. Potentiality until. It would always have that, impermanence. He’d never enter the Underground through the wardrobe of his Domestic, as did the other husbands through the wardrobes of theirs, preferring instead the access of an Apple Street sewergrate, having a subterranean fear, the contracting mistakes, the problems with his foundation as Alan’d say, too close to home. To remove your hard soles, at the threshold, then to replace them with soft, with the slippers, is another way to sanctify home, a room of her own. Adela’d been here for maybe a year, and her drawers still as empty as life: no movie career or master of business degree, no husband dumbly rich with portfolio—her inexpensive imitation denim still in its suitcase, whose own home is the floor. Twinbed with bedding themed by dinosaurs, Oriental partition of ricepaper. On sale at a steal, $69.99 for a limited time only at Wiltinghills, not the Siburban location but the Upper East Side & Lex. In the bathroom adjoining, a bath slash shower and toilet, alongside a stack of magazines wetted then dried into each other into a tablet, half off the Law. Inside the room proper, atop a table, her own framed images, these limited to frontispieces of various samizdat editions smuggled autographed by their authors either in prison or exile, then those family photographs of her mother and which sister or her posing waterside, Lake Balaton, the Danube, Vltava, which is the Moldau, the Irtysh or Ob, the same; a strip of photos she’d taken with Wanda amid an airtight steel trap sunk a million miles deep, Port Authority, maybe, or below Grand Central Station; and then on that table’s only low shelf, a dictionary, which she’d memorize on the weekends when she had off if the Koenigsburgs weren’t entertaining, they had to give notice. Hall: a connecting passage, charitably the lowermost room in a house set with doors leading to other rooms, empty, forgotten, a crawlspace it’s called; from there, a door slamming shut onto Storage, a room half the space of hers in which she keeps the clothes she bought here as opposed to those she brought with (wardobed): the new underwear and stockings she never wore, three sweaters and a skirt pressed and folded, tzedakah, the skirt Alan and Edy’s and the sweaters Hanna and Israel’s presents, last Xmas; Adela’s to get another skirt this year, this one longer at Edy’s insistence, more demure than the mistake of last year, if tomorrow.

Adela had walked to the train, to the aeroport, its plane, to yet another aeroport and plane to take the train to then walk again to the agency an entire ocean away, and all in the span of two days. A fish out of water, it’s said, she’s more perfectly a carp displaced, this season’s fish, which in her hometown village would’ve already been harvested from its pond, would’ve been hauled to the ramshackle, once drearily dissident Seasonal Market, to be netted from a tub enormously filled with the melting of snow, then weighed before all on a dishonest scale for the approval of the womenfolk, liningup as old as the earth and as patient in their revolve; women at the beginning of the line the oldest and the last no more than a little girl the granddaughter of the forgetting first just sent out with coin on an errand. Each remembered to her as her mother. How their carp would be netted, then bagged and hauled home to their bathroom, there in their own iron tub to swim itself dizzy in lazying loops, awaiting only the wrath of a mother—though progress happens, traditions evolve: now, how the fish would flipflop in the hands of the monger, then the thunk down on the cyclopean head with the brute, senseless mallet, the Angel of Death; Its knife would slice from out of the sky, then the head of the fish, with which to make stock for their soup, would tumble into the wrapping of its own newspaper, they’ve only printed one copy, headlined Today Is A New Day, black on black; the body of the carp dropped into an honest bag, which is bottomed, to be carried home dripping dead, leaving its entrails in a trail, the blood of the street crucified in holiday traffic. It’s this anonymous Advent, which had been only yesterday for her mother, if she’d be unlucky enough to still live, that her daughter remembers as she reaches through the dark to retrieve an item of frill, lucrative lingerie, a satiny blue flyaway with white trimming in lace, from the thirsty lip of the sink across from the units of washer and dryer. And, as she opens the door—as doors are for nothing but opening, unless a door is already opened, in which case all we can do is stand around at the threshold and refuse ourselves entrance: a shut door is a welcome to death—the door to the laundryroom here, the laundryroom downstairs-downstairs, which is the room of white on some days, the room of colors on others…what she lets fall from her lipstuck lips is nothing but the carping silence of that decapitated bottommost feeder.

Edy leans over the sink with a jar in her hand, polish for silver, rag in the other and fumes.

Adela heads upstairs, past those portraits whose features are no longer visible because the lights have long been slept, upstairs-upstairs to the room of their son Kyle, just made a son of the commandments last month, a barmitzvah, congrats a bounty of mazel, Hanna and Israel and their twelve daughters in attendance in matching dresses you should have—dead in his room, bent at the edge of his bed, expired in the middle of, we’ll leave him at that…then to the room adjacent, a suite even, almost a house in its amenities, and nothing, then to its bathroom tiled and toweled and Kylie, the older sister dead in the shower, her hair in the drain deep in water, a curtain undisturbed…and then, to the open Master Bedroom, and there nothing either, but beyond its fluelessly artificial fireplace that cleaves the expanse, never been lit and into the study, Alan’s head a bald egg nested amid transcripts of depositions, his neck loosely noosed with the telephonecord…

A violation of the Sabbath the Koenigsburgs never kept, Adela dialing emergency the Development’s 0 how she manages don’t ask—she’d like to speak higher of herself and her sisters the other Domestics, as if forced to defense, references, experience, to justify Mass and then, how she’d sworn to an oath—just sitting there rocking herself held through it all: denial, anger, bargaining with grief despite having nothing to offer, through the entire suggested by board, vetted by committee process of Mourning, holding rocked on the rollick of waterbed pitching a heave like an ocean attempting to stay afloat atop another ocean, the floor, her in search of an air separate, alone, until an Officer, ID’s himself as Security Officer 316 (Bundy—Approved) arrives, verifying himself verbally through the intercom as per regulations, the requirement that is courtesy despite catastrophe’s garble; he takes off his coat to float in, to slog on upstairs on his passkey, with gun still holstered as already knowing, and tremulant pale save the chapped red hands and the nip at his nose, which isn’t blood only the bloodless cold and a few or five fingers of whiskified nog, his blazer dusted with waters that might be dribbling that or, better, his tears, or just melting snow, holds Adela until she’s finally drowning in weep, to fall over the tight heat of his uniform lap.

Here are the houses, their houses or those that resemble them in the darkness of day that is the darkness of night, its weather, make your myth. Sprawls of land sown with ice, designer sled, shovel, a mitten, snowmensch’s eyes made of the piss of an eagle, doubtingly browed with vanilla candy, a ruddy apple mouth, halved, below a nose blue from the cold, a handful of berries—chemical cess mixed with sump, to freeze; playthings tenting up what snow’s fallen, and what’s falling. All’s rich, wealth the sound of silence, stuffed with its tastes. Garages full of metal—and engorged insides, as well, which is where the Domestics are headed not to be late for curfew, Lights Out then Underground, after an entire payroll of smiles that’d need five ten grand put into them to be as attractive as they seem happy, giddily embarrassed, and yet secretive, too, to the Gatekeeper who, though permissive, needs this job for the love of a Herring.

Inside are rooms opening to Fate like cavities long closed, gone gunked up with stuff: a bowel loosened to allow hallway flow, a prostate pinched to accommodate a drip out the doors; their walls hung hairily with lists and signed tests—additional interior decoration courtesy of that great iconoclast I. B. Kitsch, if you know him, alongside the kinder’s own artistic scrawlings in pencil gone over in crayon, the entire forge of family photographs, the furniture and appliances new and maintained as well as the schedule allows. It’s God, this Schedule, as it tells time and is time and it is and is good, altogether. Downstairs, a grand of a piano, an upright upstairs-upstairs, the same sheet music copied on both of them from when the kinder left lessons months ago, how their teacher got pregnant, and…with their staves marked in red: dore-mi-fa-sol, do-do, fa-sol-la-ti-do, do-do, G Major, one sharp, remember, one key always left dark. Dust had laid siege to the afternoon, dust to dust, as evil as Amalek, enemy motes, to be eradicated, wiped from the face of the grain of the wood, rings both ebony and ivory.

Nitpick from sundown, late enough. Seven, eight days since, and Hanna as sudden and unexpected as a miracle recovering; through the twelve, her labor getting progressively easier, until this, He just, not quite—you should never have such, without drug. To bring a baby into this world is to live for tomorrow. There’s a sound at the door. On the roof. Prophecy just another of our many names for hope, which are infinite in number and as vague as all love. Sneezy, coughy, and croup. Farts, groan, and a snooore. To bear a son into this world is to believe in the Messiah, at least in a God Who believes…Messiah just another familiarity for the most talented, the most intelligent and attractive among us, the most only, promising, sleeping upstairs. His mother herself. Separate rooms. A whimper, in her sleep she’s crying. Or only a bedspring, unconsoled. To die with the pain of birth is unbearable, though Hanna’s memory of the pain’s been by now tempered, by the nachas shepped for its cause. Clicks on the glass. Brass, given a wrist. Hurt and hurt for Him, too—Israel cutting the cord to let his son fall, umbilicus tested by the frozen fire of steel, the knife they’d sanctified to the challah. Sanitized in wine. Then, tying it off, it had to be done, someone had to do it, and Israel happened to be in the diningroom, an adult, and the one of the couple not just then giving birth…by now, Wanda knew this by heart.

She lies on the floor in a puddle who knows what it is but it’s hers.

As if schnapps.

A room just beyond the birthroom: this, the kitchen. How she’d usually enter—the sidedoor—was in a whisper of names, with a jiggle, her keys to jingle a festive responsorial of sorts from the ring of her hand, keyring that of Israel’s lawfirm, swagschlock, hung with the housekey hung with her other, poorer keys, those to another house far across the water that she’s always known deep gut inside she’ll never walk through again, to sit with her sisters and Matka and what for the holiday, to gift each other poor presents, to toast Papa they’ve waited on dead all these years with quick shots of brandy’s fruit chased down with decis of grog…whispering names as prefaced with the perhaps sanctimonious titles she insisted on honoring, still, the Mister & Misses that made the Israeliens sick with guilt, without echo through the fall of the hall to pilled darkness, reflecting deaf off the mirrors, glossed from surfaces last polished, in her voice with its accent threatening to shatter the glasses for wine, those and the glass that glasses them in.

Now, she only moans, and no names, it’s nothing.

Usually, she’d take off her heels to make for them less click clack, not to waken.

Then, she’d sign in—the Register in the hall a mat from the frontdoor, to let her Masters know she’s been in by Curfew, lit later tonight, due to the Eve.

Stridor, a creakling as if a fire nearer. Her mouth’s open, dry, and senseless as if stuffed with a beard.

Help, her ringed toes wriggle.

A drawer gapes open.

She shrieks.

Hanna, like where art thou already?

Knocking on the frontdoor, the sound, the doors there they seem then three more, quickening…she sees: behind it, a fist, Adela’s, and she’s yelling, a whisper: Wanda’s own name now Wanda, Wanda, the language she knows, that of emergency home, that of babytalk crisis, Adela tapping her acrylic tips on the door—to tear out the eyes of the glass, which is faceless.

In her other hand, Adela’s holding a flashlight.

Wanda sits up, gets up, goes to the door.

A diffuse star skies the house.

To pass slowly throughout, through the room with the screen, the room with the piano, through the room with the books on their shelves then unread, now reading themselves, looparound through the diningroom, around and around its table unset, then into the livingroom, the vestibule beyond then up the stairs slot by trip.

Blueprints moldering in the basement say this is the Master Bedroom.

And so it was, and it’s good.

Here Wanda stands, Adela behind.

She knocks lightly, frightened, to no answer and, slowly.

Huddled masses yearning to breathe—only to be…

To lift Adela’s lamp beside the golden door—and its dead. Seven limbs braided like bread, gray bread broken, fingers of one hand intertwined into a candle lacking a burn—Israel, sitting, had been untying his tie, finally, singlehandedly trying, Hanna lying, abed, her exhaustion exhausted, already asleep.

No more dream.

Employers, they’d been surrogate parents of sorts; strange, how a eulogy recipes itself right away…Wanda goes to them to knead their flesh into life.

No longer to rise.

After one night spent under observation, made ill with the urban up at Kennedy Memorial, then the others at home, all of them recuperative, though without sleep and dreamless, then after another dinner, Shabbos again and its last, less guests this night save the newborn, whose appetite—which is that of twelve regular guests or more, always more who knew who invited whom—only approaches in grandeur His size, always huge the both of them, and demanding, and hungry still and thirsty for the teat since gone cold, a milky mold left atop a platter wobbly.

His Hanna, stilled—nothing more to cook or clean, nothing more to do.

Wanda trips to the next rooms, Rubina’s and that of Simone and the same, then the next rooms, that of Liv and Judith and then that of Isa and Zeba, and the same…then the next rooms and the next, then the next hallways, now through a left perpetually spiraling still left maliciously dark and forever, to the two shared rooms of the rest of them whose names Israel’d always forget and of whom Hanna would always remind, and the same: those aged ten and twofifths, those aged nine and onesixth, as they’d remind you, as if; dressed as they’d been told to dress not for night or for bed but for the morning that’d never be next, trying on their new dresses and skirts and blouses and sweaters purchased and tailored lastminute, fitted especially for the occasion impending, the bris tomorrow, to be, their only brother’s one and only circumcision, or so they’d hoped, or so they’d not even thought of it, to hope and the same. They hadn’t even undressed for bed, modest unto the end: brushed teeth, flossed, tucked in, Shema Israel and goodnight, Laila Tov and again, in yet another left, this off the hallway that lies furthest to the left, almost lost in the recesses of orientation, of night, its turn opening out into the one lone room just above the backdoor, the last exit, the final escape, to be used In case of fire, meetingpoint outside, let’s regroup the backyard’s the plan, between the rust of the swingset and the moldy spiderweb hammock; this the room of the newborn, shushwhispered about, tiptoed around, and also the most spacious, the one with the most light, a room to grow into, itself a posthumous birth, stilled in its fall from the house’s main bulge, a promontory pregnant, cloudcarried high above the cars and the doors for the cars, the garage and the flooring of oil and dirt. Jealous Him not such rarefied privacy: Isa and Zeba’d been moved out, though their submission’s been bribed with lobelove, the promise of piercings for ears. A thimble trash for diapers soiled, alongside a table for changing up against one wall, with a chest of drawers at the other, next to the desk, cedar, too; atop that, a bureaucratic clutch, foldered His birthcertificate, hospital paperwork, a sheaf of greeting cards and deflated balloons pressed up against dying flowers, silvered photographs saving just the last week, instant mementos, posterity developed then doubled; atop that, a passport application for Him they’re intending to fill out any day now, you know, if they’d have to get away, or only wanted to.

Wanda slivers open the door, admitting the light Adela’s shied on in violation, the hallway streaming its perfectly acceptable known into the darkness of a room at midnight past, framed in drapery that resembles anything sweet and girly pink: the taste of sunrisen marzipan, of icecream melting, cotton candy or saltwater taffy, and then set high enough on the wall that He couldn’t crawl out of it, and He could crawl, and also walk, especially when hungry like always, the window’s open and outside lights from the street mingle with the hallway light in through the doorway, in their diffusions dusting sleep across the still face of the eightdayold.

Wanda rushes up to Him, futz the tip of the toes exposed, uncovers His stomach, without navel, it’s said: in later accounts, as if the cord had been attached to His tongue instead, its own limb. Wanda soothes at His beard, smoothes down a stray hair of His moustache. And then, says His name, what His name would’ve been had He lived to be named tomorrow in the midst of His family, friends, and professional others, sanctified amongst the trays of fish, basketed loaves, and cases of liquor; held high above the assembled by hands their winish fingers and mouths reeking of herrings; what His name is still: as it’s said, Hanna and Israel had settled on Benjamin Ben Israel Israelien, or so—it’s been passed down—Hanna had told only Wanda surviving upon her return from the hospital, in the course of conversation idled in the kitchen, over a soup said they’d intended to name Him Benjamin, to be foreshortened to Ben after a paternal relative irretrievably distant, other relatives’ names apparently having been gendertwisted or otherwise incarnated by twelve daughters preceding; Benjamin the namesake one of the only relatives not represented among the portraits hung on the wall of the stairwell down to the basement, however finished it might have been claimed. Security Officer Bundy appears behind Wanda, holding Adela in the doorway, too close for the light. Wanda turns, bears Adela and the officer out on her breasts, then turns to pronounce Him again. Benjamin, attempting to lift Him up in her arms, Benjamin…as weak as raked leaves, stormshook, the floor trembling a pile a burn in that breast—it’s impossible; the strain, the weight, that and He’s soiled Himself, slippery gripped in a flow from His sex.

Benjamin, Wanda says again, that hot mouth opening up inside of her, as if speaking her life into His.

Though, something’s amiss. Whether an unpropitious disposition of furnishings despite what’s been paid in consultancy fees, or a draft of winter in through the opened window to make amid the sheets, pneumonia—or maybe the scalding knob of the door sealed shut to her palm, Adela singed.

Benjamin, He isn’t crying.

What else to do but check the diaper, not yet rag material, an old shirt of Israel’s—soiled in blood, Wanda’s thinking, dirtied in guts.

As she goes to peel the shirt from Him, she’s recalled—there’s a mush from the roof, a great tearing of hooves.

As she turns to Him again, He’s scratching at eyes, kicking His legs out, and tearing.

The Gatekeeper mandated to his hut, dumbly wondering of Misses Herring, who wouldn’t have gone to bed without her brushing and combing—if he should remind her he thinks, use the Development Line, phone her up and say only, Scrub…just then, his extension exploding.

Eight members of the Maintenance Staff, they’d been picking huge wax out of the Development Menorah, anonymously donated, about to be yearly retired, when their radios go staticky mad.

A switch flicked.

And lampposts turn searchlight—vigilance…the perimeter’s secured by a force that’d make any Third World proud, or jealous.

It’s amid these cries and officialdom’s echoes that He calls to her His first word—a word first whispered, then spoken, then shouted out from the halo of gut. He screams, Ima, which is the language for Mom, what Hanna’d preferred to be called.

To lick His own tongue…Ima, as opposed to just any ordinary Mom, Moms, normal Mother, Mommy or goyishe Mama or Mam, Hello Muddah, Shalom—and this when Israel’d left only a short while ago, after an alarmset, a prayer if abridged, then kiss kiss kiss at the cheeks and the chins; he’s gone, but still Ima, His Maker. No need to justify, a woman’s there soon enough, whomever she is—no need to care, just that He’s in her care, in the nest of the nipples.

A woman whom Ima and His father who’s Aba call Wanda as she calls them Misses & Mister, called, and how now, with His newfound ability, He wants to wish her a Merry Merry with skills, a very very special whatever it is that she observes on this day today or tomorrow, the Erev of the true holiday, whichever was important, more so, was real and was theirs—tomorrow, He understands, which is also today, to be marked by His slicing, to be sanctified at the sharp of a knife; the day to become hallowed by tipsnipping, at the earliest hours then the dribbly, latening suck of the wound to stem the flow as they did to keep safe and healthy back then in the desert flawless and flowless, way before the very discovery of disease. In the days back when people had to die so that we could ever exist, fallen in the merit of our way a hell’s future: potential, Benjamin, promise, Benjamin, already He understands His own name, and His purpose, to live with this knowledge and for it—but Covenant, appointment, deposit on the rabbi who’s the mohel or no, and despite the caterer and famished phonecalls to guests, travel agencies, car rentals, area hotels the negotiation of a spare bed, between His legs, His foreskin now sheds on its own, a reddened wrinkly rainbow arcing a day early, too late; the partihued skin of a snake grown since His birth, it flakes again to the mattress, without knife or other sharp save that of the night in its freeze, then with a hiss goes gusted out the window opened to the suck of the wind. A plastic bag, a burger’s unwrapped, it’s shameful, embarrassing; though, as the gusts gust always impermanent, this condition regrettable, brutely unfixed.

As Benjamin would grow, so would the foreskin again (you want me to give a call, leave a message beeped with the relatives and the friends, set a raindate, kept snowlate, apologize and reschedule—every week, on the day, on the hour or no), it would grow back, Him as His being born again and again, every word of His first, every skin felt like His last ever flayed, such a pain—how its hollowness, a shell, a hull or husk, would manifest and make scarce of its own accord, and on it, as well, there founded upon its most sensitive tip surrounded with soil, a brilliant bloom from a roil of waste: it would grow only to fall, would resurrect itself then shed only to be risen then, regenerating all over again—and lost: out windows, and between cracks in the sidewalk and sofa, between the den, family, or livingroom, rivenroom’s cushions of couch to be left never found—to disappear itself, though, in only its form, not to decompose but to become different, be changed, sustained into what seems to be manna.

No steady hand involved either, no putzing nothing around, nu, problems He had.

God, Wanda thinks, look how we shake.

To think that eight burning birds would perch on His windowsill, then in the middle a stork landing to swallow them up.

Or that nine graves would combust in the cemetery just down the Parkway where His people are buried.

Or else, how there’d been not just one pillar of fire descendant, but eight others, too, each the distended sharp of a star—that would be how.

It’s tough—how miracles are only miraculous if they never come to be, only if they retain promise, remain to be prayed for, their granting made eternally late, postponed forever tomorrow.

In the beginning, it’d been Hanukah that Hanna had counted by, its candles lighting the week until His birth. Hanukah that newest of holidays, as if rendered sacred only by its secular proximal, Xmas—to the cynical, not to be trusted: the Festival of Lights, rededication yadda, those pellucid, Selucid nights; the holiday upon which Jesus wrestled the King of the Greeks, nude and greased, for eight straight days in the midst of the Temple defiled. 50% off, two for the price of your firstborn, for a limited time only—a seasonal bonus for the boychicks departmented down in the kindled inferno of Marketing.

In observance, a question, what did the daughters receive?

On the first night, it was nightlights with which to illuminate their hallways on their ways to the toilet to pee out their shimmery gold; on the second night, waterbeds all around to replace their old, uncomfortable, unsafe, bunkbedding units; then the third, ferns potted and other plants like aloe, say, and flowers like irises, symbolizing the trees Israel had purchased for them out in Palestein, a transaction made certain with the seals of certificates stating as much and printed on the paper that is their rough flesh; on the fourth, new lamps and new fixtures and sconces—the better to read by, the better to be read to by; and then, upon the fifth, stuffed birds and fish, a herd or pack only to become increased like sands and stars on the next night, the sixth, on which it’d been stuffedanimals again this time like lions and bears they beat each other with on their heads then ripped the limbs off them and tails and eyes, ears, and noses and slept with them near (except for Liv, for her it’d been the renting of a horse, a pony, really, and leased on monthly installments, to be stabled just three exits north, free to be ridden on weekends, whenever else she was free after school for Hanna to drive, Israel to pick up); upon the seventh, pillows and sheets and comforters both solid mature and youthfully cartoonily patterned, new bedding on which they would finally rest watery-eyed, swollen with appreciative lap; and lastly upon the eighth…hymn, they forget. After the litany of creation in its lights, water, leaves of grass, fish and meat, they could care less what came next, waiting all the while for what they really desired, which they knew just as well as their parents did would be posthumous: whatever it was the kinder nextdoor and at school had gotten, and so how they had eventually to get that, too, come the start of school after break and then, later—upon the longer, phantomly plagued ninth night and beyond, the wandering night soon to consume with its darkness and oil be damned—to receive into their midst a brother, their greatest gift gotten, or so Israel would say to their disappointment, or so Hanna would have them believe.

To receive is to want, it’s been said, that to give is to ask.

As for Him, what if anything did He Himself get, save parents and sisters and life itself, for this His first holiday: what booty, what bounty, what price?

In one tradition, it’s only a memory, coming early, In the beginning belated…a present, a past—even before the birth, this a life prior to the laden table, all trauma’s to be repressed, to a basement ever lower, and even less finished. It’s a memory that’s gifted into His stream, winging around Him with veiny ribbons and bows a week before birth, two weeks prior to the death of His mother He’s inside, awaiting arrival, outliving a Messiah’s gestation, nine months, nine moons, a sunstilled Biblical day, only a moment—until He falls through the gate no longer strait, through Hanna’s lips wilting. His isn’t sleep in the womb, isn’t awake, neither dreaming, that was a previous life. A thrum or sensation, what He remembers as either, or both, as blood through His now bodied soul, a movement, a rush: it’d been a knock, there was a distinct rap at the door, at first, it’s a given…might’ve been a knock on the frontdoor, or at the backdoor, whether it’s at the porchdoors exterior to the interior doors of the porches, or, improbably, at the garagedoor, the exterior door to the basement perhaps wholly unfinished, or else upon any one of the who knows how many, too many of them, interior doors, including those of the showers and the toilet stalls’ sliding partitions. Benjamin’s not about to know which, how could He, prisoner of this swell, trapped behind the fleshdoor, the stomach’s high and thick wall. As per our sages, however, it’s at the frontdoor, and it’s the knock of the elderly, the frail, a wizened mensch who’s been denied so many times that three or so wouldn’t seem so terrible, would they, a mensch named Nitz this night of nights, none too witzful, how he makes do: he knocks onto His heart—a clock caged in His rising ribs, an alarm, and Benjamin’s moaning, to suck at both His grown toes.

Though once such suckling is over and done with, only interpretation is left—the life of the lips without nipple.

We have been taught thusly: that a knock, a rap, an application of the hand, of the knuckles, the palm, is variable with intent, that a knock must spend itself in only one of two ways, depending; and so we have two interpretations, one to each fist, united in purpose; whereas some scholars say, a knock ends when the hand breaks contact with the struck surface, other scholars hold that it’s when the sound of its striking is rendered imperceptible, when it’s said to die—physics and the acoustic aside, this is philosophy, what’s meant is the appreciation of senses. But this knock is strange; it’s as if the fist or all the world’s fists at once are metamorphosing into the door, and without any breaking, any cracking, or splinter, in a knock that’s forever a knock, a massed hand of hands exploring the surface, the lifespan of entry, though others hold that the hand of God outstretched and strongarmed only strikes quickly, then removes itself, retracts into its own power and infinite mercy, and that the sound then lives, not reverberates, that the knock sounds in a single wave throughout the structure of the house, the solo stroke transmitting itself in full to the foundations on up to the roof and quaking with light, undiminished—the entire house knocked upon, this house of total door. As a force, this came to Him, felt this through Himself, it shook loose His bowels, its contents, sending the milks and meats of His juices sloshing from sucked feet to head and back again to the toe cradled inside his mouth in tides without moon, fogging His glasses to tears to hold in His beard.

A knock, not a joke’s setup: without punchline, a knock not funny at all but the opposite. Inverse. Though it wasn’t the knock that scared Him, this He remembers, that His siblings or parents expected, they might’ve expected, yet another visitor at this latest hour: had a dinnerguest left a scarf behind, maybe, or a serving platter for the dessert who bought and brought, no, He thinks, that wouldn’t justify, another thing much more important then, maybe a weddingring taken off sinkside to wash hands without prayer, or a prosthetic limb forgotten, perhaps, propped against the wall alone (how it eats and drinks little, doesn’t take up much room), or else Misses Feigenbaum, finally back for her husband; it’s that this knock’s horror, true terror…who’d it be, had his father left yet, already for work on Monday, a weekday already? It wasn’t the knock that froze Him inside, no, it’s that He felt that Someone now expected something of Him—and so there inside Hanna, He flailed out once, kicking out her navel, to a second stomach, lesser or greater. In the end, the scholars agree: a knock is a knock is a knock, make no mistake about it, there’s no disputing—it knocked the stairwell photographs downside up, to be righted by Wanda by morning, and all that was fine, understandable—it’s the thought, though, that He’d have to answer it.

II

To live is to transgress, existence itself a species of violation; day passes through hours into days, into a lifetime spent in darkness under the sun that must shine always, as it has no will of its own. From the first seven to now, each day is a history, which we deny if we fail to live our lives in its observance, for its sanctification. As we go in and as we come out, as we rise up and as we lie down, carelessly, accomplished without conscience, we deny the tradition of each day—we live without a thought given to the eternal presence of the past in our present, which is already past, even though it may tarry. Other calendars live through our calendar, shine through in glimmers of the sacred, like the cloudlike moon as descried through the black of the clouds…wheels turn each other, turn through one another, bound to the heart, caged in the ribs—the soul and the body find refuge in the same nothingness, what we call mensch…

To interpret winter, it’s December, which in our generation dawns during the month known as Kislev, if only to those who might know no more. Much like the soul and body, they have nothing to do with one another, December and Kislev, save that they cleave to the same, which is nothing, each other. Wrapping, ribbons of bows, tissue, foam pellet packing—to tear at the box that is day, the present, to find inside the gift that is time. We might have mentioned, it’d been the holiday of the lights, Hanukah, each night a candle wicked down to dawn and its aureate smoke, meltings in the menorah her mother had left her, Hanna’s, Polish, it didn’t polish itself, you had to scour, replace it on its cabinet shelf, but this she’d leave to Wanda, upon the night after the last—the ninth, numbered as a plague of the opposite season—observed at the sink, its ritual of the goo and the rag.

As Kislev turns over, December remains, another notch, another tooth, a soul departed in part. After Kislev comes the month of Tevet, its first this year and in the opposite month a Friday, which is the beginning of the Sabbath, or Shabbos, the day a king of Judah was exiled from Jerusalem, along with the nobility and all of our interpreting Sages. However mournful, it merits no fast. That occurs, though, on the eighth of that month, when we go without in memory of the decree of Ptolemy of Egypt, a king, successor to Alexander of Macedonia, his order that the Law of the people, the Torah, be translated from the language of God into the language of gods, which is Greek: hoping to expose disputation and so falsehood in the Law, Ptolemy summoning the exiled Sages from eight days ago, dispersing their future into separate prisons each to a mensch and there ordering them each to translate the Law and each inspired, guided by God Who knows all languages and has all tongues in His hand, separately translating the Law entire identically, even when they, again always separately if unified in the purpose that is God that is known as survival, intentionally altered their translations to avoid offense to the king, if and when this or that passage might have been misunderstood by those lacking faith; these identical Laws being finished on the eighth of the fourth month, which is the tenth month if our year would be counted from spring, whose name of Tevet cannot itself be translated, as its meaning is unknown, or means nothing. And then there’s Shabbos, the next day, which now exhaustedly falls upon the ninth of the month of Tevet and might also have been a day of privation, of fast (if not for the fact of the Sabbath, which supersedes such), when we are so told to remember the deaths of a scribe and a prophet, specifically Ezra and Nechemiah they were, leaders of the people in their return from Babylonia’s exile, which would capture their souls. And finally, turning wheels, reversing events, chronology, causality, there’s the fast of the next day, if you’re prepared, which is the tenth, embodied in December but beyond it as well, infamously, upon which we have sworn to curse Nebuchadnezzar, Babylon’s king, and his siege of the holy Jerusalem that began on this date and lasted three years more until the walls of the city were finally breached upon the ninth day of the tenth month in the eleventh year of the reign of a king whose name it is forbidden to pronounce as it’s impossible and, anyway, manyvoweled; this siege ending, events unto events, wheels within wheels, bad breeding worse then bringing it up without a Father Who art, in the destruction of the Holy Temple—whose observance in memory of shall be as festivals upon the coming of the Messiah; which Temple whether fallen forever or still with the potential to rise we anyway rededicate year after year, with the festival of lights that illuminates the days to the pagan millennium about to arrive, with the end of the world and our water stockpiled, our flashlights and our guns and our rope, a rush on jars of honey, powdered milk.

And so verily we have been given three days of fasts, only to gorge ourselves on the Sabbath, which we know as Shabbos, the night of Friday or the morning of Saturday, whether the fifth, sixth, or seventh day of the week depending on how it’s observed or it’s not—made holy even without the sanctification offered in death, which is theirs, which is ours, and though observed, though made that very holy and sanctified, still a Sabbath like others, even a Shabbos like every other day of the week, any of them with the sun and moon and the stars that are three and above; which day the nations of the world this year know as Xmas, the eve of the holiday of the tree and the baby just born, of the fiery sales at department stores and how they’re malled much different from shops, and of their kings, too, who are also one and yet three, coupons for camels, the jollity of a fat skinny who in a hat; that and the day of His bris to be, His circumcision aborted: scheduled for tomorrow with the caterers, did you confirm, remember to pick up the bagels—and so you can clock it, understand, the sense of history at work here and of wheeling, of palpable past, of immense weight, fates visited down upon heads unsuspecting, covered, uncovered; why everything’s been so confused these past few days, insane out of sorts; why it’s been just a crazy week this week, Israel’s explaining what with her laid up, Hanna, what with the past, its preparations and ours, rendering due to the meaning and worth of each day to its month to its—and the expectation of it all, with Israel so late, almost too late this once though he’s remembered this time, thank God: the bought braided bread, the challah, two loaves, again she’d been unable to bake…

And how late they were late, themselves, the guests again, us, and darkness was upon the face of our mothers, tired and too much mascara, too; the soup was without form and void, if still soup, in need of a starch, mushroom, and the light, it was in from the fridge, as no one had shut it. The candle, the candles, a handful. A diaper was new, unbuttoned and pinned, the buttondowned shirts of His father, Him powdered, and topically salved; a sweater gotten, too, on which was writ in stitch the word Ben, which was also His name, Benjamin was, or the name Ima said by which He should know the wait, was to know the wait, is still waiting. As the sweater was too small, it was draped over a knee, which was bare. As for His Ima, He called her, her other names, which are as complex as dates, at least, as complicated and strange, were Hanna one room and Wanda the next. All got cold, freezing, which was why the knee’s sweater; then the kitchen froze, icicles up from the depths of the fridge, and so His mother opened the oven in which the chicken was becoming baked chicken and then—suddenly, through the oven, two-by-two and helping each other, stepping high and ducking so as not to hit their heads, again, so it’s been said, so we’ve been told, their glasses fogged and mouths stuffed with ties and necklaces against pain, sucking in their hunger and thirst, holding their loose suits and dresses so as not to get snagged on wireracks or stained with the pooled juice of the poultry baked in its blood is what’s been related to us, that suddenly, and again, into the kitchen, through the oven and its heat of nine hells, marched in their guests: how they might themselves have remembered it to their own kinder had they lived past that Sabbath, that Shabbos, whatever the difference, if difference there be. Hello, hug and kiss. Shut the oven after. Some offered to help prepare. Others noshed on ingredients left out. Wiped steam, saliva from their lorgnettes, with the linings of the pockets of their husbands, who were pockets themselves. And their pants, door-to-door and the rest, presumptuous enough help yourself, they sat down at the table: holding their irascible silver, tines frothing stock.

It was. One day, same night. Good or not, true or told. Israel said Kiddush, the prayer over the wine, the washing and blessing Hamotzi lechem min ha aretz it went and only then may the passing begin—the feeding of the baby, too, don’t forget who He’s big enough already to be sitting at table in a regular seat, and grown enough to be supping on anything served, even every distraction or so deft enough to take an unnippled sip at the wine of His eldest sister, Rubina; at the other head of the table opposite His father wrecked at the foot He’s soon slumped, piss and kaka, veingravy dazed, drunk on His sisters’ juicewatered wine and the guzzly blood of the beasts.

How He manages upstairs, who knows, how they manage to able Him up, tuck Him taut into sheets soiled, got me. He’s storied, prayed tight, then left for that further diaspora known as neither sleeping nor waking, that time of rolling around and of rocking, wriggling, snuggling, of flatus and lull, having laid under His pillow, with pillow under His knees, on His stomach with the edge of the pillow itched along His staff in the midst of a shed and the scratchy sacs that cower below, lying with His head on the pillow set around His ears as a mouthful, to swallow His dreams. Israel had left only an hour ago, turning lips to His, whispering into them name…Benjamin, and with unsettled gut sensing a matter unfinished, the amorphous undone and leftover, He frees Himself from His sheets and stands; sneaky feets quietly and nude save that diaper yet another of Israel’s old outfashion shirts sleeved around waist, He one foots then another then toes and then tips. He stands at the door as fat as an idol halffinished, marbled at the threshold of hall. An idol, with an animate appetite. It’s a need for the leftovers, physical, those of the Sabbath especially, and though there’s the suspicion that sneaky He will have to account for them dawn the morning, it’s overpowering, just the thought of it, that leftover fowl going to waste, is oppressive, it must be so tasty, so filling, there in the fridge and freezing in there with the dial on 9, it needs His warmth, it wants Him and His only, dead in its own juices for hours after hours and hours soaking up all the multitudinous goodnesses, yum in the tum, the only one who loves Him, this poultry, the only one who can, who’ll make Him happy, and if not, there’s always experience to invoke, mistakes to be made and to be made again and again but each making made better—chicken drizzled with sauce, dipped twice then twice more; meals take on whole new dimensions—of taste, scent, textural—when eaten twice, especially if the second’s eaten hours after the first, when there’s a separation, a break, a puttingbetween, so that everything’s had time to gel, to congeal, to breathe in its own steaming waft, to age, not even to go totally cold but just right, and who is He to say no, after all, He’s just an infant, how does He know from denial. He can barely talk, if He knew from saying no He might’ve never been born; Will Power, dunno, Will Power, never met him, was he related to Ima or…

He—Benjamin—doesn’t yet possess the weakness that is restraint in accordance with the growth of His flesh and intelligent soul, and as if to prove such to Himself (satisfying ego, in the service of other appetites), He has the thought to step slow, and precise, to avoid problem floorboards, stares at every door drafting the hallway to stairs, stares them shut, wills them asleep until morning. Then, stops, waits at the slightest settle of foundation. Empty, the stomach of floor. Rumbling plank. No snorting snore, no din of dream. Bereft of mucosal stertor, the gunk of Israel’s caffeinated cigar. He stops at the stairs, at their head, the progenitor of descent, if patrilineal then of His God.

Here, stopped at the top of infinite generations of steps, a straightened labyrinth, a ladder filledin, the bottom, if any, seems unattainable: every step as tall as He is, He’ll fall, the fear, paranoia except when He’s justified; with every step He takes another step’ll be added onto the bottom, He’ll descend forever; and then there’s the order of the stepping stairs, which might up and rearrange out of nowhere, reorder themselves in the dead of night: last step to switch itself with the first, twelfth with the second, they aren’t the same after all; to step forever if the order He descends isn’t the same He’d ascended hours ago with finger in palm, Israel dragged higher and higher up to the seat of the Godhead, the footstool and throne of the study adjoining the room of His parents, Aba’s office, keep shish; what if one of the stairing steps gives a noise underfoot it’d never given before, or doesn’t, what if, and all the care’s gone for nothing, needless heedless caution, can’t bear the waste. Benjamin enumerates them, necessary in this dark, one two three steps soft, an interpretation of stealth, always how many four five six then a landing, and then however many more and again, stairs, stops, at the landing, midstairs, to inquire of the photographs hung thereupon—ancestors of those photographed on the wall on the stairs down and up to the basement, which He’s never attempted, hasn’t yet dared. He asks them though in silence, and as if they’re sure to know as they’re native to such steps, and this landing—how many stairs, how many more or much longer—but His forefathers, unknown to Him except through these photographs and in them, as them, not looking too well, complexioned greenish gray, light-bruised, they’ve aged badly, they don’t answer, or can’t, as they’re images only, and so remain impassive, if fading, glassed detached, shoddily framed. Then, that last questioning step to the test of the foot, that’s the stair that’ll snare, the stumblingblock, the trip, has to be. He asks with the rungs of His lips the angels always invisibly ascending and descending for aid, though this isn’t a dream, He doesn’t think, He hopes it’ll turn out to be—trips and falls now, tumbling just short of silent, hauls Himself up with a palm on the newel, standing His knees scraped, winces as He turns to behold the kitchen in the light of the lights on timers outside.

As outside there’s the freeze of the snow to make necessary the shelter of house, in which it’s warm, with heat central, up from the ventings at baseboard; and as there’s a house to make necessary the refrigerator inside, which sustains that that might sustain our own lives, and is the house within the house upon which our world is presently founded (this is how Benjamin thinks when He’s hungry)—how far we have come from the garden! Better to banish the house, go out and greet exposure, scattering the perishables to keep out on the lawn. This refrigerator, the kitchen’s, a rectangular white monolith, set into the wall, doorsurfaced, is kept fresh of new food, right from the supermarket, taken right from the bag and unwrapped only then, to be cooked and consumed—this isn’t the refrigerator He needs. The refrigerator He needs is the downstairs refrigerator, the downstairs-downstairs, in the basement, partially unfinished, meaning wholly; it keeps the leftovers sealed for eternity in their containments of plastic, foiltopped bowls and the trademark of tupperware, the foods best forbidden for better than a moon after their initial cooking and partial consumption, the headless fowl, the frozen appetizers, minipatties and tiny weiners wrapped in pastry, the gallons of a pareve substance marketed as premium tofu dessert, suspected poison. And so choices and decisions; choices, decisions. He can either turn, grope toward the second stairwell, the ignorant steps leading downstairs-downstairs, and maybe further, maybe ever, tenebrously descending; to stalk a walk quietly, meticulously miraculous progress, down to where even Hanna had feared to tread, from the table through the kitchen then walking down the stairs and a right to the fridge of the hemieaten, partidigested foods sealed for storage—as if an offering to the underworld, its famished goddess Wanda, a famous other mother.

And then how she’d return, sacrifice made, with empty hands.

Or, to settle—for the new that is the fresh over the old though untold.

Here, this refrigerator, with its condiments and crisper, twoliter of seltzer lemonlime. Mustard, and syrup. Ingredients and not form.

Snacks sugared in the pantry to the left of the fridge, enough salt to make a decentsized pillar.

To reach for the fridge right here in front of Him, easy—to fingerprint its hum, stroke at its moist gurgle, in the dark to feel for its handle, to open, reveal, tugging with one hand while the other for leverage feels at the rubberized seam. And then there’d be light.

Morning’s night. To let the heated air in. Host of a bulb burning compulsion. Freshkept. And His glasses, too, their fog.

Benjamin stands, feet at the foot of the stairs, gazing from the refrigerator beyond to the steps below, intending thought though drowsy. To risk or not. To decide, it tires. Fate’s for the lazy, dessert as a meal for the toobored to choose. Then, to head the wrong way from everything, into the livingroom, the familyroom, who knows where He lies, atop the sofa of three pillows, as opposed to the two other sofas of four pillows each, then five, He spreads Himself out with the knife of a hand like a condiment, as if buttery marge, to rest His head in the spoon that is His other palm.

A mousy quiescence—and yet, He senses a stirring.

A preparation: thoughts of food digested to fear, an expectancy, and, finally, room for a real hunger—a pregnant yen.

O, to be as ravenous as a dove—craving even an olive of sunlight, a far branch of peace…

The goy up there knows from chimneys, does he ever, knows them like he knows his own throat, windpipes whether of brick or metal, he knows their flues and their fires, too, and the smoke in the eyes and lungs, had squeezed through them, all these years, too many now, immemorial, generations turned to smoke, their mouths smirching sky; how he’d shimmied through them and whatever had stuck them up: a fallen pigeon, a downed owl, summer neglect. His sleigh, a green cabriolet cutter hung with lit lanterns, he’s parked against the slope of the roof at its lowest scarp; racingstriped runners tearing up the shingling, his team of flying reindeer idling patiently, letting rest the awesome ripple of their legs: lashed trunks, ragged fundaments; giants of meat and raw, with eyes that are nothing if not oily mad, anything but jolly, more like violent in their majesty, lidded hoary and hardened; they’re scraping their hooves as if to herd forward, butt heads, to charge the chimney down which he dove; they give soft snorts from their nostrils, then quiet, to graze upon stars. On each of their antlers hangs a crown: tarnished gold for one, the others are rotted, wormtwisted wood. None have a red nose—they have snouts.

Him, he sucks it in, in his motheaten suit down he goes the dark throats of houses and into the warm of their guts.

One night only, year after year—the fullness of good little wellbehaved boys & goyls…

Most are expecting a stockinglike sack, though that’s so last season, roll the eyes, snigger: the sack molders up north, in the attic of his bungalow, yearround doneup in Millennial Terrific, though itself without chimney, only a Pole, kept topped with an ostentatious antenna, festooned with the flags of the world.

Tonight, it’s a can he carries, a metal battered can as if of paint; it’s a bucket, for the record—filled with the blood of the lamb, cut with that of goats when the Arctic slaughterhouse went short on a stray flock.

A chute through the chimney, no fire, lucky for him this fireplace is for appearances only, an arched validation of a mantel above upon which to display photographs, more of them, those of the immediate family, at home, on vacation, which was Florida, Mexico, anywhere always July, flushed at weddings, at graduations proudly awkward—and then, at the furthest gilded edge, the newest immortality, made in a gaudily mirrored frame: it’s Him—at the hospital, in the arms of His mother if no longer living then sleeping, still, upstairs-upstairs, have patience, have pity, have dreams. Benjamin’s head propped atop the pillows atop the sofa, Claus ducks in then prods aside the screen, steps soft gingerbread tread over the brickwork ledge then onto the carpet, proceeds into the kitchen and beyond, to the frontdoor trailing blobs of blood, to dearm the alarm, unlock the door from the inside; he dips his chin, a beard’s brush, a patch of stain flecked with soot and then, with tense shakes of a hackneyed head begins to mark the jamb, not even acknowledging Benjamin to spit a gift on Him.

A poor guest, we’ve known worse.

The problem with this tradition has always been once he’s gone down the chimney, how does he manage to get back up to the roof? If the devil Satan must fall, one might argue, then a saint like Santa must rise; once finished with his swathe and slather, he might lick clean the plate of warmed goodies, gargle the icy milk of mothers left behind—more time to think his way up and out, though this house would never provide. Maybe they have a fowl in the fridge, he thinks, and a little shot of schnapps, helps to hope.

And then, there’s always a ladder in garages like these.

This year, though, another task, each house its own—he doesn’t ascend, doesn’t rise to the roof, to fly off into the air, full reindeerpower ahead. Maybe later. Work to do. Not for nothing he’s the patron saint of our kinder.

To dry his hairs on the Rag, which drawer he knows.

And where the laundryroom, too.

He and with a silence that seems to twinkle returns to the den, if den it is, takes Benjamin by the hand. He’s a body come to life from the photographs on the stairwell. He’s the father of His father, whose father he might otherwise be. To take him slow, and as gently as you’d expect, naked fist in mitten fringed in tinsely poms, to lead Him to the stairs then up them, three at a time, and down the hall of shutdead doors to His room above the garage and its angelic ladder expected—forget it, you might as well stay a while, won’t you, make yourself comfortable, my house is yours, there’ll soon be beds empty enough; the two of them, Santa and son almost of equal size, stepping high, huge, and damn sleep loud into His room—and then Santa, holding a forefinger through the loose skein of yarn worn to his lips, slams the door bang behind them, though there’s no one left alive to awake.

At the corner of Deaf & Mute, known to most as the intersection of Eastern Parkway & Kingston Avenue, Brooklyn, in sunglasses at night, Mel Chisedic—not blind, but that’s how he makes rent out of season; habits are often stoned into Laws—loiters in front of a display window shattered open to winter, screening the madness as presented on networks owned by the dead. Eleven months out of the year his profession’s the panhandle, begging, predicated on this blindness, which wasn’t as much blindness as it’s more exactly the use of sunglasses, though occasionally there appeared an opening in Retard, an abandoned corner or curb, which estate, retardation, though more difficult to fake was for that very fact all the more lucrative, but this season as for the past decade or two of Xmases, ever since being released from the far from paradisiacal prison island known as Rikers and so reintroduced into the general population of the inexcusably unemployed, he was one of the legions of the Great White, a Santa, though less Santa or even a scrambly Satan as he often laughed than a lush, fat middleaged, more desperate than jolly, more wanty and needy than giving; his lap aching from the sits of adorable, panracial kinder with their marketable talents and astronomical intelligence quotients; his left ear—its ruby shard of earring out inseason—aching from their whispered wishes: for ponies ribboned, wrapped so shinily well they’d asphyxiate, for Mommy and Daddy to not get divorced, to love each other and me all over again, to buy like this new mansion for us to live in together high upon the fluff of an exurbiated cloud, hovering above the beach, Miami, maybe, then for me the sweetest ride, pimped to the maximum military surplus, with marzipan turret and gelatin treads; for this Xmas, all I want is for this scary acute lymphocytic leukemia to go away—is that too much to ask, Santy? Jesus.

Rummy cup of coffee in hand, dopey sack of a hat on his head, those wraparound mirrored sunglasses greasing down the slope of his nose, Mel stands offduty, riveted to the proceedings on the screens displayed as peaceful, orderly looting goes on around him: smashed plate glass, panes from windows and doors, splinters and scrap; hulking goyim of every color and class loading all sorts of kitsch into their idling cars, gaping trucks, highpiled grocerycarts, trashcans not aflame. A vast ziggurat department store specializing in just about every need of a number of minorities lately in the majority, those who hadn’t made the lottery to light out for Siburbia just yet (which designations would apply to Mel, too, whose Santa suit was as oppressive as his poverty and skin), Laz-R-Us is ten bags of stale popcorn away from being declared entirely out of stock, shelves laid bare, then the shelves taken themselves. Though slim pickings after the rush of last weeks, enough merchandise’s gone to worry the CEO of any insuring firm into investing a tenth or so of his own salary into stock in an overseas manufacturer of indigestion pills. The leftover lawn-front nativities they took, the plywood mangers and glittery tangles of hay, the remaindered miniature camels humped in velveteen and those swaddled plasticine babes, factoryseconds without mouths, and voluminous gallons of water, batteries and cannedgoods, everything save the kernels, popping on their own in the fires the looting’s left raging; though all had miraculously left the screens stacked in the window smashed open, amid the glass and glassy tinsel and the signs and the wonders, the pyramids tottering of empty boxes and the decapitated remains of mannequined amputees as if veterans of discount wars and riotous sales—but the screens: not only to leave them but to leave them on as if in the seasonal spirit, a public service, to inform, and to warn; it’s civics, but mute.

A wet street steeped in wind. Champagne bubbles burst by the rain, snow, then a hailstorming of corks. Sirens split the freeze. Mel clangs his cowbell as if it’s enough to disperse them: the medics, fire, police; then unzips his fly, pisses into the sewer. An emergency artery of the highest importance, the way of first response, Eastern Parkway’s packed with observers, the curious and condemned both, in their new, newly looted clothes, in hats and wigs and jackets marked down, layawayed no longer with ten pairs of used women’s shoes in each pocket. And then into this disaster comes more, it attracts—comes his wife, or his ex, who can be sure: hundreds of them, a thousand or more drunk Misses Clauses, blind Mel’s never seen so many raw and soused wives of Ole Saint Nick in his life, never even conceived of such opportunity, missed, the squandering of sexual promise; grayhaired and tipsy, grannydresses dragging end of shift limp in muddied snow, they stagger forward in a heaving pack, talcumteeming, seething steam, a defeated army of gingerbread women gone hardened in the bitterest cold, the memory of plump, dashed hope of rosy, bonnets on their wigs on their perms, oversized purses in hand, nearing his standing gape reeking of toilet gin, peppermint, cloves, desperation. Mel elastics his fake beard down under his chin, tries to understand just from the lips of the reporter, the old Santa shtick when the beard’s on too tight you can’t hear: a bland man in a black suit and mourning tie, he’s saying something about death, the thrust of his petroleum tongue, death, licking the undersides of his front teeth, death, capped and burning, corpses and burnings…preemption of seasonal specials, the cancellation of the parades and the Passions, the manic animation of news without censor, unapproved; President Shade addressing the nation…desk, suit, flag and face; on a screen facing him, the prompter’s scrolling, snows of speech; he squints, face full with air fills up the screen, the screens, a balloon of condolence, its stem a thorn, as if to smash out the glass of the screens themselves, as if to smash out the eye; to fill the den, our mouths; our prayers are with you, he mouths…and across the nation lips are pursed to indicate gravity, quiet; volumes are raised unto the roof; shock; sofas are sat upon, chairs are brought back from the brink of recline—you really should have asked us first to sit down…from somewhere, from nowhere, a telephone rings, millions of them, Apocalypse holds the line; then, the newscaster along with his feminine clone, a doppelgänger blond and trying her best not to smile; half the stations cut to a location the other half will cut to in a moment…sixpointed star graphic: two triangles, superimposed, singeing, tattooing themselves on his pupils, Mel’s—fades, into evermore scenes of distress, then through a handful of more rapid cuts, loops of disaster, cut, cuts, scissoring fingers sliced across neck; kill it, we’re going unscripted and live onlocation…dizzying, reeling tickers, bars and charts; different stations with the same footage, different stations with different footage, grained real though all without sound, without the break of commercial. As he stands and stares, the Misseses approach; their nearing warmth sickening him, their menopaused steam and their smell. Mel reaches into the display amid a pile of those amputated, desecrated limbs, legs without feet, arms without hands, torsos without navels or nipples, and with a ragged nail he takes the screens off their mute, a flick, a flickering, raises their volumes to the sky, the very dial of the tuning moon; their blasts a coverage like light, weathernoise eruptive, as jagged and as sharp as the glass that once kept their peace, now emptying into the air, they’re sanctifying the sirens, purifying the street.

They’re dead.

AAAAAAAAAthisisnotatesthisnotatest!

Today marks the end of a glorious multimillennial history, and perhaps the richest tradition known to—is there no hope for the West—this is E.E. Tone, for A Voice in the Wilderness, reporting live, from Jerusalem—Pan—Mister Chancellor, your reactions, please—demonium—will it recover—can it even survive—over to you, in the studio—a lot of people are wondering—what does this mean for the rest of us, John—19—and for that, we turn to—mass death and rioting in the north of—39—has yet to comment—at present we have no official count—numbering toll—however experts estimate Midnight Eastern Standard Time, TOD (Time Of Death)—triage carnage age age age—a most sorrowful Xmas, indeed, Deborah—Misses Clauses in a fierce stumble, the oldest and ugliest of them leading the seething pack…they’re in pursuit, as you can hear small arms fire from just behind me, and what appears to be, yes, it’s a—I imagine the weather isn’t helping any, Helen—no, I imagine it’s not, John—Misses Clauses, all of them they’re massing into one giant Misses Claus, a grannywhite monster; they’re separate, individuated though nearidentical, and also one total woman, a great grayed grannywhite lumbering mutant with a full million eyes behind a hundred thousand pairs of glasses of every prescription, in orthopedic shoes and an apron giganticized out of their frocks that obliterates the horizon smeared in blood and in chocolate, their pearls’ strands whipping a weapon in the gusts against which it surges, past Utica toward Rockaway Avenue further, they surge forth, their din does, everywhere: Boro Park, the thorny crowns and heights of Crown Heights, Midwood and Brighton Beach down to Seagate north to Williamsburg then straight through to the borough of Queens and on to bury Long Island, the furthest Rockaway, through Hewlett and Woodmere and Lawrence, down south then, through the bedroom communities and all the commuters beached down in Ventnor and Margate and Longport in Joysey, all the way out west in Los Angeles and even more south now to Miami and the Beaches of Miami and Palm and Mexico and Panama and Rio on the water then over it to Golders Green, London, Manchester, Edinburgh and Dublin, then Amsterdam and Paris, its perfumed bodies stacked along Rue Captain Dreyfus, further east to Berlin, Karl Marx Allee a disaster, the Empire’s Vienna, better Buda than Pest then Prague, onto Kraków and Warsaw and Russia even and Shanghai and Sydney and Johannesburg, too—and even in Eden, which is now known as Iraq, with its wadis and palms and its explosives and madness, unto Tel Aviv and Jerusalem Herself, from the German Colony unto Mattersdorf, O the onehundred gates, the gushes from Gush, Bnai Brak with no one to fix…emptied of them, emptied of us, every city and Siburb and village and town made a cemetery, a house of mourning roofed by the sky for the sitting of shiva for seven days and seven nights accompanied by no one and nothing save this very noise, its surge: all the gossip, the telephone, the radio, the shrieks of the screen. How to—Any word describe on the feelings survivors here today—No What survivors we can—Authorities make out at this are of course distance on the scene—This and attempting seems to me to be—An even the most of profound—Reports global significance from Russia are in—Our and statistics—Let’s go to show the—Do we map have any idea—An act as to what or who we’re of unparalleled dealing with Terrorism scope on an international The scale President is scheduled to address the nation tonight at ten from the White House and of course Stay tuned we’ll be bringing it to you for further developments You’re live We apologize for This technical is difficulties watching—How is It’s much this possible too? early Let’s for not anything be too hasty except in our judgment I’d hesitate speculation to say No comment ://dot.comment—

One of these Misses Clauses fellating a candy cane, another fellating the other end of the treat, they’re sucking away to kiss sweet at the middle without stripe, dripping drool sugary thick.

And yet another one, this their leader it would appear from the rear, the fat and old and the ugly, her face a rash of makeup, scars herpetic and of acne, too, black luck and its blue mutilation, she’s asking Mel…what you got in that sack of yours, you gimme a gift?

Just looted dog food, a can of beer, root root root another pair of shades.

One with a particularly heaving bosom leans up against Mel, grabs hands, presses them to the fuming insides of her thighs.

Busy tonight, Santy?

Any time for a lonely old Miss?

Twenty for a halfhour, thirty for the hour, I’ll ride your North Pole.

It’s a seasonal thing—a fire sale, don’t you know, feel how hot I am down there…my sleigh or yours?

Mel suddenly defects his hands from the granny’s panties, punches her in the mouth, loosening teeth whether they’re dentures or real to gnaw among his knuckles like miniature graves, without name. Blood splurts onto the premature white of his faking beard as Misses Claus goes down and out, and her sisters go chasing Mel down the street; dodging formations of troops, winding around stalled and honking jams of military jeeps, trucks and tanks, armored snowcats, huskies and convoys of bison, Mel’s cowbell clanging his escape with the slip of his stride in the deepening snow, south into an unlit quarter of the world known as Canarsie; the Misseses wielding their hoarded purses weighted with dimes swindled from shoppers in the good name of the poor, swinging them around to hurl at him as they clutch at their florid hems through the piling hoar.

Our sun rises as promised the next morning, Xmas—a covenant’s a covenant, and what’s death to annul it; though this rise occurs maybe spiteful, halting, reluctant, as if unsure of itself, the sun embarrassed by what’s happened in the hour it’s forbidden to light. At the horizon, gray; clouds assemble to breathe down flaming flakes. Medics, police, fire, National Guard goyim, US Army, Every Acronym (EA), Neighborhood Watch even and volunteers both organized and irregular, all the lineaments of uniformed disaster they’ve been mobilized, equipped then assembled with an amazing degree of expedition, and efficient professionalism given the hurry, though there’s just nothing for them to do except inhale, exhale into the freeze as if that’ll help any, but if it makes them feel better, then—as through the jammed caravan of patrol cars, miscellaneous emergency management personnel, and the triage that is local press with ambition, three survivors arrive at the Gatekeeper’s hut. One of them’s a shvartze, too, and though he’s the one driving this suggests not a few concerns, begging the profile—it’s standard policy to ask, I’m sure you understand, of all people…

Might be a delivery, maybe a poolboychick, a worker but what crew; he’s not a gardener, no exterminator, perhaps another species of hand hired but by whom and for what, none he’s ever known, the Gatekeeper going on ten years, and so a suspicion to report—that is, if there’s anyone left to report to. One of the three, not the shvartze, the one in the passenger seat in the hood and robe, with the staff that’s just the bough of a cedar fallen by lightning, he gets himself out of the metallic puke Lexus, a rental, keeps his door open and walks around the hood to the slit in the window, yells hoarse above the sirens and wails.

We’re looking for One Thousand Cedars, the Development, of course—tries to keep it light.

We’re catering the bris, though we seem to have lost our passes—it’s tragic, forgive.

What bris? the Gatekeeper wants to know, wiping at the rime of his eyelid, a tear.

A bris, a circumcision, the face under the hood gives a smile, you know: down go the pants, snip goes the tip…

I’ve been working here nearly a decade, says the Keeper, there’s no need to tell me what’s a bris, nu—what I’m asking is what circumcision, whose, who’s circumcising who around here? I’m saying, if anyone’s doing any circumcising, it’s me of you—get my drift?

Above, planes plummet, and police helicopters descend, metalplated locusts, upon the Development’s baseball diamond, the roof of the Rec Center’s pool, onto great rolling lawns: rotors flaying shingles and swingsets; the air, a mass of noise and flashes, microphones held up to megaphones, the violent frolic of doppler, you know him; corpses are stacked on the sidewalk one by one then laid one atop another when there’s no more space, later becoming laidout feet to feet along streets, their toes tagged with ID, their heads propped against the curb, mouths left hanging open; in shock, postmortem disbelief—it’s as if they’d be revived by the snow.

No, I haven’t heard of any circumcisions, Mister Bris, now disaster I’ve heard of, plague…

It’s registered, he’s oblivious or doing wonders for faking: we’d submitted the application eight days ago, as per your requirements, did the whole background check, got together our recommendations; God, we’ve followed every single one of your guidelines—I can’t believe you don’t have us on file.

Mister Simon Weizmann, plus two…check again, I’ll believe you.

Weizmann, I don’t know any Weizmann…

And the longer we wait, he’s not finished just yet…the more everything spoils.

Hard for anything to spoil more than it already has, he taps his scratched plastic pane to alert, and no, it’s not registered, understand—nothing’s registered, not anymore.

The Israelien family should’ve notified you in advance, made their wishes known—they only had Him a week ago, what’s to expect? Would it help to mention I’m a good friend of Alana Milfhaus? We did weddings together. She was in flowers.

You have any identification?

He hesitates. I seem to have left my license at the office. Anyway, it’s a little outdated. I’ve since lost the weight.

Maybe you want to talk with my supervisor. He’s dead. You want his number? Or maybe you’ll rabbi this out on your own?

It’s a party at Hanna and Israel Israelien’s, 333 Apple; it’s for Benjamin, their newborn—a boy, would you believe? Now how would I know that if I weren’t here with the lox and the spread?

The Keeper shrugs, reaches under his desk to throw the emergency switch, then realizes all the armed response he’ll ever need’s already here, and has enough emergency as it is.

We’ve reached our quota today, no more admissions; especially not for looters, fortunehunters…anyway, where’d you get that funny getup? he’s stalling, those robes? what’s with that?

Also rentals, you like? and he twirls the hood’s gold tassels.

Give me a moment, will you? the Keeper grunts, gulps at any medication then tosses its unlabeled jar to his desk, hobbles out of the hut and makes his way to stand before the robed tasseled figure and the rental Lexus, near to the face obscured by the hood. God save me for going offmessage, he says to himself and his whisper aches through last night’s two packs of smokes then the liquor redeemed from area cabinets and basements, stumbling on the numb of his tongue he says, they’re dead, then pauses to regain his face, its mouth, lips no longer trembling, you getting me, friend? he beats the breast of the robe immobilized in front of him, the visitor leaning up against the shine of the just washed, likenew sedan, and says again, they’re gone, all of them, as of last night, kaput, it’s over and done with, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but they seem to be out all over the place; he begins crying, a tear rips through his throat and he almost falls, Misses Herring, my supervisor, the Israeliens, too, a tragedy—what about me, I’ll be out of a job, I’ll be old and unemployed, uninsured, without a wife and…Mister Bris, there’ll be no circumcisions for anyone today, I don’t think, never again.

But Benjamin. He’s still alive, pleadingly, isn’t He? Jesus, muttering Mary, we’ve received assurances, what about all those omens, those portents and signs (he’s stalling himself, trying to think what those were, might’ve been)—we’ve made all this food, two crates of wine; we haven’t even been paid.

Don’t get wise with me, says the Keeper, suddenly suspicious when the talk gets to money.

Weizmann begins to cry, too.

Enough, the Keeper resists an urge to hug, rams his hands into the pockets of his uniform pants.

If you want, I’ll let you in to talk to Security. Or the insurance people, the claims adjusters—if you want to file against the estate.

Of course, I’ll have to take a peek in the trunk. That is, if you don’t mind. It’s standard procedure.

And so Weizmann, weeping to wet his robe’s gilded frill, opens the driver-side door, pops the trunk into a storm: it’s fullup with oversized, overstuffed green trashbags holed and holding they appear to be weeds, acting as padding for plasticpacked frankincense, ziplocked myrrh its freshness sealed in; the stench hits the Keeper in the gut, he goes reeling, gags, recovers, pinches his nose, lifts the trashbags and roots around with his other hand amid wrapped and greasy platters of fish, white and herrings smoked and sturgeon, nova and kippered salmon and sable, alongside enormously risen loaves of pumpernickel and rye both with seeds, without; underneath, a shimmering: uncovered, it’s a glowing golden bundt cake, which illuminates his confusion, is pareve; the Keeper retreats a step, stares at the shvartze driving as if it’s all his fault and so the shvartze kills the engine, gets out, leaves the door open and beeping, proceeds somberly to the trunk, which he shuts as the similarly robed caterer in the backseat gets out, too, stands immediately behind the Keeper with his hands on the Keeper’s neck as if to assuage him by choking.

They’re presents, he says dejectedly, for Him and the parents. His partners weep against the windows. And a bundt cake, consider it yours…the Weizmenn smacking palms against their heads and the Lexus, which is due back by noon.

Standing together, soon holding each other, a huggy group weeping, as an ambulance registered to the Hospital Under the Sign of Everything, Long Island’s premium facility at which no insurance is ever sufficient, goes wailing down the lane, past them and their Lexus pulled to the shoulder, past the hut without a nod let alone a stop or even slowing, no appropriate decal affixed to the windshield of the vehicle, no licenseplate to put through the system, this is an emergency here, we have lives to save, or if not lives then at least our reputation for response time. We’re on the clock, better get out unwell or scram. Doctor Tweiss rides shotgun, the plasticsurgeon twin, we should hope (the other’s a psychoanalyst)—in suit, tie errant in the wind with his window aired down, he’s smoking despite the snow, the weathering gray, a monogrammed DT bag of tools on his lap open and bulging, the glint of stainless steel that blinds the eyes of the crying Keeper leaning up against the shut trunk as they pass: the guardrail’s up, had been up ever since this disaster began, with the cops in their flagrant, almost recreational careening into One Thousand a moment just after midnight’s cold stroke; the shrink who’s daylighting as the ambulance’s driver refusing to yield, driving his fraternal physician in gleeful violation of the speedlimit reduced to twentyfive inDevelopment; Doctor Tweiss attempting to steady his nerves and hands, with one holds onto the forked tail of his tie as if intent on hanging himself from the antenna above. He’s to snip the foreskin from the flesh of a newborn today, they call it a bris, they called it, this circumcision, an operation he’d never executed before but that, since last night’s phonecall in the middle of the president’s latenite address, he’d been thinking about, mentally occupying himself with, without sleep. His other hand smoking as its nails stroke at his nose as if it were the organ to be sliced and not an anatomy more hidden or intimate. With these people, he’s understood, it’d been the same as in the hospital, there were just a few blessings additional, which he’d been assured were unnecessary to the success of the procedure, its validity. Blessed art Thou. Blessed Thou art. Then a little of the woundsucking, that and the schnapps, which he’d had the ambulance stop for, and bought, then stuffed it into his bag with the steel—he’d kept the receipt, he’d be reimbursed.

Though the entire operation’s unnecessary—as they’d discover upon arrival at the house at the address he’d memorized. Apple. Threethreethree. Though that’d never stopped him before, the lack of necessity of a paying procedure—why they’d hired him, whoever They ever were. Hello, speaking, no, that’d be my brother, yes, who’s calling, fine. Hanna and Israel’d asked their rabbi, also a dear family friend, Rabbi Sternstern his name was, who was dead, his own family, too, his wife and their eight kinder or nine who could keep count and his name, those and the wives and husbands of those kinder of his who were married as well, then their kinder those who’d had them along with everyone else, just last night: in dark socks sausagestuffed, with foothair and varicose veins, Rabbi Sternstern collapsed cold at the edge of his bed packing his bag for the morning, promising himself and his wife who was in bed herself though asleep that this’d be his last bris, the last circumcision he’d ever attempt and after retiring and not working as a circumciser, a mohel, for an entire year due to his nerves and an almost anesthetical fogging (instead outsourcing all the work in his synagogue to a young mohel imported from Teaneck who’d had a family young and large to support and old med school loans to pay down), but that he had to do this last operation himself, with his own two liveredly shaky, deliriously wrinkled hands because of the family, because of Hanna and Israel especially whom he’d converted himself, Israel, and their girls the twelve of them he’d studied with and the mazel that after all those prayers in his office and with the consultation of the doctor his brother-inlaw he’d recommended the parents had finally birthed a thirteenth, a son; how he’d said he’d live to officiate at the boy’s barmitzvah, too, a wedding, why not a funeral; how he died in a fall to the floor grasping and tugging the sheets and the bed’s blanket with him and so turning his wife over in her sleep and her death to fall herself off the edge of the bed, over her side, what’d been her side forever since ineligible, unmarriageable girlhood, to lie atop his body as if in embrace. Terrible, in that he would’ve done it for free, would’ve refused Israel inevitably attempting to pay him an envelope and its personal check or with cash and how Israel would’ve insisted, then he would insist himself and again and again no and then yes, then they’d drink to the health and prosperity of everyone gathered who were to be gathered together now only in death, which is the circumcision by angels of the essence that is divine in us all—like the pluck of a harp, the bris of the winged and glowing foreskin known as the soul.

Doctor Tweiss, however, they paid, they whoever they ever are having arrived and too punctually too early that morning at the failing Tweiss Group off the Long Island Expressway at Utopia Parkway, their limousine out front parked across three handicapped spaces as if to make an impression—that luxury knows no boundaries, that wealth respects no borders; them whoever they are passing the arriving receptionist without nod, pass, grope, or even the most mere insinuation, two grim stooped giants and their wiry boss, smoothshaven, with those eruptive ears and the upturned eyebrows and plasticbags under his squinty eyes that held only contempt, who’d handed the doctors a suitcase packed full with money as if explosive (they were afraid to open it, their fear’d advised them to trust), then another of their party arriving professionally late in a livery of his own, apparently their new lawyer who had him and his brother Tweiss sign a disclaim of deutero forms before he let them go with the two and their employer, whom one called Das, another Der, and the lawyer Die, and whom the two of them Tweiss called nothing at all in their confusion, to the hospital to take possession of an ambulance that’d been gassed and reserved while the lawyer remained behind at their offices ostensibly to go through their files, he’d said, which meant they suspected riffling through the most secret drawer of their receptionist whose breasts the lawyer kept describing in the air with his hands in unreliable gestures as the brothers gathered their matching coats up and left. An ambulance being driven by the psychoanalyst Tweiss costumed in the disguise provided by his closet and the approval of that receptionist’s purse, snappy cap, aviator shades—a goy who despite any pretension to the contrary doesn’t know his way around stick, now pulling up on a ruined transmission to the house huge and hugely vacant, screeching at the intersection of Main & Apple to stop short at the address at the furthest nest of the looparound, the twins thrown to the dash, smoke from the ambulance’s tires imbuing the air with the notion of burning corpses they’ve had to swerve to avoid. An expedition that’s to prove unnecessary, however, as not a soul’s at home, at least the door isn’t answered to their ringing, then their knocking of a brass ring distended from the lip of a decapitated lion—though they realize, now, that a newborn solely surviving couldn’t be expected to open the door on His own and admit visitation, put out the coffee and cake, and so they open the door with the copied key they’d been provided, let themselves in to search a stoop for a baby up and down all the floors: here baby, here boy, but find none and so without thinking much about why or what next, they lay waste to the refrigerator for brunch, sating themselves upon any leftovers leftover, then fall asleep atop the furniture to wait as instructed for further command.

And like a visiting relative, an unwelcome guest, that Xmas just refused to leave: it never packedup its bags, bulging with snow to melt in the flee of the sun, never put on its cap and went out unafraid to greet the cold that was its own, its true home; it was endless, unbearable…what? It just sat around the house, turned to a puddle to profane the floor, having forgotten its own toothbrush and towel, it had to borrow, it clawed up the couch, stuck its snout into everything, became fattened on what was fed it, which was all we had then the furniture and lastly ourselves, and soon began to warm, to reek with putrefaction.

It was Xmastime forever, for seasons at a time, at first deep into a month once known as January, a duplicitous, twofaced month named after that ancient Roman deity Janus, King of Latium, the God of beginnings, the God of endings, of gates like those to Developments and of doors like those set with knockers and bells, buzzers and intercoms and etched glass to a house since fallen, the patron of the bridge between the primitive and the civilized, between youth and maturity, too—a God whom no one thinks to worship anymore, a forsaken, spurned God, omnipotent and yet abandoned, omniscient and yet ignored; allpowerful, all alone: without Him no one knows which way to face, whether to the past or the future, or else just to stand forever upon the threshold searching this way and that, to waste an only life waiting for their very own end, however it would arrive and never too soon. It was anxious, depressing, it was Xmas into some say the next year, God, has it been that long, as the sun became split into suns, the freeze giving way to the humid and heat, the ice given notice, evicted, absorbed, poisoned with soot, snow melted to smog, though others hold it was Xmas deep into the year after that—who would swear to it, we all know how reliable the authorities can be, how much they’re to be trusted, how honest they are—the days’ debts to the world ingathering fatal interest, with no hope of paying memory off, and so the banks all went bankrupt then the market crashed and burned, valueadding no appreciable warmth to the scorch of the day; the looted metropolises leveled by bulldozers whose shovels had been emblazoned with the faces of fathers set sharp with the flaming teeth of their fathers before them…the world entire that was Siburbia razed to its very foundations of basement whether finished or maybe or not, which were cinderblock and brick and their cinders themselves leveled with palms become clammy with greed, demolished, reduced to vacancies of the earth, emptied lots marked for nothing, inhabited only by that that was no longer human: as no one worked anymore, as work had become life, had become mere survival. Kestenbaums roasting on an open fire…dairy products expiring, turned, were sold way past useby; cars became metal; teevees screened only snow in the unseasonable heat; shoes went thin then holed and then earth; clothes turned to rags then air and so everyone went naked at night, sweltering under the glare of an oleo moon. If you wanted to tell the difference between men and women and why would you; after all, they’re all goyim: the men were the ones with the nails of sharpened flint, who’d kill the other men with their nails of flint less sharpened against the curbs and the rust of the cars and the smash of the glass and the knife of the heat; they’d relieve themselves at the edges of ruined properties poorer of fence (impaled on the posts, their victims laidout across hedges grown wild); they’d attempt to sate themselves slovenly on what substances nosed out, snouted, raw or salted, and then, never full, never being able to differentiate appetites they’d smash in the strength that’s occasioned by rage the faces of others flat with the scuff of their hooves that they’d grown only to slip and slide to four legs on upon the asphalt and the glass and the metal; flatfaced women with the cancer cankering the puffs of their navels would whore themselves out for anything not so raw and not so salted, and when they were raped, and they were raped hard and raped often, and so had nothing at all to eat or drink whether it be raw or salted or anything else, they would sustain themselves by licking the stains of smoke from stray scraps of trash, glittery, littery wrappingpaper—that is, when they weren’t attempting survival through the suckling of shvitz from the hairs of their distended lips, though women raped into becoming mothers would occasionally maintain themselves, too, on their own offspring, pickled sweet in twindeckered sandwiches stacked high atop wonder white with the crusts cut, spread thick with lard, lashes of butter, fat dollops of mayonnaise without brand, snacking on their kin drooling saliva to shine their mammæ, which were headlights, twelvenippled, barebulbed. Their brilliantly pleasureless clitorides were shaped like the Popes…

Offspring who’d escaped their mothers through matricide, which was the only way to escape them with the exception of killing themselves then each other stayed out, orphaned and unable to sleep just roaming the festive streets until late, occupying themselves by stringing up ornaments of testicles and skulls that they would glowingly impregnate with tapers rendered from the fat of abortions with lengths of hair for wicks and strands of hair and esophagi and intestine to hang glorious gore over the joyous proceedings, the sidewalks decked in pisspuddle, ornamented with the vomit and turd of perpetual holiday, the frayed and loosed ends of these umbilical strands tiedoff to garlands of desiccated dingleberries from the most diseased boughs and moldering branches of dying dingleberry trees topped with angelic roaches and other mutatudinously gigantic insects stripped of their wings and pointless stars, then wound around lampposts that’d wilted from the passion of their exertions, flaccid attempts on the sky, their jealousy of even the sun—decorations if they could be called such in appearance less like enormous rosaries than they seemed oversized adult products intended expressly for the stimulation of the anus. On allfours these offspring would promenade under these garlands proclaiming the worship of beauty, cheer and its happy cult, on spines of tar smashed open and meltingly gooey at base they’d often mistake potholes for wounds of potable sewer, slurping petroleum goop, they’d slip ’n’ fall to make easy prey for their relations and strangers alike, denizens of the streets and their lowering gutters strewn, too, with these tanned torsos these millions of them left amputated to gangrenous stumps ever grasping, heads still attached, nothing else: an eerie species of GrecoRomance, this dying admonition to pluck out your eyes if eyes they had anymore and not just slits, or holes, or rough ethers, at this sight of once full and whole people who’d had their limbs hacked from them or gnawed, their arms leaking at the shoulders, legs dripping at the kneel of their knees—they were sodomized in any available orifice with their own severed limbs, flinty sharpened hooves first then smacked about the face with the limply sopping appendage, sliced with metal, slit with glass, left to rock and rot, to occupy as entertaining spectacle their attackers whom they couldn’t even curse because despite the left heads, their mouths and tongues they weren’t able to even talk anymore, needless to say, that none of them were, that they were left languageless, rendered without speech, that they at the most generous only gestured and grunted at random, voiceless and languorously lolling like mute tongues themselves amid the humidity and heat and the damp stick of morning, the hour they’d traditionally air their sleek, ribworn flanks, deep into the long afternoons of dry scorch.

It was that the next evolution of those who were unmarked rendered them unto animals, partiformed creatures, mutagen beasts, who were once inarguably Men & Women mutated then mutilated by their fellow mutants and by the mutilation, too, that is the passage of unsanctified time, therianthropes to the Gods who had forsaken them as the Gods had once been forsaken themselves; how they were burdened beasts without conscience, asses without soul and that this—with the covenant sundered and the death of the chosen and their rainbow choked by the pollutant clouds and the stars of the sky burnt out and the sands of the sea winded up and away to dust the furthest reaches of the primeval void—this was, it’s been said, only the possible, a small allowance or potentiality, just one way of the many infinite ways in which the world might’ve evolved, essentially hidden, Apocryphal; in the end, which was only yesterday, little more than a misnomer misnamed.

Because this is what Was…how the world would create God as God had created the world, and then how humanity would create itself anew in the image of God in which it was originally created on the sixth day of In the beginning, upon which—now that it’s returned to us forever in the heart of the seventh—the nascent late sun would never dare set for fear of desecrating such Sabbath:

A world in which menschs, as if the season of spring lived within them, sprouted willowy sidelocks, and affixed knobby knotted strands to the fringes of their garments and covered their heads to assert modesty between their thoughts and the heavens that judge; their womenfolk went modestly garbed in dark raiment at the lengths of the ankle and elbow, and they, too, covered their heads and hair but in kerchiefs and wigs, which would tempt without revealing, which would promise without the flirt that fulfills. And maybe—a few scholars argue—this modesty’s to be attributed to the cut of the cold, yet another mode of insulation, remove, as the snow’d begun falling everywhere from Siberia where the snow had always fallen to the unprepared shorelines of what was then the Sodom of Florida, all along the Atlantic littoral from Newport’s Touro to Tampa piling up to the knee, to the waist then the neck depending on which blessing or prayer, whether one was bowing or kneeling, and even in parts known up to the seat of the head, which was covered in hats over yarmulkes above caftans below that would gust like dark ghosts in the wind. Eastern Parkway arose out of the skyline of Brooklyn as a ray of lighted ice, and everywhere had become if not the Pale of Settlement then only a slowbeaten fare away on the subway, which had gone out of service.

Though it wasn’t just the outside of our world that would become changed, not only the apparent, our world of appearances profane and profaning—we were to be changed from the insides, too, our stomachs, our hearts and minds, to be healed from our innards on out. All ate everything on their laden tables and in great measure and with an abundance of lust that left them warmed and wasted at the end of the day, with downy moustaches of oil and fingers that left on the finest of linen a script of interpretive grease. All ate everything, that is, save that that had become forbidden, which substance was shellfish, including the bearded oyster, the hoofed clam, and pork, which is the son of the pig, in addition to any meat whether red or white if ever served with milk or any dairy, and other sundry recipes of nature and woman they would memorize only in order to avoid and so avert the wrath of their intestines and God, Who to have been the image in which mensch was created must have Himself intestines, too, as our clouds are the black of His waste. Treyf products went out of stock, their manufacturers quietly disappeared, went underground, out of business, their bills got forwarded to dummy addresses and lockless P.O. Boxes, held at the office, general delivery, poste restante, then the foods themselves disappeared, were shamed, eventually starved themselves out to their deaths: their internal processes sped up, they wasted away, into nothingness shrinkwrapped, entire refrigerators with magnetized photos floating atop the surface of the deep and slipping, sliding around the moist face of the freezer, also, that judges above or alongside the model depending, sucked themselves into rot; appliances that’d been defiled even while under warranty withered and shrunk, then disappeared into the corners of the ceiling of the kitchen and became nothing more than mere stains on the rug in the den. And then their kinder, O their kinder—they sat at these laden tables of theirs and studied in the mornings then in the afternoons they attended yeshiva at which they were quick with an answer, even quicker with a question…like, Rabbi, what to study again at home and at table set unto the glimmering dawn of evening with the time of its prayer? which they prayed alongside their fathers with fervor and an understanding surpassed only by knowledge, such ardor of souls, then exhausted from their efforts how they’d bring with them the succor of their prayer into bed at night as if a gift of light to the moon, going to sleep as they were told to, when they were told to, without protest or fuss, to dream dreams that were actually themselves prayers that prayed for the sanctification of eternal tomorrows. Sanctiloquently. And everywhere was like this except the state known as Palestein, the firstborn nation of the world, conceived on the night before the first night of creation in the love between God and His bride, Who was God. Lo it was to be a resort state, yea an Eden of decadence, verily a garden of splurge—Paradise Herself for those who would gnash for a weekend or so at the plastic, inflatable tree of the secular and its many hundreds of neonnippled, fructified breasts; sustaining retirees, sunworshippers, and the anonymizing excess of tourists ingathered from repression the world over, who would number in the millions like the stars amid an atmosphere of darkening gloss: as there snow was unacknowledged if not outright forbidden by decree of the skies, and each of its thousands of luxury hotels hosting their millions of deluxe hotelrooms, all suites kitchensinked with jacuzzi, were kept tidy and well lit and ventilated, too, and were daily turned down with a sweet left at the head of the pillow fluffed for the delectation of our sunstruck, sleepsensual pilgrims returned from their days at the sea and its shore whose sand was as pale as the dead though the water, much warmer.

For them, the highest attainment lower than God Himself was culture, the practice of art, its appreciation, its love, which is inspiration, the life of the mind. And so prayers were thought with the hands then written down with the tongue and were bound up into piles known to us even now as books, which are heaps of words of letters of the unknown, which were widely read and even more enthusiastically discussed by all regardless of any condition save death, as twice every week and a third time upon the Sabbath they would flock not like dark sheep but like sheepish wolves to the marketplace, the synagogue, the risen Temple that is the perfected, sanctified, if also wholly metaphorical space that even if infinite can never contain the impulse of prayer, and there would read to each other aloud the words and the Word, too, in every language they understood and in any of them about God’s deeds, about each other and their deeds, and verily people would come to bind their wisdom between these two covers of parchment, between two of them like life and death, like air and like sea, the waters above and those below as stripped from the flesh of animals who are known to be the sworn enemies of art, then how they’d bring these books of theirs in vast teeming pilgrimages to the proverbial center of the world, only to pile them again in loose heaps every night arranged into the order most newly revealing by angels in glasses known to the assembled as Rose, Pearl, and Miss Sandy Glassman, Librarian; then, to erect a roof over this pile that was to be known as the sky and walls that were to be felt as the wind, and that within this enormity they had heaped atop the stone of the foundation of the earth, which is a petrified word, unutterable, rocky upon the tongue the last name of God that silences verb, they could all come and go as they pleased, and not just three days taxed a week or just on the Sabbath but whenever convenient, and there they could find out, they could know and even avail themselves of the opportunity to approach understanding. And in the annex of this universe known as America a mensch had arisen who was also named Benjamin, who had brought down to us the secret of glasses and that of the electricity that courses as blood through our veins—and verily he had once called such an institution a Library, and so it was and was so very good that walls of marble had to be erected within the wind, and then a roof, too, had to be set as firm as marble, there under the fundament of sky because so many people had wanted in and all of them at once needing their knowledge that it had become impossible to accommodate all.

And so the select—amid the dew and fog to mingle with the steam of the sewer, they arrive at the steps, state occasion somber in their gray leathered liveries, modest limousines impounded from the recently passed: moguls, CEOs, CFOs, directors and producers; stopping short at the tombstone of the Library, at the grave of the Avenue numbered Fifth, their passengers emerging to step the flights to the entrance under umbrellas held by attendants who are moonlighting police officers deployed in uniforms of a laughable contingency falling down the stairs and shimmying down the railings that edge the stairs as these experts keep arriving and arriving without rest from earliest morning. Age holding hands with wisdom, they shuffle out and up with the posture of questionmarks, confused, even scared, not knowing why they’ve been summoned, why they’ve been forced here and on turbulent, securitysick flights and in those dingy, secondhand limos, with classes cancelled and lectures postponed, having received little information, almost no hints, and being scholars who can countenance rumor—to gather in the lobby of the Library, then once identified, fingerprinted, to sign a number of papers attesting to silence with alien pens. They’re escorted in an order even they in their wisdom, insight, and rare instances of genius are unable to understand, not by age, certainly not by the tenure of wisdom, down a wide hall, chandelierdomed and marble, into the reading room, an expanse of extenuating proportions even in the dim of this wintry month and at an hour at which even God is rarely to be found awake to our prayers: a room lined on all surfaces except ceiling and floor with trees split into shelves then spined neatly in books, which are only trees disemboweled, against which lay the rickety trunks of ladders, intermittently runged, boughs bowed under the weight of inspiration and its desperate if meaningful reach, the mating mute of grains stained with stone, the ceiling elaborately high above the gallery, a democracy of wood tempered with kingly gold, the floor below flooded with tables bobbing in the puddles of melt brought in from outside on the bottoms of shoes and the cuffed drag of pants; tables, you should have such tables, such tables as you could write a book on, a Bible, wood wide and wrinkled, topped by coppered lamps that reflect the perilous hang of those chandeliers, hung with light.

A past near the far door giving into the lobby, its steps and the street, its perpetual arrivals, with our tomorrows, if any we have, floating loftily over the gallery by the great bays of windows above, promised behind glass mullioned in steel, beyond which the sun’s just beginning its slow, glorious rise up to noon. Nakedly white, the scalp of the morning, waxed into perfection never to wane—it’s a head, a head nude, the head of the goy or maybe it’s said mensch rumored to be known only as Das, shining over the assembled, presiding over the floor. They’re occupied settling themselves, with greeting each other, shaking hands, arching brows, colleagues long lost, old students, mentors, department heads and deans, friends they hadn’t had the pleasure of in years, and suddenly—the sun comes to rest through the windows, a breath of light across the tables to flicker the lamps, and they stop, find silence, turn heads, which are all also bald, globes of their own reflecting greater light, to gaze at the figure of Das, whose stance alone on the gallery leaning against its rail and whose height augmented by thick, heavily elevated boots render him an astronomy unto himself, his medals, badges, and citations dazzling amid the heavens of woodwork and glass—they become blinded, are burnt, then just as suddenly the figure turns from their faces, whips up his uniform in his hands and resounds his steps out the door.

At his departure, silence remains with its light…though gradually, impatience manifests, and they return to their rumors again, they gossip, grumble, slap at their foreheads, who understands; these are scholars, minds, thinkers, digressers, debaters pointed of bones drycleaned, their minds if not their appearances always buttoned and cuffed, who knows to prophet from power and from profit, reward—and then, yet another question, Is this on? one of them has taken the lectern at the other end of the room; he taps the microphone, then introduces himself as Doctor Abuya; his reputation precedes, nothing. The goy to his left’s the Nachmachen, and as that name, too, means little to anyone here, all becomes clear: illuminated, in that the eye of the sun falls even on the obscure; these days—of lack, such loss—perhaps especially so. Usurpers usurp; these two, always one speaking, always one with the nodding, explain; they take turns—one always broad, patriotically stirring; the other specific, all business.

As it’s soon understood, these scholars have been assembled to settle a dispute quote of global importance, of, quote, international scope: theirs a question that seeks not one answer but millions—eighteen million to be precise, the famed Octadecamega as the pollsters would pundit at the very margin of error; it’s to answer with facts, identities, with names, and current mailing addresses and telephone numbers, who to scape now, now that rapture and our redemption and yadda’s out of the question, which question is ours and not theirs, it’s explained; it’s that the people, in conversion and not in their death (though death is perhaps a species of conversion, not one would later suggest), had been essential to redemption, endtimes salvation, and now that that seemed gone all to hell or to heaven and which, what’s next, any ideas—when do we break, where’s the toilet?

This revivified Sanhedrin has been convened to choose a new chosen, to conduct a new selection—to identify a People, according to their missionstatement: to be selected through the will of God, or through those whom that Deity selects…a directive already drafted and ratified by the usual Washington interlopers and upstartists, as if anything they legislated would be signedover in fire by God, the nibbed forefinger of, that willed and willing Deity party and without the hindrance of dissenting votes, as President Shade—assisted by the Mayor of New York, newly named Meir Meyer, here little more than a functionary—takes the lectern to announce, and with no mean modicum of humility, God’s selection of himself and his subsequently deific selection of this Das (apparently, a former advisor, chief of staff to a predecessor better forgotten, a cabinet member, past secretary of the Treasury a few have to remember, a shadow owed much and by many), invested with autonomy as full as it gets, promised no interference, no accountability expected and, anyway, who has the time; this deicidical Das who in turn has ostensibly selected those assembled below, foremost intellectuals, policy wonks, thinktank wizards, and the odd factotums of fictional government to infiltrate, make report, ensure what we once knew as due process—this in an operation financed by the holding escrow of the assets of the dead: to peruse assorted arcana, pursue genealogies, wills and testaments of every ilk and ink in the hopes of ascertaining the representatives of our impending redemption. Or else distraction, popular ruse. And as an assemblage without a mission is as a mensch without a head, the body of choice is already accounted: there’s policy, protocol, they might even have an insignia, a motto (though none knows what those are; each is urged to bring not only pencil or pen, but their own stationary, too), everything except an idea of what anything means. Still, in the following season the scholars are ordered to apply themselves as diligently as desecration can be, and sooner than they’d ever imagine they’re firing off memoranda and missives discreet, regarding the suitability of proposed scapes to colleagues sitting, sleeping, slumped just to their left, to their right, across tables, down halls; a deluge of notes, reports, inscrutable forests of papered waste: hemicovers of books slam closed, cause enormous clouds, dust to eclipse the above, to obscure the silent morning visits of, among others, the dubiously redubbed Mayor, accompanying the President, Das in his General uniform twostarred one day, threestarred plus purplehearted the next, flanked by his innumerable minyans of minions, plainclothed as decalogues, in suits pieced together of drab tablets.

Assistants interrupt the reverie, defile the idyll, at every hour hauling in more hulking tomes more and more esoteric, forever falling apart, to be perused with fingers laden with shvitz, with their toes and their eyes even through the glasses of the nose and the hands that mate and serve together to magnify, pages smudged with excited froth, with nicotinal saliva, with languages like the irretrievable People, dead and gone: some scholars sleeping already, others holding their tomes upsidedown, unsure how to right an alphabet, turn the page, turn the page, turn the, answer’s to be found on the page after the last; more and more books by the crateful daily delivered, old things mostly, out of prints, limited runs regressed from private libraries and archives, flownover from attics, excavated from basements and the least accessible stacks of permanent collections; they’re turning pages pulverulent, impairing visibility, aggravating with malicious intent the nose and throat; sifting through leaves, unslit of the unreadable unread for some idea, any, of how to begin—only to end, it’s been said, with the identification of those popularly referred to as the Nus, or Neues, depending on who you talked to and on what day. They the assembled would select a people, and only those people, whose souls would redeem the world—with no messy conversion, no choice on the part of the chosen allowed; this to be a wholesale redacting, remaking, revision, preferable, it’s been suggested, to any proposed wandering around the world, a process expensive, forever long, in search of someone to blame, anyone futzed enough in the head, willing to be scaped and so, martyred—a hook for their wilting felt hats, their slickers drenched through; though the sun’s out, winter wounds the glass in raging lashes.

For a moon, all that can be seen in the Library—since shut to the edification of the general public, who anyway might’ve long forgotten where it is and when it once had been opened—are these improbably tiny noses peeking out over extensive volumes bound in leather as the scholars are bound to their chairs: becoming merged to their chairs, fixedly fused, gaseously suctioned to seats, forcing them to a restriction of motion, their movement accomplished only by the manipulation of the hands placed under the seat of the seat; wanting to leave for a moment of air or peace, for light when the sun darkened down they’d thrust themselves forward at the ache of their wrists, heave from the hurl of their spindly arms soon distended, and so the scholars they’d eventually push paper and themselves from their palms upon the floor’s splintered tiles, letting loose the occasional screeched, creakcracking fall, sneeze, cough cough cough as if only to assure themselves and their others that they’re, sad to say, still alive.

Sequestered in this Library, remanded to what’s become by January’s close an impossible task, having been less asked than ordered to find the solution most final to a question that can’t even be asked: not to confab, or to approach the presence of truth by consensus, but to vote, or to find, to determine, to order—to vet all potentials, nominees for salvation, then to ensure a future by publicly naming such resurrected embodiments of the cold, the dead, and their past, to identify inheritors, immediate kin. How to do this is work, is research, is falsity, lies—a salvation itself, if lesser, more personal, adrift amid earthly time: spending days as vast as the sky poring over pages and charts, diagrams, lineages and the annals of annals, parchments and hides, every species of document that had ever occurred to the most human fear of being forgotten, the ambition that is immortality to be discerned amid memorized numbers and memorious dates that live lives independent of us, to be retrieved from between our flesh and bone covers that are, themselves, oblivious. In the end, though, it’s perfect, a total success—in that it’s worthless; as every hint leads to a prophecy that foretells a clue, yet another falsity to be followed through to its conclusion, which is only real insomuch as it’s nothing and nowhere.

East of our maps, Hic sunt serpentes…Here There Be Serpents coiled into currents, baring fangs of wake, venomous rips whirling around the throat of our Island, to skirring, to choke. Here’s a small island just off the coast of another small island that itself is just off the coast of an enormous country known as America—situated in space as in time just opposite the enormous green goddess with that torch of hers and that book, too, from whose pages our maps have been ripped. Manhattan’s a mammoth compared with this neighboring clod, this island we call it though it’s barely an isle, more like a breathless speck split nearly in two by a sip of water, into tablets, with a sullied tongue pronouncing profaned names, forked baybrackish, sundered churning, churlish. A slip, it once had accommodated the docking of vessels, ships like the Vaterland, the mighty Leviathan, the stalwart Amsterdam, and the Westerland, the Gellert, the Thingvalla, the Mohawk, the entire Moravia fleet out of Hamburg, the Norddeutscher Lloyd’s Kronzprinz Friedrich Wilhelm, the SS Whatever on down the wavylined, watermarked Manifest of Manifests, all of them descendants of the colonizing Saint Catherine (patroness saint of libraries), which steamed in the very first stock: immigrants who’d intended only to arrive, up top; down below, emigrants who’d intended only to leave; up top, immigrants who’d thought only of the future; down below, emigrants who’d thought only of the past…immigrants who’d honored opportunity, emigrants who’d prayed their lives away to the historical failure of gods ever older and dumber—arriving all day and through the night, too, in these ships and impromptu brigs and barques, their steerage made democratic meat, shipments if only for the slaughter that is the new, always, the lavish luxurious quarantine that is this particular exile. An enfranchised garage, a Cadillac parked deep in the crotch. Judge not lest, though—after all, they knew their mythologies, their archetypes, the windy symbols and the manifold, though onesunned, doldrums of fate: having crossed the river that is the ocean to die here, they’d lacked only the coins to blind their eyes, which would undoubtedly be earned in due time—found on a sidewalk, in a sewer, under the tongue of a wifemouth, in the pocket of her professional “father.”

A slip iced, frozen into a field, landscaped with salt and sand into a neat square that separates the Great Hall from the squat ruinous barracks beyond—now housing the surviving firstborns, all of them male, menschs ingathered from all the world over to attain the protection of this primal estate: the Hospital rustjointed, the Commissary burntover; the tumuli of outlying buildings intended in their conversion for the forgiveness of staff, the insensibility of freight, crammed atop this fill like centuries of graves of centuries, necropolis rocks atop stones atop trash cramped atop the swell of this speckle, an isle sliced down the middle as if gutted for hidden treasure, which is what—only water, frozen below the lives stilled, the shocked hearts and minds of those latest arrivals still being received for the processing. Huddled hassles burning to earn free, tempesttossed Lazaruses, poor, not for long, tired, they’re always, regime export whored over to this teeming shore for a purgatory of examinations, questions, questions, sessioning questions, exams, What’s your name, your date and place of birth, have you been promised a job here, have you been promised a husband here, what do you do, are you an anarchist? these days, how can you not be; do you happen to believe in a God…followed up by a host of hearings, appeals, held in the presence of interpreters American now for maybe a week, directing their pleas at the Officers who seemed themselves gods but not to be believed in only to fear, stationed chalkfingered, busily moustachioed at the door—which is not golden gleaming but whitewashed; its shine, it’s said, comes off with blood.

A rumor was, you enter America through the mouth of the Green Eve—the exit for New York is through her, you know where.

It’d been said that Columbus, the first of their kind ever to schlep to these shores, had been buried in her pedestal, which is the shul upon which Liberty stands.

The first thing these indigenes did was change coin, barbaric practice—conversion, to redeem their souls from the shadow of their passage, to give salvation another name, yet another number and face. Money in a pouch worn around the neck, a talisman: be careful, suspicious, trust no one, know not even yourself…your left hand a stranger to your right long may it be lost; brothers, cousins, a plumber in Brownsville who sponsored your visa, he happened to’ve been given the same last name as yours, no relation save that he was the only one of ten Buchalters to answer your letters sent out as blind as you’ll be soon enough: into the wide and unknown and unknowable, unreadable, just keep your mouth shut and they won’t know your language, your cries, that of a baby just arrived to meet its father remarried, refathered, and with a roomful of new daughters of sons (kitchencornered like a roach, like a rat, toilet closeted down the hall), an uncle of late only a series of letters himself, but in the wrong ink, in the wrong hand and unsigned, Dearest Yossele without love, with demands, or just silence, rejection, better to be left alone conjugating the following verbs: To conjugate, To deport, b’shalom…to be sent ashore, dashed, sundered, washed up, your money in a pouch worn round the neck, nametag which day of the week, meet me at the port in winter at the pier, I’ll be the one in the hat—to flee from the very face of their interrogating oppressors, whose faces were theirs even then and still are, clutching what they can from their klatsch, a few rags you’d never call clothes, quilt of feathers, a rye whiskey, a necklace of sausages, money in a pouch worn round the neck, the fee for their freedom and not for their life, which if we’re talking money is frankly a waste, all these dollars a head, the littlest son traveling hidden pouchswaddled, wounded round the neck; their documents in hand held out over land as bridges of bone, of skin and hair, in wagons, in carriage and britzka, cart and droshky, laundaus hauled by horses lamed and of relations, on sonback, on brotherback, and on foot, to go among swindlers, smugglers, robbers and thieves, evils both amateur and official, travel bureaus, shipping company representatives, I want a new globe…midnight flights from burning houses cool of hearth, border crossings only a matter of stepping high over an obstructing stump; swim through the fog, piss out the flame, make no more smoke than do they.

Furtively they trek overland to the ports, to the pier, money father’s money our money mine it’s all mine in a pouch wound round the neck to choke I can’t breathe it’s the air, it’s suddenly fresh! bribes and fares, trains and hay, pump trolleys, basket and blanket hides and ruses, tradetricks and secret signs and shibboli, Uwaga! Pocig, Achtung! Zug, ! , signs such signs, inns with a highest window open just enough for that to be a sign, too, lofts, luck and prayer, which if answered is luck, the prayer that is sickness and the luck that is unremitting disease: trachoma, a disease of the eye that’s treated with silver nitrate, the same compound of chemicals used to treat photographs, to develop ourselves in their image, favus, tinea favosa, a scalp infection that results in the making brittle of hair, eventually in jaundiced balding, and can only be treated with carbolic oil, which had often been tinctured into a syringe, then injected into our hearts to kill quickly, overwhelming with pain; the survivors live on lice that themselves have lice, atop cots in ship’s bowels amid the knots of intestinal hammocks, the menschs here the womenfolk there, separation by bulwark, holy freight, sacred stock, the sanctuary of an overturned lifeboat, a boat within a boat stacked atop a ship that goes somewhere upon which one can go nowhere, lolling depression in swells, seasick and hungry and thirsty with water all around—the ocean an eye tearing in salt; to drink from an eye is abominable, as your throat might be slaked but your tongue will be blinded—and then again, that enormous and rusted metal idol standing atop a pediment tiered in the excrement of tired gulls, grasping a torch and a book, which is this book and all other books, too, neither burnt, nor yet burning.

Yet another flight, a stampede, a rumpus, a regular old Kessel Garten, you know it? First and Second Classes disembarking themselves orderly first and second, thirdly the steerage last, ruddering columns buttressing cots in the bowels of the ship without limb, the sway of unsettled stomach rigged of hame, of hammock emptily swaying under the weight of unregistered ghosts, phantoms released on no one’s recognizance, specters without papers made of ashed papers, to float over the gangplank the bone of a Cossack, his horse, the hamate, the hanging halyard, the Gibbet, fallen masts a pier, the gangway to barge, the pier, walk, scuffle, drag deathmarch, todes babycrawl, the threshold, door, stairwell, into the Great Hall’s receiving, this the last station left in which to smooth out your skirts, to tuck in your shirt if shirt you have, if not your flesh, fluff your breasts, pinch your cheeks rosy; these bars and barbs, this wire, these pens, gates and their kept doctors, interpretercousins, guardbrothers, inspectors; the language of languages…take a deep breath, hold it in, let it out; you’re dead, there’s no second opinion; look at this eye chart, read the last line aloud, S Z C Z E D R Z Y K; do you know what it says, asks the doctor, know it, the immigrant says, he’s my uncle! Lipschitz, don’t give me lip, bei mir bist du sheyn fergessen, Welcome to America, Maran Hagaon Harav Avraham Halevi Moylvintldik…Shalom, Murray Gone; Hello, My Name is (Race Suicide), this naming death that’s named itself only after weeks, over months, after maybe even seasons of wait without name, not just unknown, inexistent, suffered and suffering just to enter, to be: many only to be turned away, and without their identities redeemed, sent back, RETURN TO—Isaac, or maybe Jacob—SENDER, reverted back to themselves, those unlucky few without name or a prayer, cast deep down into the real again, stowed home, lost to the generations to come; the map’s dot a speck of lint, a mote of dust, blown away, becomes a ruin, a coordinate fallen to time, desolate, wrecked, left for the waste upon which it rests. From south elevation, the Great Hall’s a mess, a mumble of lines, a jumble of Babel none too towering, instead laid vertical, fallen in every dialect’s design: Austro-Hungarian railroad shed, Ottoman slit, Russian Orthodox thrust, Parisian frill. Death by Renaissance in brick without hearth, as if tumbled from sky and only then, suntinted, threealarm red though fireproofed, the stucco façade mottled, jaundiced, its foundational limestone pissstained, its portico that limb distended from socket, wicked, a hand outstretched, to point away, to dismiss, to order, accuse…or else, arrival depending, to greet, to welcome, Shalom; to clasp warmly, give us a shake; below four massive turrets risen as lesser towers, the last survivors of the sprawl fallen below; their flags: tainted in blue, white, and red; the knives that pierce them wound, too, the mist, which is the breath of the ocean, guarding the Registry, the Island entire, from the gray occupation of clouds.

And it’s the same with every foaled load, whether it be boat of sea or boat of land, which is train, or even plane at the aeroport beyond, far out amid the majestic land known as Queens; whatever substance arrived upon, whether it be land, sea, or air, it’s cleaved—they come between. Our island lies halfway between the city, also an island, and Liberty’s woman: she’d been a gift that was also a sacrifice, as if Odysseus’ famed token to Troy, a huge hollowed naked apparition, Rhodessa’s her name, standing out there on the furthest, as if to demarcate our world, upon the first island they pass, no matter their mode of arrival; out so far in the ocean and free as to be almost Joysey—perched just off its banks and barges, its splintered docks, ramshackle warehouses of tumbling store. Between her reach and the spires of the city, our island stands guard, keeps the watery gate, the defense of a pomp once ruined, modest in its glory renewed—at least, no longer sinking; an occasional Atlantis disappearing at hightide, a breathing chest, a pound of flesh, now shored up from the drownless delectation of the parasites it once hosted with dirt dug from under the earth and out from under the ocean surrounding, from the tunnels that would accommodate the traffic of great steel snakes, girded with trash then the flesh of the dead. Their gravestone this Great Hall, a hunk of officialdom made angelic with the addition of two wings, one to each side of the main expanse: a body sprawled, a cruciform corpse, two flightless wings terminating in the talons of those four towers; three porticos top the middle plinth, the head—doubtless, a touch of significance is always involved, a meaning lost on all but the mute and the dead—three porticos of three vaulting windows, Beauxbrilliant, deco’s imposing, and then around that, nothing, emptiness, voided only by trees, scrubby and yet undaunted, survivors themselves, upward growths of salted grasp, weathered whitegray, deepgrained, dustthick: poplar, oak, evergreen firs, they’re all one tree as much as the arrivals can think of them to care; trees nothing but Tree to them in the Platonic ignorance of languages busied being forgotten already—all trees, that is, with the exception of the apple, red and rounding Eden’s, symbolic of their imaginary sin, spitefully generous in its polar fruit, freezerotten hardpitted product their kinder try to bite, lose a tooth on, in anger bombing the orbs at each other’s heads; their bodies to be laidout cold atop iced sprawls intersected with coils of barb, spurs of galvanized iron, scrapped tin, loosened slabs of rafter like ribs, the quarters of the surgeon, the enginehouse thistle, electric and steamplant, furnaces beyond toward the baths to be stoked with stacked wood, bagged coal, mountains high of excess brick, leftovers baked in the cloudless sun, fallen stones and shoring rocks, pallets of glass, plasticwrapped and tarped, readied for an installation forever postponed, reconstruction stalled, put off until the end of time, an overhaul overhauled, a maintenance neglected, forgotten worksite in wasted daylight, bereft by bureaucracy, beset by neglect and trash; grisly verdigris, caltrops of cable and wire, gaping shafts and moaning ducts, hoistways left open to dizzying tumbles, uncovered sewers to fall into and smash a last leg, guttergraves…

Inside it’s unlit, peeling plaster as if the rind of the walls, chairs broken without back or legs and so not really chairs but stools or just mushrooms wrought of wood and barnacled metal, crumbling drapes, shattered glass. Dorm beds, column after column of them, line the floor; the air above infused with the exhaust of their springs; bumcold radiators sheltering mice, shadowing their secretions, turdpellets like bedbugs crushed. Dreams, being the annulment of slights incurred by day, make for the rubble of rumbling night: the bedding stained in blood and cum, mosquito leech and that of unseasonal greenheads, pinched ticks and lice, piss and fecs, mucus, vomit; loneliness given the ceiling lies so high as to be sky, the walls tubercularly white, offbronchial, pearls in the lungs, breath, breathe, at least try to.

Then, a light suffuses, is sustained, fluorescence, the flicker of bulbs just as the sun begins its weary rise: slightness and slowness and torpor, the rise fall rise of respiration, guts, weight they’ll lose then die of their loss, igniting, illuminating the space amid snoozing sounds, cicadan snore, cricket stridulation as if in the summoning of smoke: this barracks room one massed breath, an industrial maw, opening, opened, its teeth leaning columns, bent and bowed columns, its gasps steaming stains on the walls bitter with humours and mold; bed after bed, ten-by-ten in ranks, ten-by-ten again, rows, of what are really upgraded cots, iron sag, rusted to give under slumber, green creak for the horny. And then, in the cots—they’re forms; in appearance only bedclothes stuffed with flesh, bledclothes, though with noses that peek above trims, mussed sheets, fake feather pillows, comforters of imitation down in the shape of people, cast in the shape of beds, concrete slabs they feel, immobile, corpsed dead as cement. An exhausted form twitches its feet, its toes, one two three, slowly, then three four five, individually one two three four five to prove he’s alive—to whom; that he’s separately willed, even special, as if singled from among this mass, leans toward the form directly to the left, the mensch, if we might judge by the bulge from under his sheets, his drunk and tented lust, the sexual clump, grapeleaved in fitted, flat. He grunts, then as if to say hello, to introduce himself he farts, a poof, a toot, is answered by that mensch neighboring, a response given upon permission, shameless, with another fart, this rip huge, Rrrrrrrip! an enormous sortie wet and thick, which tears a hole right out of his uniform pajamas, this sound echoed six beds down then maybe two over with another, is dueted with, a ffrrip, and yet another, pow, pow,—and—pow from opposite sides of the barracks, a barrage of miniexplosions, from cot to cot echoing against the corroded collapsing wet walls, stacked booms rocking the lower bunks, bucking the uppers, bombs from the rafters to incise there their own dark graffiti, signing a scatology’s name. How all this seems almost coordinated, prearranged, if you’re that species of paranoid, how couldn’t they be: Affiliated, neurotic, too; though if you’ve been strangely calm here, confident from the first or already resigned, then now appalled’s being contracted into the bargain, disgusted, given the very randomness of this rearending assault, such lack of control, this chaos—a cacophony of bursts and bops, of salvos percussive, sallies of bangs and syncopated, syncopating bings, in their fading sound, the foggy fade of their echoes, giving way to a host of hissy almost silent farts, some snakelike, others barking or crazily purring; flatulisms serving to both make a haze and, also, to pierce it, stifling even the smoke with its maker, the flame. Then, a rapid sweep coming down the aisles, boom boom baboom, the strafing of morning, machinegunned repeatrepeat, ratatat of fire that even if friendly seems no less dangerous or revolting: farts raising sheets, fitted, rising sheets, flat, bubbling covers, burbling blankets, in gastrointestinal whumps, lower tract lumps, milky eruptions, redeyed evacuations, pyloric blockages, buildups and then, explosion! p-pow! the glorified dorm reverberating in a rousing finale, rolled bodies corpsed on the floor, from forms picked clear up and off beds, shot spumed into air then slumped back down to bounce thud and sag, launches and falls selfpropelled, the trajectory of methane released, ricocheting ping and pop, cracks and snaps in a confusion, offtime, out of time, a dense swirl of emission, the barracks a hellish, burning pit, and then, as suddenly as all began, and cutting clarion through din and fog, there’s a siren, alarm…Reveille!—wake up! Boker both tov and or, rise and shine and give God more than your gases. Time to toss and turn, to rub, sit and stand, time to wake for those left alive, time to remember their dead: to live their wake in the mourning of mothers and fathers, of their sisters and brothers and cousins, first, second, third, aunts and uncles and who knows more removed, how half and inlaw, whoever that was, I’m not sure…survivors to noose themselves up to the rafters with linings of quilt and collar and cuff. Then, to stand upon the freezing floor of their barracks, to stand on their own two feet for a moment and imagine they’re not animals—to undress of pajamas, only to hide their nakednesses in the underwear and socks they’ve been supplied, too. Even as their family’s laid to rest on the floor of the ocean surrounding, submerged deep amid the numberless drops that star that lower sky, dead, diffuse—every single one and engaged one of them, each affianced and married one, each one widowed, widowered, twiceseparated and thrice-divorced, dead; all of them, that is, except these very menschs, those who were firstborn and still are, those of the inheritance, which is this and this only—this Island, this life; lining their ways, two-by-two, out to the baths, to stand under the showers and wash away their guilt and their dreams, which have been found guilty themselves.

What follows is unsure, from the shock, a reasoned excuse, the mourning, another—as scattered as shards of the gallon’s vessel shattered with the fullness of morning’s milky light that was God and still is, God Who is the vessel, too, though He be plastic and unshatterable, as He is everything and is full of everything, even Himself; glosses scribbled across history’s whitest holiday tablecloth, handwritten writ to be read aloud upon Mondays and Thursdays that are the Law’s second and fifth days of the week, to be debated offhand on the days between that will become as will they all the perpetual Sabbath, in arguments, also, at the table of Paradise, over a brunch of the crow that will be savored as sweet upon the coming of the Messiah and the resurrection of tongues. One source holds thusly. Other sources withhold. This is what’s known. Upon that Shabbos morning, early, Wanda upstairs and so absenting herself from the Underground’s emergency meeting goes, instead, to the kitchen to telephone every number of every person ever represented in what Hanna once called her Other Bible, which is to say her addressbook, overstuffed more than even the most obliging of vessels—delimited but dangerously, contained with clips, and with rubberbands wristed; at hand, the receiver, the phone’s mouthing ear.

It’s an emergency, Saturday desecrated only with the greatest respect. Book on the counter, it counters, how to begin. An immense tome, a testament to the availability of everyone that she, Hanna, had ever met, near met, was who knows how related to, sketchily, pencil under pen revising the margin, Hanna could’ve explained, during her relatively short span of whatever this was: marriage, daughters, son and then, death. Preparations. A volume painstakingly annotated, amended, addended, updated every lie of insomnia, every sit of amenorrhea, revised every turn atop the mattress from one side to the other with the both of them pregnant, with flux of residence, marriage/separation/divorce information (including info for the lawyers of each party, that of the lawyers of the lawyers, too, psychologists PhD, the shrinks of the shrinks, all their mothers and rabbis and yadda), work and offspring notations, appended with birthday, anniversarial, and other dates important to remember if impossible to and so the scrawl here, frenzied scratches made with the weak hand, maniacal blots and crossings, fades, it’s not the pen that remembers, it’s the ink, which is without form but voids, then goes as dry as a mouth open for sleep with her just scratching at the paper as if a knife into stone, looseleafed tablet inscribed with a wound; xreferenced and by memo reminded, additionally notated with every possible system, and any possible means, of getting in touch without truly touching, which is noted impure, many of them decades obsolete, many years. Too intensely large for any of the drawers of the unit countered by the frontdoor, it’s kept if unlocked in a safe, fireproofed, in the closet by that door and obscured by coats for the season, winter or summer depending.

Wanda’s managed to heft the mass atop the formica, to unbound it then open its pages to drift to the floor, which is wet from her rushing, above, Underground—where they’ve been plotting for hours before invisible dawn—filthy from ash and the butts of her cigarettes she now smokes inside with no one to ask her please don’t. Intending to ransack the A’s, to begin with the Adamses, whom Israel’d met at the Bar, at a function of the Inns of Court maybe, or, Hanna would’ve known: there’s probably an indicative abbreviation addressing that quandary herein—and then to work on south through the J’s and K’s to the Z’s, down at the end of the alphabet, where it’s warmer and the sun always shines, phoning everyone that strikes her as halfway Unaffiliated, and so none of those bergs and blatts, these steins or zweigs disconnected, out of service when, finally about to lift the receiver, manicured in the red of distress poised for the dial, the touching of tones, a low thrum zeroes through, a call incoming, and she who wouldn’t even begin to screen picks up, to answer it at pitch.

Hello, you have reached zee Izraelienz!

Alive whoever you are, call me back, will you? I hear the dead get good rates on longdistance.

Wanda dials the number as it appears on the screen for ID, and wouldn’t you know it, it’s PopPop, estranged father of Israel, resident of a world that came into being when God said Miami, it was.

Unlike his wife, who died years ago of some strain of neglect, he’s Affiliated, firstborn and so, a survivor.

Hello, you have reached, she says again when he says, About time!

No call for such snarl, she’s just exorcising instructions—Wanda with the cord coiled around her arm, a snake’s helix hissing its orders from beyond the grave that is silence.

Who, a boy, when was He born, He’s survived, how, no one else did, hymn, who am I, who are you…what’s the name, beautiful, Benjamin…nu, no problem, no problem whatsoever, I’m glad to, send Him on down, fine, that sounds great…make sure you lock everything up…do you know if they’ve left a will…guess I’ll have to find a new lawyer…Christ, just give me a call when you get here—then, we’ll talk about severance. Despite that he hadn’t known until presently of his SonSon’s existence, PopPop’s more than willing to assume responsibility, legal if not especially otherwise, for Him whose bris, which though never needed would never happen, PopPop wasn’t invited to, though he would’ve loved to attend or to’ve sent regrets only, an opportunity to stiff the parents on a gift, a check paid to the order of the happily bouncy, as he’d estranged himself from the family, or them from him: the flamboyant, wristflaunted homosexuality not as much the issue as an unwillingness to appreciate, or even respect, an observant life for his son—now Israel then John, according to some accounts, though others hold Jim, which was James. Affiliated’s one thing, nothing too aberrant about that, we don’t have a say in the matter, I am that I am, but observant, God…and then to think he’s presently dead, John Israel my boy, that he’d died for it, of it and me, what a messy martyrdom, from the rebirth that is conversion, who would’ve thought, that one’s blood could be changed by just a prayer, a bath of the glands and a—why’d he have to go get himself switched?

I myself had that surgery, but…

After they brunch on all that’s left in the basement fridge, leftovers intended last night—even suckling the sponges used to wipedown, then leaving the dishes, utensils, and plasticware stacked in the sink for either Adela or nobody, or else herself upon a successful return—Wanda piles Him into the landrover, Hanna’s: meaty black, chromed, and with the power of hundreds of machined horses, its loin of trunk slash backseat packed to obstruct the windows and mirrors with three changes of clothing in a garmentbag (Israel’s clothes, which Benjamin could only hope to ooze into, even if elasticized, Him, them or both, leave the bottommost button undone), and one outsized piece of luggage Ima & Aba had only ever taken with them once, to Palestein, early in the marriage, monogrammed HI and filled with assorted mementos mori nestled alongside a thermos of the juice of the grape. Photographs, birthcertificate, a fountainpen stuffed in a stocking. Wanda horseshoes out of the drive, onto the street, toward the risen sun then south, toward the Gatekeeper’s not yet beset with the blare of sirens (sweeps had begun in the cities, Developments would deal with their own until reserves could get themselves mobilized). As they approach the hut, Wanda begs an indulgence with a smile betraying, her nerve, nerves, her lips and caffeinatedly browned fallen teeth, the heart of the withered Keeper, too, who as if inspired by miracle or only listless, secularly depressed, raises the guardrail and lets her pass with Him hidingly pushed down to the floor of the landrover, to tongue at the mats, for crumbs of loose change.

Many hold this landroving a violation of the Sabbath and if so, what of it: mass death leaving only one infant survivor must satisfy the minimum requirement of an emergency. A situation, most rabbis would rule, to be immensely forgiven. The two of them sealed in together with climate heat Hi, radio locked on the frequency of the news with the volume knobbed way up past conversation, a hand gloves the wheel, the other grips a beverageless beverage holder as if to stay grounded. Out of Joysey, Turnpike south to I-95—the moment they hit the Florida stateline, smash, a dent past the weeping sign, Welcome To—The Sunshine State—No-Fault Divorce—it’s all weather…a snowflake, the ineffable first that falls that night into morning—Sunday, the day after the day that was Xmas—the first that’d fallen in Florida in the lifespan of anyone’s memory, stars their windshield, melts, trickles away into speed. As tradition, as unique and as fragile.

Mortal Beach (say it like you mean it, you know the accent), PopPop Israelien’s retirement facility: a skyscraping tower flanked by two low and white wings that host pools both indoor and out; hedging, wellkempt; the ocean teems just outside. They pull up the lazy drive ranked in palms rubbed together for warmth, then idle. An elderly, unseasonably polyester apparition stoops under a canopy sagging with snow. Him, he’s out of shaped, as if a genital cut into covenant—hung flaccidly, flagging like the form of the state they’re in, dysfunction. Wanda unlocks, helps Benjamin out, approaches with caution, with nothing to say, burdens the luggage about His shoulders and arms with no help from His grandfather, if that’s who he is, who must be when he takes from the pocket of his polyester the rent he’d shylocked last week, a jealous wad, rips from it what feels less than half, best I can do then presses its stack into the palm of the woman to mingle their shvitz: Wanda who refuses at first, as she’d been conditioned, but then, he pushes, understanding the ritual yet hoping for a final refusal, and now and as if a denial or two too early and quickly, Wanda accepts, stuffs the mess down into her dress to lump her another breast between the two that are already abundant, kisses Benjamin distractedly, with only one lip on the fat lip of His forehead, withdraws, hauls herself back into the idling rover, out and through the lot then down the lower drive; slowly going so as to avoid the bodies arrayed, stacked by numbers, floor then unit, corpses asphalted and ready for pickup, under the circling and perch of harbinger birds.

Polaks, PopPop sighs, waving a fist in her wake.

And then, turning to consider Benjamin, raising his voice—don’t slouch, stand straight, chins up, don’t forget to breathe; as the lesser of our prophets advise, enjoy it while it lasts.

A week’s vacation begins with a game, chess, the rules PopPop’s, those of the house, the loser to pay for the delivery they’re expecting, any moment. Miso pepperoni. A large pie topped with anchovy sushi. Carbohydrate with extra cheese. Languorous lo mein. And so he goes easy on Him, slow but not too: there’s no blitz, no other nefarious gambit with three moves to check, four to mate; PopPop relaxing, even offering Him to play white.

In this life, the rules are so seldom explained.

Here, the hope’s to safeguard the King, to protect him no matter the price, even that of the Queen whose room He has, MomMom’s—always and early: pieces are introduced, sent out to allow in the air, pawns like the princes in fairytales He’s never been told, set out into the world in which to find for us their fortunes; then the King, He should shuffle inside, Castling, slamming the heavy door to every heart along the hallway, narrowly longing: needing His solitude, such majestic room or space, crown removed, tarnished, flaking leaf to the ore, only to be cornered in a cloaking nightshirt, gnawing at His nails—thou shalt not removeth thy hand from thy piece…

In Miami, everything exists for Him, even PopPop, who calls Benjamin accordingly: King, the address if he’s angry; more usually he’ll go with your Majesty, in a mocking, patronizing lisp: as in, would your Majesty like to eat now or in an hour, then a smirk, it’s time for your Majesty’s shower or bath, has your Majesty finished His chores, cleaning, sweeping, rag and sponge, time for linner your Majesty, time for your dunch, has your Majesty yet scrubbed His teeth, flossed with the mouthwash, did you forget, it’s your Majesty’s bedtime—or, hours past, which means they’re still playing, the only activity allowing Him to know late, the midnight quirks of the fridge, the toilet tank gurgitation, what bulbs’ve gone out that PopPop’s never replaced because, don’t worry, he’ll tell you, your move.

What PopPop wants to move against: the way Benjamin dawdles a pawn between thumb and forefinger, padding it around, rolling as if snot, pickypaddyrolly, juvenile habits with His tush poorly wiped, though PopPop’s replaced the toilet tissue after each meal already, and there’ve been many; He’ll pottytrain on His own, don’t expect an old mensch who needs changing himself to change Him. The stick, though, isn’t from the tush, or the incontinent nose, rather from the mouth, muncharrheac, His uninhibited snacking during play, eating from the endtable opposite the table of beginnings, of openings, feints, the defense of offense, laden with all sorts of treats, goodies left untouched for maybe three decades, through no less than six moves in residence, sweet-meats, even those sorry kisses they’ve got infused with liqueur, all trayed there treyf probably and only once in an early spontaneous fit of the domestic by PopPop’s late wife, His MomMom: white piece fructified with wishniak candied brilliant, schmeared in nutty fudge, Shoreside saltwater taffy, glopped with grease mandelbrot macaroon; Him swallowing between thoughts as they PopPop says, Kibitz, kvell, kvetch, and schmooze through their game giving way to games, midmove accusations, recants, recounts, and recriminations, though as if suddenly scrupled PopPop throughout avoids talk of His parents, reserving that, thoughtfully, for the breaks between.

When I first met your MomMom, it was only two weeks before her own father would pass—could’ve been Affiliated for what I knew of him, never met him, I wouldn’t have wanted to, even she’d said it was her meeting me and wanting to marry me that killed him…MomMom Israelien, then, as Unaffiliated as it gets, ScotsIrish Assembly of God trash come down with a bad case of the Christ, infected with the Ozark gene, milked on the water of the Arkansas River, had herself died last year on the first night of Hanukah, of cancer of the heart, angiosarcoma and from there, Israel’s concern—not that any of this saddened PopPop, even mattered to him who’d only married her for her to marry not only him but his hidden self, too, as a front for his true sexual orient, which was that he liked people like him (he would’ve married himself or his mirror were that legal, if that would’ve taxwise made sense); and her, she’d married him only because no one else would, or so she had thought, marry her, what with her hunch and the scrunch of her nose and the balding head and the crows that nested under her eyes that loosed their turds to her tongue, which always hung from her mouth, and panted and reeked. Her, she’d never done chess with him, couldn’t, was too dumb or just said she was, thought the pawns just other sampler yummies in attractive presentation, noshables she’d forgotten she’d put out when and for whom, and so this, so enjoyed—the first game PopPop Israelien’s played against anyone other than himself since the advent of his marriage, not even Arschstrong.

Here, Miami of all places, a revelation upon receded land, tribal Miami that’d emerged from the backwater at this nowhere that’s been called Okeydokey, or maybe Suckywayoungy (something or other surely unpronounceable, how do those feathervoiced natives do it?)—with the true indigenous of this city, of this country entire, vomited up from that river only later named for a saint who’d been the husband of the virgin that she gave birth in the manger; each having to cling to a frond of a palmtree to keep from drowning at the dawn of their time—here, the wine thinned out, came watered down, the beard grew back into the face, the nose was absorbed, the foreskin grew out from the shaft. Prior to the tragedy that’d occurred on the anniversary of the day that that virgin gave birth, many had thought that intermarriage, which is the marrying between different peoples, races, religions, would destroy the Affiliated, diluting the blood with another bodily fluid. But, as our scholars remind us, since the blood of the dead has always been transmitted through the mother, at least according to the Law theirs and ours, it’s in truth impossible to sex us out of our birthright, no longer chosen. Though PopPop, being a firstborn, and so a survivor, had been born Affiliated, he’d married later in life Unaffiliated, and so though their son, His father, Israel, was not born Affiliated, was not even born Israel, it’s said, he’d become converted, perhaps unnecessarily though unforced and so—it’s your move, PopPop says, yours; his paternal grandfather, he cheated often, had bishops up his sleeve, you had to watch him, keep him talking, you took your hand off the piece. His MomMom, PopPop’s wife native to a mother whose preacher’s preacher’s preacher had been exiled out to mission her hometown of Lamed, Kansas—or so hold other scholars among us—she’d never thought why to switch sides; PopPop’d never asked, never wanted to ask or wanted her to, in truth he liked her Unaffiliated, held his own Affiliation over her, that dumb, ignorant, uglyilliterate bitch, I loved her, I didn’t, why should she have converted, even if he’d asked her to, it made him feel more who he was, which felt good, even after their son, their only though he wasn’t born Affiliated and so couldn’t survive as firstborn once converted in at least half his blood, had married out, or married in, and which was it exactly—a topic, Is’ decision, not entirely out in the open with his mother, His MomMom, who’d been disappointed, though she wouldn’t complain when they talked, which was never; anyway, His grandfather didn’t like to remember her, alright, and Whose bed am I sleeping in? Did you ever sleep with her in it? and If you did, did the two of you ever pillowtalk about my father? aren’t questions you ask a mensch as old as PopPop, especially if he’s your only living relative, angry, and naked except for a pink robe, ever loosening, with a sash blue & white trimmed in a bloom of lace thorns. Better to keep quiet, sit straight at the board, chins up and take in your surroundings before you’re beaten, and delivery has to be paid for: PopPop’s unit a shvitzshop with its shades down, the heat turned all the way up against the exterior nip; who knew from winterized, that the heating ever worked here. Interiorly, the carpeting covered with samples of other carpet in clashing colors, walls yellowed with pipesmoke except white in the shape where a crucifix hung until the death of His MomMom, the pale patch seeming like the complexion of a clothed, unexposed body, basking out on the wide holy beach just outside. An uncountenanced emptiness hanging over the table on which they match their play to stalemate. Then, the bell rings, and they ignore it as it might only be their deliveryboychick, returning after his shift for the tip they’d purposefully forgotten.

PopPop takes out his teeth, spits on them, rubs them shined on a sleeve of his robe, shuffles to the kitchen then returns with an alternative, puddings, a delicacy of the Mixed Kitchen, the specialty of an alien house; a neutral foodstuff this linnerless or undunched option, the favorite dish of the Unaffiliated and those, too, with dentures of any persuasion: pareved without ethnicity as it’s become, institutionally, the chosen sustenance of the elderly, the geriatric without mind or the stomach with which to digest implications of nationality, race, or religion. PopPop favored pudding, the more jiggling the better, and concocted it well, its recipe no miraculous secret, you just have to ask, though its vital ingredient you wouldn’t expect.

They’re Nest Eggs; white ellipticals washing up on the shoreline since last-last-Xmas—at least, that’s when they first were noticed, or initially reported, three years ago now—amazingly white rounds, almost geological, waved in to rest upon gently sloping, surely endangered dunes: seeming, too, like supersized disembodied teeth, artificially whitened, set in sunken gums of sand, for a while the phenomenon was suspected a savvy advertising scheme on the part of a statewide dentistry franchise, which suspicion has since been allayed as the owners of said franchise died, this Xmas Eve, and the ovoids kept washing up, apparently innocent of ploy; a handful of local Injuns had been spreading rumors of them as ominous if hackneyed omens, cryptoSeminoles casting them mailorder to the interior for an old doublesawbuck, shipping also overseas at a profit not insignificant; select restaurants and participating retail outlets throughout panhandle and Gulfside Florida had begun accepting them in lieu of cash, credit, paper, or plastic; and many began to worship these odd ova, which emanated a strangely cinematic, lowbudgeted luminescence under sufficient strength of overhead fluorescence: enough to tan, not enough to make accompanying toast; they became ensconced on dashboards, as hood ornaments; largebreasted, thicknecked women wore them in silver settings around their necks; the athletically inclined jogged with one in each hand to enhance the effects of their morning workouts; meanwhile, environmentalists were out scooping them up, gathering them in deep, widemeshed nets; every once in a while a volunteer occupied untangling seaweed from a net would break one underfoot, to a flow viscous, noisome—they seemed to be a species of allyolk egg, which subsequent laboratory tests inconclusively confirmed, identifying them as Nest Eggs, after some janitor in a hot labcoat came up with the name; and one, which as the circumferentially biggest yet found had been taken to University of Miami Medical for experimentation, after a period of tepid incubation hatched a previously unknown species of snowbird, which was immediately determined nonkosher, slaughtered then barbecued to refresh a faculty banquet. Three Nest Eggs, stacked in a glass, cracked on its rim, then poured out into another glass, the preferred nightcaps of PopPop Israelien: he drank them before bed, ate them in omelets in the morning—with diverse species of mushrooms, onions, peppers, as equal opportunity cheeses as his lower tract could allow—fried them for a snack, hardboiled them, sliced, diced, then mixed them into an undressed salad in the afternoon, poached them for a snack, scrambled, or sunnysided them up in the evening, used Nest Eggs in eggnog, too, this being the season, and of course in the omnicourse dessert he serves himself, the pudding. Monday through Saturday, this was his sustenance, but every Sunday since he and his wife had retired here, the days of her death and Benjamin’s arrival included, PopPop brunched in a buffet, alone, the Restaurant Under the Sign of the Imperfectly Toned Pectorals its name, liningup always at nine sharp and waving a vellum swath resplendent with Habsburgian seals, shrieking indignant theft at the expectant waitstaff.

His weekly dispute, you understand, was over the sun, parching premeditated arson over the openair diningarea. PopPop Israelien owned the sun, if you’re following, he tells Benjamin between pudding mouthfuls, having purchased it from its former owner—a local greyhound breeder with whom he’d often shared a card of onehanded B – I – N – G – O—with goddamn near his entire savings, having signed the papers a day after his retirement (MomMom had almost died upon receiving the news: from that day, her cancer, Israel’d thought, the slow sunning to Malignantville, FL, Cemetery County, the dead’s exurbanized plot), the sun the only property in his portfolio, his sole investment, and due to the ever over and over again difficulties as explained to the manager—who was apparently not deaf, despite the impudent buzzing of his cochlear implant—the impractical exigencies of keeping track of just who exactly uses the sun, for what purpose, with what intensity, beginning when and for how long during what season because rates always change, PopPop explaining to Him now, he’d decided to extort payment from here and here only, having been successful only this past week, and what a stunner, though what with the late weather who knows how long it’ll last.

I’m telling you for the last time, PopPop’s telling him the Manager for the last time that Sunday, you need to get out from under my sun; you’re stealing my light, my heat, and I’ve asked of you virtually nothing, zip, nada, I was willing to go as low as what, $10 a month, ten dollars, know what it set me back, much more than that, I’ll tell you, listen, my son…

Please, Mister Israelien, the Manager’s shivering under the property in dispute, we all know your son’s a lawyer, we’ve discussed this matter with him on a number of occasions; now, allow me to apologize for any inconvenience.

We’ve just recently agreed with him to rent your sun for the sum of $8/month, we think this fair, overcast or not, eclipses we’ll deal, and we hope you’ll agree; we’re prepared to pay today for January, and will pay for every month within a week of its first. In return, we’ll have unlimited usage; no rays attached, if you will; you’ll not hassle us anymore, do we have an understanding? and PopPop adds up the figures tattooed on the mensch’s arm, asks him let’s shake.

I’ll need a month’s security deposit, and two months up front…

The manager shuts eyes, grinds lids, says, you’re very fair, Mister Israelien, then shakes his cuff as PopPop’s a bissel too afraid of the germs, and this with a Health Inspection last Monday, then leaves him for the kitchen to telephone the son, Israel, to finalize the terms of his payment, to be remitted in full to the restaurant midmonth ($18), payment—eight dollars, ten to the restaurant for its trouble—to be transferred to the account of the son’s estranged father a week later; please, the manager’s asking the lawyer who just last year cleared himself a competent million, I’d prefer a bank check, you understand. And though Israel’d thought about taking a percentage for himself, Hanna she, forget it.

Limply limbed through the buffetline, PopPop rests his tray at his regular table, outside though shaded and even in this winter they’re having, to partake with a slow deliberation that would be laudable if it wasn’t excruciating, not manners but their vigilant, overdone caricature: he remains erect, firm, silent, disciplined. He esses like the Kaiser must’ve, perfectly, a fressing annoying in the extremity of its decorum, its stateliness and the force of its grace, his posture as if he isn’t indulging with a spoon but is rather sitting on one, and deep, jutting up his gape and into him to scoop out all the inside nervousness, impatience, Weltschmerz and its American stress, the disapproving pain of its stick and the bowl of his bowel perhaps actually enabling the outer serenity, the set face under which his napkin remains immaculate throughout, unto even the postprandial, tucked meticulously under chin and over collar, further protected by the fork and knife he’s using and though recently unmatched plastic at this establishment he’s so enthused with his rental he almost doesn’t notice, just remembers to tip less, and ignores, too, the interior decorating just beyond, the chintz on the cheap with the mirrors, the lights and the Polynesian thatch, the tiki torches and hula luau lei, preferring instead the gustatory setting of his own increasingly senile mind: stags’ heads, alpine appointments, huntinglodge surroundings, fluted stemware, bone china. Wrapped in reverie as if for mental takeout, he’s handling his whitely tined pretensions to silver, slicing and scooping away as if to pristinate plate, as pure as his conscience and cold, a disc plastic itself, and probably inadequately washed, then attempting in the interest of kinder starving in nations darker, unsunned, even the garnishes slit into flowers that bloom like malicious vaginas, magically metamorphosed sexbidextrous swans, prior to reclining—though only after a final faint swipe of his lips—then lighting up an imported cigar banded in gold to lip rings of smoke to the least heaven of umbrella, whose shadow has been sponsored, apparently, by a maker of popular water.

PopPop’s Pop had inadvertently immigrated Here while on a research trip organized at the request of an Archduke Tungteufel, to study the skulls of famed jazz musicians up in Harlem, New York, to determine the phrenological similarities amongst shvartzes of various nationalities, to account for any effect on interpretation, and swing: I spent all my time up there on 125th Straße, hanging around the Apollonian Temple, he’d reminisce to no one, handing nothing down from Pop to PopPop, God! you wouldn’t believe how they bopped! Alternative sexuality seemingly in the family, PopPop the Elder, PopPop’s Pop, would become infatuated with a saxophonist with a pate as smooth as his altissimo: one verse/two choruses later, instead of following him west for three onenighters and a recording date, he had an epiphany of guilt as PopPop describes it, left the shvartze at the train station, went back to his own ghetto that was Manhattan’s Downtown and began to court an Affiliatedess, the daughter of an innovative insurance salesmensch who kept office on the first floor of the tenement in which he would room.

Long story short is that this here insurance salesmensch, PopPop’s Pop’s possible, potential father-inlaw, was “one of those people”—Affiliated; one of their prototypical genii as stereotyped in a variety of media you’ll one day become beholden to, PopPop says to Benjamin, such typecast perpetuated through the ever efficient agencies of history, most notable of which a lasting disposition toward oppression of the race, or religion, which has proved to seed only greater generations, and yadda. According to PopPop talking over His head to the wall hung with samplers and framed photographs of himself and his wife with his face scissored out and hers facialhaired with marker, this mensch sold insurance of all kinds: conception insurance, circumcision insurance, spiltmilk insurance, walking insurance, talking insurance, O how that mensch could talk! untied shoelace insurance, cowlick insurance, friendlessness insurance, virginity insurance, spousal insurance, anticonception insurance, mortgage insurance, unemployment insurance, alcohol insurance, sobriety insurance, child insurance, second child insurance, loss of faith in major religion insurance, undercooked linner/dunch insurance, breastcancer insurance, breastcancer remission insurance, secondmortgage insurance, impotence insurance, migraine insurance, ingrowntoenail insurance, grandson insurance, second grandson insurance, forgotten anniversary insurance, un-flattering shade of hairdye insurance (if purchased at selected retailers, as it’s disclaimed), weightgain insurance, weight then heightloss insurance, hairloss insurance, livercancer insurance, kidneyfailure insurance, rabbi’s (inappropriate) eulogy insurance, inexistent afterlife insurance, and don’t forget his most popular—insurance against insurance; making himself a sizable fortune off the weekend Apocalyptics, hypochondriacs, obsessive/compulsives, neurotics, and undifferentiated spastics known even then to inhabit the New York metropolitan area.

But getting back to what I was getting at earlier: PopPop says his Pop had been this insurance salesmensch’s first customer—I’m not just a prospective inlaw, I’m a client…though as such a trifle of the failure, too, as it wasn’t originally for any coverage he’d come. He’d flopped in fishily wet from the peddling, cartconcerned street in the first minute of the first hour of their third grand opening—an easy occasion for bunting, a common scheme of the desperate proprietor—and asked the insurance salesmensch’s wife mensching the register (her husband out selling marital insurance to his sister-in-law), maybe you have a room available, upstairs…to that effect and then, recognizing what he thought was a fellow grant whether immi or emi, asked along the lines of, how long have you been here for, you, I mean, Here? a question that could only perplex PopPop’s Pop’s maybe, could’ve been, mother-inlaw, as the Affiliated of her line had been Here for so very long that they weren’t able to recollect when, exactly, they’d first arrived on these shores, from where and how, forget why: were they Mayflower stowaways? a cabin of Columbus’ Marranos? and how he then, blah blah blah asked her daughter whichever one of them to marry him and they both asked him what did he do, translation: how much money he made, then spit in his eye—she, the first Affiliated he’d tried to be with, the last; he went and bought sexual orientation insurance off the obliging father returned, then a week later met an orphaned I think Sicilian with a suggestive gap in his teeth, he wasn’t so into resistance…

Emigrate, PopPop says, you emigrate if you love it Here.

Immigrate, he says again, you immigrate if you hate it There.

You have to admit, it’s not so bad.

PopPop asks, Who would rather go back? And then you realize, he’s talking about New York.

It’s this. PopPop’s the worst kind of retiree, without kindness: he was of the type who felt they’d earned their retirement, who didn’t have the respect to die just yet, with dignity, without; who didn’t understand that you worked your entire life for this death, not to do nothing, to retire, recede, give up, which you should’ve done to begin with; one of those who felt entitled to something, anything, though they weren’t quite sure what, the world owing him a living, him owing the world nothing much anymore; the author of interminable letters to the editors of major metropolitan newspapers, he’d labor meticulously over petitions, product failure screeds, signing everything Spinoza; filled days in with the regions of service assessment surveys, answered any and all questions invariably nightly and in agonizing detail in telemarketing interviews—that, and Benjamin never knew what to believe: according to PopPop himself, an academic formerly associated with a halfway respectable (small, private, northeastern) university that should remain nameless if we don’t want to get sued, though later little more than an adjunct, a lowly untenured professor, the Administration even refusing him the sanctuary of a department—and that’s only what he told people, especially when they didn’t ask. A mensch of no degree save the Third, he’d purportedly taught a semester of Practical Eugenics (its prerequisite being Sterilization & You 101), and one elective (Antfarming for Fun & Profit), before the deans realized he wasn’t accredited for any of these responsibilities, summarily redirected him to the dept. of Nostalgia, or so one colleague had named the shadow faculty that nonetheless maintained offices on a bench way offcampus. Which was why he’d had to get the artificial toes he’d remove each night after pudding dessert, as one evening up north, locked out of a meeting, locked out of every university building, he’d slept on that bench, then contracted frostbite—that’s what you get for signing a pizza box, without showing it first to a lawyer—the next day his toes had to be amputated; still, he wore his sandals religiously, out of an abject phobia of having his shoelaces tied together: his toeplug of vulcanized rubber, fitted snugly to that pedestrian void, would lie each evening on the nightstand, alongside his dentures in their effervescence, to be scrubbed both immaculately by a spare toothbrush next morning and so, yes, hahafutzingha, and he finds it very funny himself, when he remembers, that he would often get mixed up, senior mistakes, the onset of dementia, mind mumblingly numb—he’d often put his foot in his mouth, but not as much as he’d put his mouth in his foot, chewing Benjamin’s tush for just about everything.

A pleasant disciplinarian, PopPop, disposed to random fits of overbearing affection verging on emotional abuse.

In your Majesty’s room, though, He’s safe: MomMom’s old preserve (her and PopPop’d slept separately ever since Arschstrong took the eastern corner of the floor just below), filled to its trim of oceana green with novelties exclusively MomMom, kitsch like thimbles hewn from pewter, porcelain owls with fake emeralds glittery for eyes, fortunes from Oriental restaurants tacked to emery in any order of desirability—a schedule for the fulfillment of dreams. This is home if only for a week, one rotation of the wheel PopPop’s nailed to the door to the room, which flimsy paper would rotate according to the day of the week to one of seven vectors of its circle, each adumbrating responsibilities expected fulfilled at His leisure, chores to complete: clear table, clean sink’s toilet, broom and mop the floors, your Majesty; declutter gutters and weed the mail; anytime prior to bed, which is now.

Here only long enough for this barely to’ve become ritual: Benjamin tucked in with PopPop sitting at bed’s edge for their dedicated hour of skullshaping (His uppermost still as soft as PopPop’s own low head is hard)—an ordeal erotic, leaving Him distraught, dizzied audience for the story PopPop would tell, followed by the silence of the nightly Shema, noticeably unwhispered. Then, PopPop to retire a limp off to his room, offlimits, to pack his dead wife’s personals; only now, a year later, moved out from her room to make room for Him: girlishly untouched saddleshoes, bobbysocks, poodling skirts, even her weddingdress that she’d sewn herself from a magazined pattern, then mothballed and tied in necklaces faux pearl and gold, lying all the other jewelry fake out atop pillows, a flaky substance passing for diamond, costumed cubic zirconia, moissanite, not so sterling silver, pseudoSwarowski and Tiffany imitations, being charitable donations, and verily, PopPop understands, elated further, it’s all taxdeductible.

A longing twilight, with relations sundered, together only in that they’re alone—after the tempered happiness, the disapproval of day, an unblinking moon, arched eyebrows of cloud…this, a memory of that ceremonial strangeness, the ritual off, which would almost ruin such promise, their vows, put a damper on incipient bliss, its bounty eternal: the bride carried in, the door shut after its holding uniform’s tipped in splurging style, lavishly absurd in its shame; this tasteless as tastefully underlit room as expensive as happiness always is, this milk and honeymooning who could afford, and who couldn’t? Benjamin had had enough of this side of the family, Israel’s people and their Affiliated menschs, their slumming marriages, their goyishe lusts, His PopPop having married out of the tribe, His MomMom’s mother and her mothers, their mothers before them and blah, all having married an alien kind: how they loved stuff like this, they lived for it, demanded to be spent on, and their menschs were spent, paying topdollar for luxury, bankrupting themselves to be pampered, degraded by class.

His mother’s people, Hanna’s, they were that whole different story, the dialectical spiel; He never knew them, they died too long ago before they would’ve died for all time; it was cancer, too, of the wallet, of the pocket, it had to’ve been, whichever was cheaper to die of…

It’d been a mania for intermarriage that’d afflicted untold generations of Benjamin’s family: Benjamin on His mother’s side simply the product of untold generations of Affiliated women who without fail had married the Unaffiliated, and had verily reproduced with them, and so, in terms of the Law, their offspring would be Affiliated, would’ve been, though not many households were as monogamously observant—religionwise, and especially leaning to the wife’s Affiliation—as was Benjamin’s and would be still, only if. All these goyim, these goyishe monsters of prick and pride attracted to Affiliated women, gonifs with their loves and lust for darkhaired darkheiresses, breastcrowned lusciously, princesses if not queens. Benjamin’s father, Unaffiliated—born, later converted, the first—Benjamin’s mother’s father, Hanna’s, Unaffiliated, check, check, probably sundering unto the first Unaffiliated, Adam, whose second wife seems to’ve been the first Affiliated Mother herself, and how to explain, calling her Cain inside for a piece fruit, very funny. Darkeyed, darker skin, or maybe just maybe degree of endogamy dependant so pale, demure, modest modestum in their natural habitat—in winter the mall, in summer the stripmall—often to be found in their long sleeves and skirts, a secret fetish this ritualwear, dressed down to their white sneaks shomering home on the Shabbos from shul: these women, these girls, daughters ghettowilling, shtupshy. And the goyim they end up with, even worse, dripping smegma from their every pore sebaceous, obsessed with fantasies of the right shoppingbags for breasts, a thickening neck hung with heavy amber jewelry, of women thicklipped, too, frizzyheaded, between their thighs egregriously burning Flatbushes to consume, consume, consume without ever consuming…O these dyed-in-the-lamb’s-wool-maydels—preferring the savor of unkosher salami, treyf schlong, endless unskinned lengths forced through golden doors, a Chosen Peephole through which to taste, sniff, or ogle: the throb of shaigetzes, each to their own specialized lusts, unholy desires but out also to ascend angelic ladders, social and business both; and so union after separation, love sacrificed to lust, new Unaffiliateds kept on being introduced into the line, water to wine, water to wine, and still any offspring, abracadabra, would be Affiliated, thanks Mom, as long as you’re holding the—lessening—line, how’s dad?

Tell him I say what’s up!

It wasn’t what’d transpired the last three months of engagement, or during the six months prior, which her parents weren’t aware of, anyway; it wasn’t even the audacity of the two of them, or the invitations into my home, how her mother had put it, he was a guest in my house, ate my food off my plates, drank from my glasses then my daughter, it wasn’t even the pigheadedness of his parents, how they’d never understand that, that, her mother had said, even she understood, it wasn’t even that he’d asked her, or that she’d ever accepted, or that she—mother, hers—had attempted then out of ritual obligation to stick her greased head into an oven preheated to the temperature of the last war, or that they actually went through with it, wasn’t even the wedding itself, or that she looked, again her mother, sooooooo gorgeous, it wasn’t even the possibility of an entire life together, lives, entire futzed generations exploding forth from one lone smashing of want against need; wasn’t even that night or what was to happen that night, she’s an adult now and yadda, she has to make her own decisions, her own decisions to make her—no, it was most perfectly that that was made that night, the result, the issue that irked; it was, very simply, the Kid. That’s how He, every he in His family—the sprout of an estranged seed, watered with a mixed drink—that’s how they were talked about, if only initially, until they, too, could talk, consciousness with a creditcard, platinumplus and the silence around you it buys: the Kid, the Kind, and just for the sake of argument, devil’s advocate and with what he’s charging I want you should forget about the fathers before, they who’d been born pure, you introduce a foreign element and, nu—what about the Kid, think about the Kid; they even thought themselves mature enough to kid around about it, the whole process, secretly thinking it an instantaneous evolution is what she did, him, also, doubtless, with regard to himself, a next rung on the ladder, ascended just like that, snap! and she’d snap her fingers, just like that! and he’d the goyim say guffaw, nudge her with an elbow recently moisturized and joke, I last longer than that, don’t I, then who knows, she might even in her laughing at him, beside him, feel enough of a new person herself to attempt a guffaw of her own, whatever that is and right along with him, that’s how they’d survived; and this is every woman, every marriage down the Senior line until now, after those twelve, this surviving, fullsized thirteenth—the litany Hanna and Israel could recite in their sleeps, which had always been without trouble, ergonomically sound.

It’s that violation all over again, older than ancient, the rendering of a sacrifice impure, marking it as illegitimate, a sanctuary defiled, Jerusalem forsaken and the Temple in ruins: her ovum being a Holy of Holies…and, inside her, tailspun moments after, she’s slumped, elbowkneed on the honeymoon suite’s tremendous toilet, he’s sprawled already halfway to the somatic Edenic, that’s when the encounter occurred, the illicit approach, solicitation repine, wormy rape: a burrowing, a burial if only of hope; when the sperm, always lazy, fat, and most probably Polish in origin, meets the smart, moral, and altogether perfect perfectionist egg. How it happens, hymn…he knocks on her door, of the house she’d lived in as a girl, this someone he’s selling something and she doesn’t know from what how would she, innocent as she is, she’s not even home, she’s away with her parents down the Shore, themepark Florida, or Jerusalem; or maybe she is home, and there locked in her room—a fantastic instance that most assuredly must remain Apocryphal—and she’s unable to move, to react, as this who does he think he is, whoever the gehenna, however he was raised—and it’s most definitely a he, she knows by how he knocks paw, then tries the bell, the key under the mat he thinks for once and for once the schmuck’s right, the knob, he lets himself in, and this putz, he makes himself mamzer at home: feet up on the furniture, drinking wholemilk, from where, not in my house, straight from the gallon, the sofatuber, he watches the screen until late, later than her parents ever let her watch, and unspeakable shows she’d never been allowed to know existed; and then what does he do, he stays, and she in her locked room can’t help it, she falls asleep, how long, 12:00blink12:00blinkclockradioalarm then the frontdoor, slam, wakes her up, someone’s leaving but it’s not the same someone expected; no, it’s someone else, someone who looks, acts, talks, and thinks, and everything else—though she has no way of knowing this—exactly halfway between the first someone and herself, and there’s this Thing, this odd weirdness between us, like what’s the weight, the word that it weighs on your tongue, guilt: she admits, confesses, begs…has done something wrong, realizes, a sin unmitigatingly mortal, she let something happen, the same as having made something happen, having remained silent, she’s responsible any way it’s minced to finish and the frontdoor, it’s locked eternally now from the outside, she’s helpless, absolutely goddamned helpless and shrieking for succor, You’re mine, you’re mine, you’remine—and the entire house’s settling in its foundations as if it’s laughing gut, for twenty, thirty, forty years until it’s all paid off, a divorce from the mortgage, a life agonizingly amortized of sin, having aged unattractively and unable to flirt anymore if ever she was she’s still sitting, here on the couch and drinking a from the mix Bloody Mary, talking her new nose to a throwpillow: I didn’t make a mistake, I loved him, that was all that mattered, wasn’t it, we’d planned it out beforehand, went to therapy diligently something like three times a week, four in the summer, isn’t that enough, that two people love one another, mature, it’s not like we ever futzed around on each other, or anything—to throw that pillow across the room set with sectionals, and resume her harangue to the pillow underneath, enumerating all her misses, her nears: I should’ve married Gary, Harry, Larry, he was always, we once, I ever tell you about the time he took me to supper and a show in New York, night he stole his parent’s…and eventually say three or so, with the light of the screen givingout the lachrymal evangel, its pledgedrive to benefit only those with love but none of her homes, clothes, without food or drink, she manages and with a swizzlestick stuck obscenely to passout, a life and even its dreaming—preempted…with storyhour over, unprayered, it’s time to go to sleep, Benjamin, will you?

Tell us another story, just one more.

You want another, sighing phlegmish pudding, an urge to smoke—don’t you know they’re all the same?

PopPop, Grandpaw Senior, whoever you are, one more…

Alright, then you sleep, just one last:

This Is The Story, says PopPop in a yuck yuck yabber, impersonating a foreign voice, as if that of Benjamin’s grandfather, His other whom neither of them knew, Hanna’s father Senior who’d died so long ago, of which war’s cancer forgotten—with MomMom’s crucifix swaying from his neck on a chain of seaweed, him the already caricature consanguine doing this goofy goy impression (perfected against the imagined model of all his late wife’s late forefathers), applauding his hands in mock frothy excitement, as he says, Of The Lumbering Dumb Sperm, & The Intelligent Petite Ovum:

Once upon a time, it begins in a land between your Mother’s legs and your Grandmother’s legs, and between the legs of her Mother and her Grandmother and her Mother and her Grandmother before that crotch, yadda, there was a Lumbering Dumb Sperm named Lud, no, let’s say for argument’s sake Mamzer who he’d wandered far from home in search of his fortune.

But where was his home, you ask?

Okay, in the far ’n’ widehanging testes of this terrible Oaf who roamed the dark dense pubic forest of a nameless kingless kingdom, it might’ve been Podunk for all we know, the wrong side of the tracks. And this Mamzer Sperm, he whistled a simple tune: tweet tweet tweet t’tweet, then said to himself in a language more like grunting that he the dumb schmuck thought meant something, it’s such a goddamned wonderful day! let’s wander into that sunny patch of the forest over there and find something to destroy! and so he did—tweet tweet tweet t’tweet!—and soon beheld through the trees an open grassy field up ahead so calm and so peaceful and so wandered there, and met an Intelligent Petite Ovum, an IPO known as Mazel, not a girl’s name, so sue me in your dreams…and then what you ask? I’ll tell you the rest tomorrow, my boy.

That, or the tale of Rumpleforeskin.

For now, get your rest, make a schlaf.

At least tell me what happens next, you say?

Alright, fine…a reversion to normally nasal lisp: the long story short’s that Mamzer, he rescues Mazel from Mazel’s wellmeaning but at times okay could be overbearing father—a King of Kings, really, and takes her away to an even more terrible third kingdom who knew even existed, it’s named Exile—in which no one invites them to lavish parties without at least a slight degree of wariness…you happy?

As habit evolved over the years, three of them of repeated instruction from Hanna reiterated again and again whenever they’d go on vacation, family or just the two of them, even away just for the weekend, which opportunity had been getting rarer as Israel’d work longer and harder for more money who’d ever spend (retirement might’ve meant death at his desk), Wanda’s locked triply and doubly checked all the doors, front, back, and basement, the two doors per porch interior, ex, the four deckdoors, too, had locked all the windows then let down the blinds, pulled curtains, timed lights set like alarms—her purpose, to preserve anything Benjamin might inherit, after her, and her own, as the Underground’s planning to repossess everything in One Thousand Cedars’ bracket, to ingather its lode to the Hall of Domestics, to house it there until its sale as a single lot to a fence as yet elusive, woody or wiry, going through the interview process, getting screened, prior to any dispersal, mass exodus into greater America, evading the authorities of Immigration, Naturalization, and the retribution of a reckoning substantially diviner: measures proposed then voted upon in a matter of emergency at the meeting of the Eve. Redemption, come up from below, and despite the locks, the alarms above, which are only the world of pretense, of appearances, surface—now, these women have their saving to do, personal scrimp, their own gleaning, its own degradation. Boxes are arrayed, breakables swaddled in newspapers outdated, This End Up. Underground, Domestics are occupied hauling chairs, chandeliers, tables, tarpulined paintings and books never again to be read, everything downstairs then down and out through wardrobes then into and through the wide floodlit tunnels they’re humming, they’re whistling, giddily insulting one another on down the line of waiting looters in every language that is, their vernacular an echoic, welcoming admixture of Slavicisms and the vulgar idiom of American pop, resounding like a party in revolt under the earth, whose face is being emptied chair by table by lamp: each Domestic responsible for her own transportation of the holdings of her home to the warehouse of the Hall (endtables with casters hoarded, lawyerhusbands’ carts used to lug home files, prized), and yet the proceeds from the sale of the lot in toto are to be split evenly amongst all members, without preference equally shared among Domestics, Grounds, and Maintenance alike, an inheritance from their old worlds and its outmoded socialist governance, though Adela and despite having received no explanation in return for a promise to honor a request this unexpected if not just untimely has agreed to keep Wanda’s absence from the others and, furthering hush, even offered to glean a portion of the Israelien household on her behalf (Wanda insisting on the Scriptural tenth, the holiness of the sum she felt sanctifies greed), while preserving the rest for what she, Adela, didn’t understand, couldn’t ask—for Benjamin, if ever He’d come of age, or for His guardian down there where Wanda said, Myhammy.

Adela wakes late from the floor of the empty Master Bedroom, long un-troubled loosening neck and shoulders sleep after having taken the entire day previous to offload the Koenigsburg hold, hands chapped, fingers chaffed, rung in tens of rings engagement, wedding, formal and junk, mutlifacetedly huge, all Edy’s—she’d given herself the night off, had delayed looting the Israelien’s until morning—though her limbs still a trifle stiff from lifting heavy under the sun that lifts itself, and only the prospect of the same today, more work than Edy and Alan’d ever paid her to do; she sloughs through the tunnel toward the neighbor’s across the way; she shouldn’t be found outside, they’d agreed at the meeting, it took them hours to, none of them should: already the sirens dulled above the earth, whirling aid to the helplessly dead; at intersections, mirrored for safety, dodging her fellow Domestics flailing, hauling their own chests of drawers hanging gawkingly open, an extra helping of horror for Hanna had she been alive, their contents falling, rolling pearls over which to trip and fall, bluntedged baseballcards, compasses without west, leaky thermometers, golfpencils eraserless, gnawed, lipsticks, perfume; dragging to scratch the eyes of the tunneled floor smashed mirrors and glass wardrobes unhinged on screws stripped then spilled, vacation, college and summercamp luggage lugged overfull, footlockers, trunks, suitcases teething zippers, seams ripped, ripping, linnerdance jewelry, earrings for the fundraiser dunch, pesadicht silverware tarnished in disuse, souvenireal porcelain heirlooms, glassily plastic tabletop trinkets, weepy chandeliers fisted then dragged behind to tinkle loud and hollow through their grunts, the imprecations and arguments of Domestics stooping to scoop up what’s been dropped, fighting over whatever remains—Markéta noosed in nine of Mister Rosen’s ties inspired by Chagall, Mojca whipping her on with Misses Diamant’s diamond necklaces clasped to bracelets. Adela dashing through the last stretch of tunnel givingout into Wanda’s wardrobe and, on reaching its portal and instead of meeting with the holy protection of a saint once invoked, there’s darkness, nothing: Wanda’s room sealed with rocks the size of a head, and past them and their mound, weathered cedar 2 x 4s, condemning passage, nailed into a cracked cross—distressing these boards, having been redeemed from Maintenance without benefit of appropriate requisition form. Adela heaves a rock to the side, another, again, tiring, passage impossibly blocked, she stands, making out sound from above—the din of heavy moving, of snaps, pops, hernias lashing out to crack like taskmastering whips, knotted spines—turns as if struck to speed through the tunnel again, through tunnels, tripping over tchotchkes again, furnishings out of any season’s prospectus, shattering the glassware of Moser, touristy Bohemian crystal, plasticpebbled punchbowls and molds of fish for the baking of breads, fukatokugawa vases if that’s how it’s said worth more than they’d ever suspect, coinlike clatter of silver and stemware, shards of plate catalogcarded, and the thick prick of tines underfoot, trampling the greed of her fellow Domestics scrounging, scavenging scraps of lingerie and tracksuit torn, radios, stereos, teevees and unwieldy, doorless microwaves, the contented, contenting like until she emerges through her own portal, toppling her saint, the substitute Anastasia’s accusative, sharply jutting head tearing loose the hem of Edy’s housedress and into her room if it could be said to’ve ever been hers, in the Koenigsburg house where Jana and Veronika are fighting sexually liberated and fiercely over an antique now antiquated silver menorah Adela’s left behind out of the sentimental, a vaguely religious fear that kindles respect, keeps burning the candle of superstition forever—responsibly tarnished, a candelabra smuggled Over Here one branch at a time up nine tushes that once had seats reserved for them in all the synagogues of k.u.k. Austro-Hungary. Adela leaves them tumbling entwined, halfnaked, their nails (sharp, they’d manicured each the other’s) flying to scrape at mouths, at their own images in one another’s eyes, Veronika and Jana who if not twins then should be, scuffling throes on the floor to become bound in the rug rolled over the carpet as if the unifying mummy of a Pharaoh, hardheartened. Adela scrambles up the staircase from the basement amid leaned screens and the photographs of births, bar & bat mitzvahs, weddings in their order, portraits of Koenigsburgs posed as dead as them all, through the hallways and rooms kitchen, family, den, dining, living and dying, through the last hallway that’s also the first, to its door that’s the frontdoor though it faces away to the west, unlocks it from the inside, its key held tight between the winded throb of her breasts, then down the stoop into the frontyard, directly into the floe, the slushy fire—the slowed, thick, freezesearing path of the sprinklers secreted low amid the icicle grass, and on timers.

Grasping her mistress’ hem, Adela dabs herself dry, she’s still naked underneath, unashamed, lets down the gown over her pocket graying and only then, revealed, takes in the shock of the assemblage. Jesus son of Joseph’s God, mutter of Mary, two hundred, three, a round rallied thousand they seem FEMDOMs, Development Security personnel, and Maintenance staff, their hats off, their heads lowered, as if suffering the Pledge of Allegiance to a flag nowhere to be found, as a prerequisite to what crisis of citizenship…Adela searching their stare in the direction of unidentified alien workers hauling the guts of the Israelien household out and into twelve trucks unmarked and who remembers licenseplates, some idling linedup to the driveway, others with their ramps pulled back to the curb. Adela vaults over the other curb, which is the asphalt hedge of the street dividing properties, responsibilities, lives, to tumble into the Israelien frontyard unmown if snowed, rises, pushing through more of this squat and maskmouthed labor, steps up the slated path neatly and respectful around the lawn furniture, too, packed in a protective wrap of glistening plastic, the comics and classifieds of newspapers with nothing left to disclose to anyone still literate and living, taking the seven step stoop in one reckless lunge then shimmying into the slit left open in the frontdoor with a book propped as a stop, who knows which and who cares. In the vestibule, she sidles past two workers carrying out the washingmachine or dryer, she doesn’t have time its cord tailing between legs and dragging behind them like the forked limb of an electrified demon; taking along with it dust from the floor, tangling with the rails of lain track, which hosts the motion of wheeled pallets to move what the workers aren’t able to lift, what they aren’t insured to attempt, whether it be too valuable or heavy, that out the front and rear of the house then onto the ramps and up them of still other trucks, their tires destroying unto the furthest loll of the brutebladed lawn. In the hall, another worker swivels down the same rusted length of track on a filmdolly, a camera rolling, getting footage of the entire groundfloor, door, hall, room after room, closeup on the doorknobs, then cut to the tile over which Adela heels, further into the fray to observe every foursquare invaded, with what to her paranoia look like government types, lookalikes, suspiciously suited don’t I know you from wheres; some of them taking photographs, with old, surely obsolete photographic equipment, flashbulb glare and smoke infusing the air, others with their superannuated for radio microphones wandering around shushing, apparently recording rare silence, themselves, laboratory-coated goys in brilliant white hazmat hats, booties, and gloves leading their similarly uniformed German shepherds through the hallways opening into rooms, rooms into floors, collecting what would seem to anyone else, Adela, smells evanescent, elusive; as maids insourced of uniformly idealized proportions go feathering in areas recordingwise finished with, finalized, at the flight of risen dust, rarefied specks, sampling it into sacs labeled with relevant locations: DESK #2/DRAWER #3, SOFA#3/UNDER PILLOW #1, WINDOWSILL #12—such an assemblage an affront to Adela, this duty done by dereliction, martyrdom by mote…

O Wanda, Wanda, why hast thou Floridaforsaken me, Wanda?

You’re here to dust, no? a matron asks as she straightens out the starch of her whites over fishnets, you’re late and not in uniform. She flips with the disdain managed only by the utmost professional through papers, a clipboarded stack, blueprints, a roll.

Take the upstairs, she says, beginning with the Master Bedroom, working down the hall to His; get moving, we’ve got two hours, three at the most.

An Assistant Site Supervisor, at least that’s what it says over her name, she clucks over, her head a uselessly nippleless breast tufted wildly with blond from the bottle, tucks a duster molting its feathers under her arm and so introducing the rest of her tag: Mary, that’s it, they’re all named Mary, to us; hands Adela from the pocket of her uniform a tweezers, and a sheaf of glassine sacs already labeled. Tweezer the mold from the grout of the Master Bathroom, she’s repeating its ilk already for the tenth time this morning, placing all in the appropriate sacs, one for each wall of the shower, north, south and, you get me, ceiling and floor, the toilet stalls, then from around the sinks, the whirlpool tub—being as careful as possible to preserve the integrity of the sample; then proceed, down the hall to each bathroom on the floor; don’t worry, it’s all already been imaged; but, she flicks a wrist up to expose a pink watch—you’ve only got ten minutes until they disassemble the Master Bedroom; God, you’d better hurry—you were supposed to’ve been here at dawn…

Adela loops her hair up, walks professionally together upstairs-upstairs, with tweezers and sacs makes her way past the Master Bedroom—such joy, shirking orders—its Master Bathroom with the two toilets his & hers, the bidet, the jacuzzi and sauna, keeps her face down to pass handfuls of other maids sweeping, dusting, vacuuming nothing in their areas, assigned; she recognizes none of them, they must be new here, must be strange to say—foreign: a kind-mouthed pigtailed shvartze plying a tub atop her head piled with the salts Israel would water, then soak in; a Mexican girl she has to be with that host of martyrs churchcandled in her eyes hauling three racks of shoes that are the slippers Hanna’d step into at the foot of the night, to slip the pair she’s eyeing not into her pockets, which’ll be searched, but onto her feet, exchanging her old maid, public transportation sneakers for these luxury fluffies with the loose pink ribboning and the bows by the heels. As Adela turns into the last stretch of hall, there’s a voltaic storm, announcements’ crackle, coming over the house’s infant monitoring intercom system who knew ever worked: Attention, the voice robo remote, mechanically feminine, Water Will Be Shut Off In Nine Minutes—Remember To Unscrew, & Label All Lightbulbs—All BASEMENT Perishables Including Medication Must Be Brought To The Kitchen Supervisor For Immediate Refrigeration—Adela heels away from drowning softly in the carpet, bluewhite oceanically plush, being rolled up tightly just a step behind her stride; down this hallway passing more suggestive maids and their observing recorders in still other rooms who’d even guess (Wanda, she’d only visit Wanda, through the tunnel, its wardrobe up to her room and return, the other rooms only an imagination, like the Koenigsburg’s, only different). What they’re doing here seems an abstruse discipline of what, sibling archaeology, familysifting, the excavation of daughters, maybe, these women in their immaculately fitted, speckless uniforms feathering dust, tweezering mold, yes, but also diagramming the disposition of posters, of plaques, compiling the loose stacks of blandly centrist newsmagazines, listing the order of books on the shelves, encyclopedias Volume 1 ABRAHAM–AVRAM, dictionaries and condensed biographies of kin, Einstein, Herzl, whichever Marx, insane, that and a million more processes that must’ve been incredibly well thought out, planned like war, anticipated like miracle, long before Adela ever arrives at the hall’s furthest funeral, which grave would’ve been the door to Benjamin’s room if it hadn’t already been tagged, bagged, removed, relocated. Wholesale. It’s open, exposed, scandalous to air, there isn’t anything left inside, not even carpet, rug, blinds, window; it’s freezing with the snow winded in and its guest, which is ice—they’d taken what there was to take, they’d repossessed all the possessions: no bed, that fourposter, which’d been Rubina’s then her mattress, too, the bassinetcrib never used, no chairs either, neither the chair fixed like the Heaven above the heavens above the turning earth, nor the chair that like spring reclined, which’d been brought here from Israel’s office and its conference room now barren (Everything must go! each to its own gleaning, professional, expert)—no blankey comforters, no cushions from any of the sofas Hanna’d always said couches, from the family’s livingroom, Israel’d said den, which had served as pillow for His pillows; none to sleep, none to wake, thank God at least with Wanda gone, but for how long, she’d said she’d be back for the New Year.

Tonight being that, the Eve, another Turn turn turn…it’s also Friday, the dusk of the Sabbath. As light earlier, they’d observed the entire rite, for Benjamin’s benefit PopPop blessing for the first time in too long, not long enough, what’s come over him, it goes lehadlik ner shel Shabbos, the lit (lehadlik) candles (ner), which were yahrezeits, waxen jars two of them set with serpentine wicks that supermarkets had stocked a yomtov ago, aisle numbered numinous now marked down for no one; Kiddush was said borei pri hagefen over the fruit of the vine, which’d been a rabidly sparkling, grapey champagne PopPop had had in the fridge since last Xmas; they washed, al netilat yadayim’s that prayer, Amen then waited on the buzz from the lobby so they could break bread, hamotzi, or whatever they’d ordered. Blessed Art Thou Lord Our Gaud…Who Hath Given Us Takeout, & Delivery—and then, what’s the bracha for dessert, for pudding as always, the warmth of its flesh, the spoon of its skin? Shehakol.

Benjamin’s put to bed early, PopPop lockingin SonSon, to sleepsleep in the roomroom of His MomMom; are you cozy, comfortable, suck it up, I’ve known worse. I lived twice what even your parents lived—I’ve lived double lives.

Only to return an old, barnacled, loosebottomed wreck at the end of his days—to youth; a late evening stroll along with the waterfront at the changing of the guardian tide, which wets his way along a lip of expectant froth, an undulating tongue of wake, sinking in then swallowing down to dampen his shoes and socks, almost tripping, to tumble onto the sharp weed of his whistle, fallendentured, suckedgummed and burdened, too, a bag schlepped over a shoulder’s stoop, filled with those nightly fresh, skyshelled orbs known as Nest Eggs, late evening and its speckled space being the best conditions for collection. After a’gathering from along the shoreline, amid the ribboning of bows from the crash of waves, his own Xmas presents, belated tokens for the near and dear, eggs uncovered from sand, redeemed from tangles of kelp, hypodermiclike shards of shells, found amid glassy drift, pyres of driftwood, fallen clouds of sand, packed like snow, grained with ice, PopPop—tattered in overcoat, scarf knotted like a second necktie—meets outside the sandside, seaswept eastern entrance to his tower a goy who must merit the rating of at least an acquaintance, waving I’m so excited more hands than all the poor of the world would know to clasp in the brotherhood of schnorr and so Pop-Pop stops, feels at his heart, sets down his burlap bag, fishes the hook of a stogie out of a pocket of his overcoat, which is furry and full of holes as if gnawed right from the skin of a deepsea Levantine monster, and lights it and sucks and lungs out smoke and steam, waits as this acquaintance in a felt hat and dewy mink approaches him in a wade and worm around and through a hulking, violently slippery pod of squidy, octopusal mutants. Dim menaces, terrorized with three legs, actually slimy entities of two legs each ferociously lamed by a distended, additive antenna—they’re merely the night shuffleboard enthusiasts, congregated under the sunny blast of facility kliegs, the goy highstepping over the flight of their discs, thrust cues and on into boxes, ten points, twenty (the laws of mourning don’t prevent them from enjoying, even if they’d had any respect), to greet PopPop. But who is he? PopPop removes his glasses, licks the wonder onto the face of his lenses, breathes and wipes, a glare, a blur’s bubbling smudge, the heat from the tower’s lobby fogging again even at this distance whenever a fellow tenant comes and goes, the revolving, revolvingly vertiginous door—my sight isn’t what it used to be, but he’s said that for as ever long as he’s had sight; though, then again, neither is that that needs to be seen.

Enough, we’ll let the thing talk.

An openingline, long rehearsed, memorized by mirrors of lobby and bath.

I’m making a fortune in furs, I’ll tell you, seems with this weather last few days…it’s peculiar, isn’t it—sales are up what, like two hundred percent.

As he tells you what he wants, he tells you who he is.

It would be Freddie, wouldn’t it, who else the none other, who knows how it’s spelled on his bell: Freddy, maybe, the Fur King, newly mounted, crowned in a taxidermical head, anointed with formaldehyde, a sheep in the clothing of the wolf, which is bundled tight under tens of gekkering foxes whose tails have gone red with shame.

Listen, he pleads PopPop, hat in hand, scratching at the bumps on his bald that seem prospective antlers, it’s not profiteering, I’m as sorry as the next about what’s gone on, what’s a goy to do, tell me, he attempts a handshrug, trying it on for size, forgive him it asks, he’s new around here…just trying to make a living, nothing wrong with that, no, got my daughter with the abdominals and always with the yoga meditation talking my ears blue about responsibility and such, but I’m telling you, he’s telling PopPop, Faivish olev ha whatever it is, he would’ve wanted it this way, no doubt, he was always after the sale, all about business, life is death he’d always say but business is business, which is both and it’s good, listen I’m telling you now it’s almost too good—now this would’ve killed him! that he doesn’t know what to do with his gestures, as if to ask without asking, any typology tips? and since his hands of tens heads dumb don’t know what to do with themselves either he hides them, in the pockets of his mink, furry little rodentholes, lintlined burrows, and—despite the cold as he’s not sure if PopPop’s listening, or had answered him, or of anything—he removes his earmuffs, which are bunnypuffs, the tails of rabbits that thump no more and, breathlessly, shoves them into his other pocket.

What about you and this grandson I’m hearing so much about?

It’s true what they’re saying?

You know some people are asking questions?

You got maybe something warm for Him for winter? We’ve got to keep Him in good shape, alive.

You don’t worry about us, says PopPop, please God, everything’s fine. He’s wearing an old rag of mine, I’m wearing a newer one; when we don’t trade, we share, send the spare shmatte out to be cleaned.

It’s been pleasant, Friedrich, but I really must and yadda with lessening tact, he heaves bag onto back, offers the fur a snotted sleeve limply shook, then slumps through the doors, which are automatic to the left and right for the handicapped when they aren’t in the middle revolving, through its mortuary lobby, funereal arrangements of flower atop low benches like coffins filled with stone to the elevator, express, overclimatized against the outside inclement, spurting muzak, an icicle clarinet, a snowflake cymbal, dingding he digresses his tweed tighter, the gnaw of the gut, hound’stooth, raises his collar and resumes a whistle at meeting this other orphan, a filthy wild though appealing update of a newsie or shoeshine type, who lately lived in the elevator, left to fend for himself while on vacation by a grandfather who’d lived in the tower until he, as Affiliated, died, without his firstborn grandson, who over the last week was given a uniform and salary financed by the facility’s more generously gullible tenants in return for doing what he loved best, pushing his home’s buttons at the violently random. He grins small fangs, scratches skin, pimpled one cheek the other pubered with stubble, then flicks a middlefinger out to depress all the floors in a swipe, last among them the eye glowing PENTHO SE.

Even with all this happening, PopPop says in interruption of his own humming, I should wish you a happy and healthy, pursing among his hides for a late holiday tip—may this year be better than what’s passed, and not wanting to waste an egg on the boy, with stiff nervous fingers finds a dime to drop to his pocket.

PopPop leaving behind him a beach on his heels, from the blowsy elevator to tread the wet over the carpet laid intermittently rumpled with dune to the door to his penthouse, an opalescent sun its button of bell whose plaque underneath, if rung, proclaims in text and sound, POP—POP (has that ring to it, doesn’t it? he’d said to Benjamin, icebreaking, shattering stuff, this getting to know you), makes as if he’s digging himself out of his pants again for his keys amid the loose change and changeless sand as the door to the elevator shuts, and the metal with its urchin descends. Then, he frisks toward the only other door on the floor, opens it to the stairwell and falls down a flight edged in green railing and emergency lights, tripping over the threshold and out the door a floor below klutzy footing until steadying in front of another, pants, pauses, sucks air, straightens his hair in the nameplate’s reflection, ARSCHSTRONG writ in wrinkles across the forehead, untucks, then tucks in again the tails of his shirt, tries to put a hand in any pocket of his vest, then realizes he hasn’t yet slit them. A hand unpurposed is as a deliverance withheld and so he knocks, redemption, as ordered knocks three times more, knock knock knock then—an arthritic shuffle; an eye’s squint through the peephole; a surgical procedure this unlocking of nine locks, and then there’s the deadbolt to think of; a gentle gentile appearing simultaneously young and intensely old, not as much newbornlike as a fetus overstayed, a fruit gestated to sensate and so, overripe, he slights the door, draft, light, plucks from his mouth a slick and yet rough prune for a tongue, and through the sliver with all along the chain still on leans slowly to lick at the tonguing returned of his lover, who just darkness ago had been the repressive responsible for Benjamin who should already be sleeping upstairs, dreaming of anything other than this, God forbid. Then, Arschstrong withdraws, shuts door, undoes the chain in a rattle, opens wide: PopPop, with his hands out in front of him, his late offering bagged, a fresh hatch of Nest Eggs.

A happy and a healthy, Adi, let auld acquaintance blah blah, I should feel lucky to be alive. A wonderful New Year, though that was probably months ago now; here’s to new beginnings, and to my Benjamin, too, a comfort in our winter years…once I get named guardian, the papers go through, the accounts revert—just think of what we can do: I’ve never been to Greece, have you, never been to the Islands, don’t even know what they mean by the Islands when everyone’s always saying they’re going to the Islands. Venice, never been to London, Paris either, or Rome, Minsk or Pinsk, with you I mean, what’s Siberia after all without you?

Tonight to be the last of their assignations, each of which would satisfy thrice per lunation: sessions of sex slow and dry, despite any lubrication—and they’d tried them all to rashes, allergies, itch, once’d even made their own out of PopPop’s liposucked fat—unabashedly analytical, measured in how hot (tush temp.) and dry, their orgasms later noted in a leather ledger Arschstrong keeps in the kitchen in the drawer along with the pen and the knives, though they engage themselves down the hall in the bedroom, sunk amid hazards of splintered wood packingcrates, looseflapped cardboard boxes, scuffed suitcases and trunks, socks swallowing socks, balled into bulges, tight and dark wads stuffed to puff used underwear scattered sexually negligent, with talcum powder just everywhere, a dusting of weatherform white dirtied with dust, as if neglect purified; as they’re switching positions from the favored Thrombosed Mosquito to the exceedingly advanced Reciprocal Six Handled Spoon, Arschstrong spurting a last helping of glide onto the rub of his lambskin, Pop-Pop asks he can’t help it:

You’re leaving me, why?

I’ll kill myself, it’s something I said, something I did—Benjamin, He’s only temporary.

Relax, says Arschstrong touching a shaky finger to the head of his lover, I’m only moving across the hall. You remember the Golden-Schlitzpickels, they died, you know, like so many, too young, it’s a sin, and with an oceanview…

Theirs is three times the size!

So is mine, Arschstrong says as he enters.

Dead of night arrives, that inviolate guest, unseen, unheard, leaves like stealing, having pocketed the clock. Balls fall, inexorably. They lean on one another, sucking each other’s shvitz, gasp air recirculated, the soul of the ducts. Then, as if variety’s been made mandatory to pleasure, they retire their silence to what Arschstrong’s always called his Florida Room, in an apartment in which all the rooms are actually, technically, Florida Rooms, there to admire the haze of their engaged reflection in the glass that is the furthest wall, which would slide open on its greasy track to reveal just past the patio used for storage only—skyline, frozen. What a view, away from the ocean, toward the parkinglot, plow and corpse, the weeping palms of Babylon, the street that whites west toward the highway. Miami sobered this New Year, unforgiving of revelry, left corkless, without bubble; there are no lights from up here that aren’t sirens, the lingery grope of emergency pulse; the balloon of the moon resoundingly popped, by the darkness.

After two attempts, one culminating in mutual cum, Arschstrong invites PopPop to stay, he’d never done that before; theirs has always been strict congress, sweet, quick, though not as hurriedly harried and awkward as the inevitable exit to follow. To get older is to get none the safer in your own skin…PopPop’s flattered, a gratitude perplex; if an apology, he’s uncertain whether it’s been offered to him or by him, for such premature arousal of every suspicion, that scare with the socks, the underwear, the powder. In a corner, a plastic plant ornamentally webbed with teabags patient for repeat steeps. To warm them, Arschstrong heats a pot, weak mint they sip in an ocean of lull, lazing about the sofa’s plastic slipcovered lump, surrounded by the floats of garmentbags, toiletrycases, scissors, tape and twine. With a pillowcase spared to shammy and what’s left in the kettle, Arschstrong removes PopPop’s sandals, washes his feet, individually the toes then, dispensing with the other foot’s plug, puts a shoulder into it deep into the hiccoughing flesh, rimming the void, pale and wrinkled, lies on a knee his other hand, its wristwatch just ringing midnight, an alarm preset, a shriek of the veins that strap down the arm, binding his grip to the battery of the heart. As if to insinuate that PopPop should leave, please and thank you, Arschstrong giving justification to this madness, abrupt, by saying time for pills his and yours, his toilet, beautybed, a call to his daughter out on the other coast of estrangement—and this with the pillow’s shammy still dripping onto the floor from which the rug’s been removed, rolled and hogtied. PopPop steps into his clothes, takes up his saggy bag and in that lean kisses at his lover still sitting, out the door then up the stairs one dainty step after another through the door to his, which he unpents quietly, not just tiptoed but discreetly up on his pedicure, so as not to rouse Benjamin, who’d stayed up midnight late though locked in, forced to keep company and amuse with whatever belongings of MomMom’s PopPop couldn’t sell, didn’t, no one’d yet offered the right price, no one would: hummel figurines forever unparented, earth thrown into a kiln then fired to kitsch, pastel samplers and quilts, unfinished knit caps and booties, which bled yarns for the grandkinder of friends, not her own; then, on a highest glassed shelf, a furbish of spoons silver but tarnished, souvenirs brought back from the vacations of others, always, to remember to her where she’d never been, never would be, which was most everywhere outside Florida and northeastern environs. To try the knob, to make sure of its lock by bolt, and, satisfied, quietly, to his room, to become naked again but alone, hanging each piece of his suit up on its designated hanger, PopPop falls onto the bed and asleep over the covers, to turn from one side to the other along with the year, the millennium, all.

If in our sleep we dream of dreaming, and of nothing else, then we might understand the terror of the times; it’s the failure of disaster—which, like every unwelcome guest, like the guest that is sleep, arrives always an hour too early, during which you’d hoped to prepare, wash and clean, skim the newspaper, have a bite of something to eat. We lie poorly; we toss, we turn—and even our turns are turned, a last leaf fallen as flake, blown in its cycle back to the very beginning of mornings, time and again if only in each iteration estranging, as any ending’s already known, is thought of nightly and always, just disbelieved until the grave, the sittingroom, standingroom Shiva, the mourning of neighbors, of family, friends; the impertinence of year over year ringing real from our guts empty but churning, the imposition unsettling, a calendar left blank with no lineage to mark the days or the numbers, or else rived altogether too many times and again into black, which is total: two different cycles, run both at the same time yet opposed, wash and spin dry, permanent press and delicates, that was Wanda’s department, as it was Arschstrong’s: how he used to take care of laundry for PopPop, the cooking, the cleaning, what not, for sex a kneel and a mouth and for worries, an ear he couldn’t hear out of without the ringing buzz of his aid. Another knock, yet another and again and the tired old nude wipes himself from the toilet, green fires of money lap from his sit, there’s more where that came from stacked in the shower, behind the pink curtain, watermarking the tub with its filth. Finally out of the closet—all of his closets have been cleaned out. Arschstrong walks from bathroom to bedroom in which he painstakingly puts himself through a suit three decades old, he hasn’t in years, gathers his handluggage packed (a horde of what matters, his passport, license, new limitless creditcards that just came to mild interest, plus toothbrush and paste to be carried on); only then does he go to the door, no need to peep himself prepped as he knows who it is, and if he doesn’t then the stranger can’t be worse than expected.

Hallway’s full of suits, two of them, one of whom, an immaculate, towering shvartze, ports his luggage, overpacked, to the hall’s furthest elevator, service, while Arschstrong, accompanied by another foreigner, with his pleasantries he must be Mitteleuropan, he thinks, takes the residential, whose scamp operator’s been financed to take the remainder of the night off, before being forced, bound, gagged then broomcloseted. While descending, this foreign goy in the pinched fedora hands over to Arschstrong an envelope in which as agreed are the surveilled, images disagreeably focused of him and Pop-Pop, naked, engaged in a joy named in memory of that urbis that once neighbored Gomorrah, which has no sin left to its name. A limousine idles in the drive, ahead of another, this second limo shabbier, scratched at the doors, fender dimpled and two lights smashed out, the latter plateless, too, though registered to the federal government. All shaved skull and sunglass pincenez, a voluminous leather duster over his suit and tie, which are black, the shvarzte opens the limousine’s door, Arschstrong simpers inside, the limos pull out, in poor, skidding formation, disappear into one another then into pitch, whose direction is always northeast. One limousine to go further, though, as north and as east as the Delaware and the mouth of the Parkway, all the way back again to the state of Benjamin’s birth, which is Joysey, if a Garden itself then a paradise barren, Eden bereft—a scrubscape of low malls and gnarled, haggard, known better days pine; while the other limo relents earlier, as if it can’t take the cold or the time, takes the turn from the lightless interstate to Washington’s rural if still subdivided environs, Arschstrong in its rear sucking fingers, the attaché held on his shivering knees. He’s liveried to an impressive rancher vacated upon this clear and bright Sunday morning, with his kinder and their own out tending to church (even Arschstrong once married, for what he thought of as normalcy, only protection), at a special vigil this Sabbath never again, a service of solidarity being held for the victims of recent events, and so he waits, sits on their porch and wastes himself in wicker alongside the bowl for the water and the bowl for the food of their dog, who’s absent itself, scavenging bodies. He’ll ask to stay, for acceptance, to live here, spin out his span however long it’d be, and please not too revolute painful. An hour later a metallic gray minivan makes time through the artificially greened, rolling in it Development and even before it manages and on problem brakes to slow to a stop, grandkinder—his, he realizes—spring through the windows, hope they’re already open; kisses one for each then one for the wife of his son (reminder, ask him for her name), a handshake, maybe even a hug for her husband who’d rejected him now returned if too late and inside, Arschstrong nodding, as if gathering the tense urge of the lips; he lightens himself in their kitchen, atop their table synthetically topped, mounding a mint of money before he falls into a chair he’s sure is there but isn’t and so onto the floor where he remains sprawled, and weeping.

First and false, this day of new beginnings, up and fortified with bran for brunch, a sit on the toilet, girded loins not quite proverbial, fresh resolve along with an argument against such headlined in memoriam above the folds of the morning papers. To unlock Benjamin’s door at seven sharp, the same hour at which he’d free his late wife His MomMom, to put her to work, daily tasks since his lover’s, or once; to wake Him and say, another day—the clock poured in fresh sidewalk concrete to still history at now, to sink the past in the ocean of present…getup, washup, dressup, eatup—over the fruitplate, a diet, we’ll talk strategy for the lawyer, our appointment’s on Monday at nine.

Into the bedroom and instead of Benjamin in bed, His MomMom’s—there’s no outsized infant lump or toddling lunk, but a shriveled pucker of a person with a head shaped like an egg, as it’s brilliantly bald, set with eyes and nose and a mouth like the cracks made by the earliest of beaks. Or, it’s a worm, wriggling that head as round as the world, and as swollen. Its glabrousness goading. Who else, PopPop thinks, what else to suspect: maybe one of the more senile residents around here, old Mister Alzheimer, perhaps, wandered home to the wrong unit, it’s happened before, it’ll happen again but he won’t recall when. PopPop checks for a wheelchair, a walker…tries it on, this variant of take my cane, hold it or, I’m just happy to see you, then laughs at the thought, offers him a sleeve, a cuff of the hand; and, as he extends himself as if to shake, he can’t help himself, he begins tapping a finger as if to break with nail this squirming shell and emerge from it a SonSon.

It’s good to meet you, too, Mister Israelien…or, it’s what’s his name, snap, a crackle and clap, eyes shut—PopPop a lifelong sage of the news, a frontpage scholar, recognizing the former secretary of the Treasury, has to be, he’d just spent time with him on the toilet, over a bowl of black flakes, this I’m not sure we’ve been introduced recently promoted from his previous Administration position to sit at the edge of His bed, a dead wife’s. What’s his title, the new one, the mind’s going, gone: Secretary of Affiliated Affairs, that was it, a novelty breakable for the cabinet, moldy, locked. How to describe him: he looks like an egg, though his dewlap like the testicles of a turkey. Everything above the lips squints in slits—that dry, thin wisp of fec. Dreck, that’s that smell; our charge’s laid, needs his changing. PopPop sniffs. A moment ago, Das—that’s it, that’s his name or an acronym or abbreviation for what, at least that’s what the networks had called him, the President, too; as for what he’s really called, Keiner or Keynor, who can remember—he’d snuck a knuckle up and into his seat, emerged fisting an incontinent clod, then stroked on its black as a moustache. Distinguishing, reassuring, security smeared. He’s smaller than you’d expect, and especially unimpressive sitting, arrived in the uniform, fulldress, of an unspecified military: head skewed between uneven epaulets, the rest of him bound in frayed sash; the pants straining, but the jacket baggy at the chest doneup civilian custom: its lapels luxury enough to accommodate his many badges, citation, ribbons, and medal.

His boots have marched in mud over the tile, which’ll never again be as clean as it was.

For you, this Das says, I’m here in person, the voice the tinhorn tinkle of his own decoration. This is sensitive: we need to brief you, find out if you’ll be cooperative. We hadn’t anticipated so many, all these surviving firstborn—least of all a relation…and there isn’t much time.

PopPop pinches pants to kneel at his visitor’s feet, between those blemished boots, and there on his plastic patens, the tray of the new knees bearing atop a hip or two probably needing to be replaced again, too, and sometime soon—to grope beyond darkness, feeling under the bed, and through the trash there, wrappers, the remains of food hidden, no slippers, no shoes.

We’re sorry it had to be this way, we didn’t know if you’d be willing, but let me assure you, Mister Israelien, you should be—you shouldn’t worry. You have my word: everything will be provided, your meals, accommodation, a seat at the table—I’m saying, the choice is yours, but we’d love to include you in our plans. Behind the door, PopPop righting himself, nothing. We’ll be waiting for you in the lobby, take all the time you need, say ten minutes…you might want to pack heavy, it’s even colder up there. In the closet, lost luggage. You have a jacket, hat and gloves, a warm winter coat?

To the laundryroom, then, and only the scrap of a sock, PopPop limping with it to the kitchen, wiping at his forehead. To open the fridge and there, emptiness, save takeout or delivery discard, containers and bags, foil, waxed paper, wet receipt and grease, sop rung around where a tray once fell, its form held in gravy as if the outline of fatty chalk after a crime. The table, cleared clean. Count them, the chairs are all there and pushed in. It’s been wonderful to make your acquaintance, Das whispers down the hall. Again, hoarsely, I want to assure you we’ll do our best to keep you and your grandson happy, and safe. Tread, such a plodding. Trust me, he’s saying even softer and nearer, you’ll get your explanation. At kitchen’s threshold, he stops; he could do better with the posture, stooped to the clink of his honors. PopPop, he’s stricken. As Das smiles, flaking moustache, clicks heels. The frontdoor’s still open from how he’d come; the boots squish.

PopPop dodders down the hall, back to the room, his wife’s dead now Benjamin’s disappeared, to touch at the head of their bed, the pillow filthy in its case on which whoever it was had just sat. From there, a sudden sodden heat clambers up his arm to shut itself mad into his heart’s inmost chamber. Pop-Pop gives a shudder, a tingle, his arm numbed: MomMom’s pins & needles, prickling flesh from the shoulder’s hock down through the elbow, funnily boned to his fingers, stabbing the writing on the wall, or grabbing at the paper’s pattern of flowers—a consolatory bouquet…to seek support, to stand, live on. Ten minutes downstairs, it’s colder up where, clammy Miami, alone, not safe, never happy. As in time, this is an infarct—these are comments his women once made, these were cues: earthshaking, his wife; unstable, his daughter-inlaw…

Whether judged or not, whether meriting or no, though it’s not up to us—if it was, then…PopPop’s dying. Despite lust for Arschstrong, known as luxuria, or gula, greed’s avaritia, the lazy like—and who knows if in reward for the grace that’d been their one week together, him and Benjamin’s—he the shirker, he the enlightened, the weekday modern and Sunday skeptic dies now how he began: within the tradition he’d once forsaken. All’s vanity, pretense, mere role. It’s dramatic, theatrical, geriatric stock staged for the footlit curtains closing up north and Downtown, Second Avenueways, which though in hiding an illustrious street is at heart a vein that, unlimited, exposed, flows south through the island of his native Manhattan then on down the highways of the coast to bind New York’s beginning to Miami’s deadend—the lifeline, the timeline interminable, the intestate Interstate…the aired path of the snowbirds’ perhiemate migration, and the wavelength of the radio and television signals he’s channeling, too, on their frequency their cries, their overwrought shows.

An honorable, traditional death, heldover for reruns—in that it all takes nearly an hour, in one account, while others hold two or ten times that much and more; or else, in some interpretations given over to the mystic lacking a timeslot, he’s still dying and always will be forever, replayed without redemption, eternally, infinitely, heaven or hell. PopPop staggers from bedroom to bath, its chest of pills, tablets engraved with milligrams of saving hope. Dropping them scattered. To steady atop a mountain of rug tripped over then drug, through the hall, its wall and switch he flicks to dim the light appropriate to such serious passage. A shout to the livingroom, a scream to the kitchen to echo tintinnabulatory within the suck of the sink. PopPop beats his breast, this dizzies him, unsupported with this drumrolling beat he falls, flamed across the livingroom, the familyroom, the den, and the backstage, too, of all other rooms besides, their capacity of other dimensions, mystical, mystifying: his drop to the sofa taking another hour itself, with gravity only just awake, waiting its weather patiently out on the balcony.

Want to talk gravity? eulogize death itself! Talk about PopPop’s fall from that couch to the one floor of the rooms that are all themselves only one room stageset and propped whirling around taking twice the hour of his previous fall, how it feels; he rights himself amid a cushion’s cradle, tearing pillows to the floor to better comfort his demise, the mourning impending. How many days dailied and their nights the run, the rushes, not rushed enough. Upsets furniture. Upsets the janitorial staff, working disposal floors banged below. A wild animal it sounds like. Though a sign out front says, No Pets Allowed. Pop-Pop collapses again with a breath, gathers a loose strand of strength, the fringes of the slipcover, bunching the cut of his robe and the pajamas he on weekends shrouds about in; writhes on the pillowed floor with thumbs in his lapels, exhorts in a voice infused with temporary wisdom tempered with what tempers all the residents of his apartment tower, all the elderly almost over lives facilitated below, to free themselves from sin and do remember him kindly; addressing himself to the Staff Physical and SpeechLanguage Therapists, too, Psychogerontologists and even the hated Leisure Director who’d once revoked from him his pool privilege, in punishment of an accidental locker pish—to him as to others PopPop sermonizes; advice he dispenses, honors he bestows; every scrap, rag, rind and peel of inspiration on pain of insight his life has saved up for now, hoarded from sources both ancient and popular, Scriptural quotation and advertorial slogan, catchphrases dropped for commercial taglines cut, over the years stored up in the gray ham beating between the blue-screened, whitewashed walls of his skull. He turns a trip, this somersault to stand, stumbles again to flip and walk on his hands a stunt, his robe falling open around him, this cheap cotton Wardrobe & Makeup melting…where’d he get this stuff—saved up in Storage?

Naming friends and enumerating enemies, for the cautionary benefit of neighbors downstairs floors forever and his unsuspected Arschstrong, too, his lover and would’ve been his and Benjamin’s heir—PopPop doling out wealth he doesn’t have to people he doesn’t really know, never really wanted to anyway; leaving his sun to his SonSon, and may the larks flown south for the winter serve as witness, let their worms live enough to attest. A window, PopPop stands a last, gropes at the sill. Violas swell from a rooftop string-section, behind them winged woodwinds chirp about balconies. From the elevator in the hall, through the door still open, a chorus rises up from the depths, the basement sauna and surrounding pools lap and wading baldly cast with swimmers synchronized, taking a diver they’re swooning pruned the Kaddish, in harmony to the hunk of lifeguard doing a version of faygele in a shrilly brilliant cameo whistle…

He’s dying! my God, he’s dying!

PopPop tearing at what’s left of his hair as if tugging from his head his own response with the dandruff, yelling: I am having a heart attack! I am dying!

As old as death this fall again, back to the kitchen—what a stunt this brunch’s fling, in truth a jump or pounce, prat and rattling glass, rupturing the last act (another halfhour); leaning limply on a doorknob turned with his weight to humble him to knees in the hall, an other hand reaching into the air, still and stale—a wreck, this underventilated apartment with the heating way up and the impotent sun spurting itself through the unwashed, unshaven skylight—his head held snobbish, as if to face away from his wriggling toes, gnarled in yellow nail, he can’t bear them, the weakly veined and restless legs and breathless crotch, in an always last attempt to right himself, to rise. A farewell as extensively meant as Shalom in its every translation, its rewrites, kick-starts, punchups and toneddowns, tightly mouthed: with blessings and curses for all, for relatives, friends, for even just the relatively friendly, the acquaintance and the stranger among them; with obsecrations and wishes, goodbye, the sigh of its syllables again: Sha-lom…his eyes opening after the style of his lips, to the mirror above, around and whirlwinding, to pronounce to himself in reflection an invocation of the worth of his mother, to commend his corpse and soul condemned if soul he has to God. He says his goodbyes now a third time absolute, absolving any prompt: Shalom, Shalom, Shalom…shutting eyes, mouth, face grayed above the flush of heart.

Throughout PopPop’s facility, from towertop to basement bottom, mourning’s been underway for a week already: Unaffiliated though eligible, still attractive and accommodating with money and recipes of their own widows beyond and below, those inveterate cookers and cleaners who’d moved here maybe to land for themselves on Florida’s fishy shore an Affiliated husband, his fortune, their luck, these survivors of intermarriages and failure—they’re out on their own decks below his and rending ritzy their fresh laundry mourning white with spare falseteeth, tearing their sheets and assorted feminine unmentionables to shreds before hanging them out to signal what distress or sentinel under the cool of the coming moon. All day they’re lolling low their sad sag, over their precariously frowning railings like petulant lips, they’re sobbing, weeping the age of water, their flabby hands held to faces shaken out into faucets of flesh, one eye of each the hot water, the other the cold and so, it’s lukewarm tears they’re sprinkling all over Miami, as if to purify or douse. Upon their hair, which is wig, or dyed, ashes heap, luminously scorched particulate blown from the pile of corpses burnt at the furthest edge of parkinglot and, too, atop the roofdeck of the adjacent garage—a great cremate, as who has the time or resources for mass burial. Despite surgery electives and pricey, painful injections their faces, they’re fallen—on the knees of the nose, their cheeks begging for it (compliments)—on the form of a wiry, uniformed official below with the brass, the moustache’s rank, giving orders to the limos parked in the drive. As smoke from the bodies burns off into night, PopPop manages, just manages, to scroll open an eyelid, a brittle curtain or carpet soaked of its red; and with it attempts a wink that’s only to resolve into a roll, dull—which failure damns and so feels itself death; the end of an end come the credits, the stars.

All air’s grounded the days following disaster…not days but an afterlife, which is indivisible, and so even if heaven then truly hell. An avenue, they emptily follow, a street, without escort, the city beckoning: a dark ancestral finger curled to coax, both to bring near and to scold. Laning, leathern strips of tar. A fringe of ice, a knot of tree. Their prayer is only a siren. Two limousines alone together, pass each other, are passed, a gleam of fender, grazing mirrors, bumpthumping and cutting one another off, northeasternward, far up the reach of black, this dim span of everlast cold; the aired flat earth of the seaboard in all its binding chains, a franchise of the known: gas stations lately condemned, treyf eateries just out of business, prospective lots of forested nowhere, On This Site Will Be Built nothing anymore, a plot zoned fallow, this strip retstripped. Though through Maryland at the exit for Silver Spring, while others hold by Virginia and headed toward Fairfax or Langley just south of Washington the district, the government limousine swerves from the highway, the other vehicle stays its course more east and northernmost, on into the day mapped white in noontide light—up and always up the Interstate abandoned, plowing past stakes of evergreen loneliness, relieved every mile or so by pits of firewall dirt.

To follow is to lead if in the direction most opposite, an ordinal most opposed—the route of the landrover in reverse, an Exodus rewinding itself through a desert of ice: snowstorm, galling winds. Hail the hardness of stone the size of the sky falls to the windshield, trapping darkness in the web of its shatter. Our driver, a Mormon minor who seems as young as all Mormons most probably are, and every schmeck as innocently perfect, turns into a skid without concern, his face frozen blond and harmless; then, evens out again with a slight sigh to ride the middle of the highway without end, without middle; the fall effacing lines, the lanes useless, with shoulders slushed to watery shrug. Benjamin in the back, there are two others waiting for their introductions; one seated shotgun, next to Heber the Mormon: he’s the shvartze we’d been getting at earlier, name of Sonny Hamm though he’s known also as Testicles, to be pronounced in a manner more philosophical or poetic than most—Greek, though his people long ago came up from the South, the capital of Africa; the other’s seated alongside Benjamin, hidden with Him behind the window that tints to separate front from rear, two zones of temperature and volume of radio static: a foreigner, the name’s Torque Mada. Despite the smile, the lips as tight as scars, he keeps on his head that fedora without apparent humor. Maybe he’d been told to suit up like this, for the sake of impression: doublebreasted, pocketwatch that needs always winding, the sparkling piss of its chain. It pinches. A sensation of slow burning, a headhaze, a rise in His gerd. He’s slumped against the window, His bones feel weather-made. Awake as of just now, the last pothole, tires’ slide—feeling the slow flow of power channeled once again from the beat of His heart, recovering from the injection that’d fallen Him with midnight, the secularized eve of the New Year. Assimiliated to who knows how or when, there hadn’t been a struggle. He’s kneading at an arm, up toward the pudge that falls from shoulder, its bandage unremembered: a sanitary strip profaned in image with a wondrous array of popular animated characters He can’t hope to know, He’s too young—ratty mice, cats and dogs, and piglets.

In one interpretation, you can forget pain, uncomfortable’s the worst.

Benjamin shifts to make sucking flatulent noise on the wide leather seat. His glands feel hardened, swollen inside Him just under the skin pricked, as if balloons of condolence, inflated with bile. I’m sorry, get well soon. His throat’s thorned, His mouth a bouquet of tongues, wilting flowers. A limousine a womb, its mother luxury—offering every amenity without such twin of guilt: there’s the latest model television screen, which is blaring technological snow, racked alongside a stack of recent magazines and newspapers headlining the tragedy throughout the last week of shock, onto specifics, statistics, facts, then the editorializing calm that is the grind of daily blame; and then a bar, too, from which He retrieves a can of soda in a flavor purporting to be diet, pops the top, proceeds to spill atop a skidding rumble half the thing all over, PopPop’s robe and Israel’s shirt underneath that are actually two robes and two shirts held together only with hope, the pants that’d been three pairs of Arschstrong’s before the surgery to his gut and its effectual weightloss, which’d been extensively scarring—a deepening stain aired as if the twin or mate of the blood let from the road’s shoulderborne, rubberravaged corpses stacked for disposal and slicking the freeze, their flow sustaining the grass giving way to stumps, the stubby trunks of trees the pubic pines of the earth, the needled gravel, which is the death of the earth, its own grave.

Revived, and sticky with thirst, amid the trickle of waking, His having to go, Benjamin flings kicks at the partition, slings fists against the window inside.

Are we there yet?

And silence.

How about yet?

Which we ask when we’re nowhere, lost to the void to be mapped between dislike and hatred, betwixt irritation and rage.

To count the licenseplates, to bitch the taunting signs. Patience, patience, shalt thou pursue, to pacify, subdue. To memorize the miles, then recite their wear. Only the idle shall distract the idle, and none shall inherit the perpetual revolution of the earth. A tire, enumerate every tiresome turn.

Mada finally faces Him and says, be quiet, sit still…your grandfather’ll be waiting for you, we’ll be there soon enough.

I called him my PopPop—shows what you know, schmuck.

Mada taps down the window inside the limo, taps on the shoulder the shvartze seated up front.

And why didn’t he ride with us…I’ll give you one guess, you putz. Hamm, Mada says, we need more, another one quick—three ccs or so should do it, thinking, stat.

Thinking, too, He might not even remember. Both can only hope. It could’ve been worse, it could’ve happened to me.

I need to pee, Benjamin says and holds at Himself. A rummaging up front, clammy hands, a testicular bag. Hold it in, Mada says again, biding time, as if anything you want to hear’s already been said by better. Benjamim flails, turns to grope the stranger’s suit, His hands pale, His loins tensed. A rumbleseat, up and down as if to nod—it’s urgent.

Jesus goddamned, the shvartze says from his search his head down, we’re out of tranqs; must’ve used them all up just to get Him out of Florida.

I need to pee!

Who knew He’d be this big?

Now, I need right now—oowww, and Benjamin hits His head on the headrest in front; in pain scrunching His face so that His glasses pop from their ears’ safekeeping, to tumble to His lap.

I’m blind, my bladder, too—my everything’s complaining!

Heber from behind the wheel lowers the rear windows to let in the air and wet, the frozen issue of their unholy union. He’s like this little kid, who says, he does, and without taking his sunglasses from their mirror of the darkling road, who’s like a grandfather, too, His own, and with the worst qualities of both; the Mormon just making a suggestion—piss out the window, will you?

I won’t have Him urinating all over, says Mada and he ups the windows on his own, dusts the snow from his hat, which is still on his head despite the wind and his seatmate’s own gusting.

Hamm, when are we expected?

In this weather?

Heber tears the meridian, ripping the shift, and He’s either thrown or throws Himself along with the motion to wedge within the void of the window separating front from rear, not to be raised.

Another thing, Benjamin says from His hang with His body halved, I have to shed…it’s personal—you wouldn’t understand.

A flake, a fall—you would?

A sign flashes from out of the mist, and on Mada’s order Heber swerves from the Parkway exiting into the turn, through the lower lot then skidding to stall just in front of the northbound entrance to the concrete bunker reststop, with such force that Benjamin pudge and all’s set free, unstuck—sent flying through the void separating Him from the shielding’s sprawl, the wipering arms, the obscenities that madden the dash, His legs straddling the head of the shvartze thrown, His teeth gnashing themselves mourned at the wheel.

Hamm staggers out of the limo, then tugs Him after him by the feet, then the legs and waist.

I’ll take the kid, he says, spits, and then to Benjamin, better stay close.

Mada rises to smooth his suit then light a smoke against the weather; asking Heber, how are we for gas?

Middle of nowhere Joysey—a tongue of asphalt set amid a mouth of pine, gaping as it asks its questions of the sky. What is the nature of all this cement, this concrete and irresponsible tar—explain the modern, will you; its encroachment upon a wilderness despoiled…wherever there’s an interpretation, rest assured there are interpretations, many. And so while some hold that only now is everything the same everywhere the world over, from Joysey to Jerusalem and back, and so that all is a mere litany of simulacra, the bane of difference, enemy of the individual life, or even—say the mystics among us—it’s that we’ve all lived these lives already, ages earlier, eras ago, others hold only that Benjamin’s been here before, this reststop, just last week, this service-plaza, it’s that simple and on a swerve and stop of Wanda’s own discretion, for directions, bathroom’s coffee and a nap—and so explaining His familiarity, the ease with which He adjusts to all this sensing; the plexiamenity, the manicured shrubscrub, the silent language of Parkway plaquery, such signal warning: fluorescent construction, crossedthrough then struckout; and then, the red tree stop, the blue food & lodging, the white flower yield—set deep in snow over a rainbow of mulch He surfaces in His progress to uncover a path with insecure, recovering feet. Benjamin proceeds through the doors into the interior, is processed. A ringing of growths endowed by their Creator, of indeterminate corporation, with diversified outlets of fastfood left hastily shuttered, a newsstand dimmed with tragedy, and a souvenir kiosk, selling to no one the most transient of necessities: stuffedanimals, pins and stickers, maps to hats and shirts and swimsuits, commemorative spoons crazy to sup with, know what they’re worth, what they will be; then, to the right again familiar, its bathroom, the M’s—a week ago, it feels a weak season, that stopover with Wanda to fill up on shrunk food, gas for the rover, to take a seat and weep under the voice of the flush. Emptily immaculate now as then: no one’s used it in a week, perhaps, white as if snowedover, bright, clean, not a leak, a mirror without streak, disinfectant stings. Again, He heads His urge for the stalls, but this visit’s directed by the shvartze to a urinal adjoining.

You’re going to go? Hamm asks.

You’re going to stand over me the whole time?

That a problem…you don’t have those neuroses, do you, one where your kidneys all shrink, when you’re incapable of pissing with anyone present? and he shoves Benjamin up against the fixture as white as a tooth to gnaw at His gut. To pish, He pushes, tenses His thighs, crouches to clench the opposing faces of tush—they’re not on speaking terms, give them time—dimples their cheeks in the briefs of His father, one pair for each leg; then, shuts eyes to imagine: a kitchen faucet gunked green, rain from the tap, Israel pouring wine that Friday, Manischewitz melting a tongue from his lips, a grapeknot, a pinkening urinal wafer; palms His prostate, pulls, tugs each teste, rubs rolls His scrotum around, but there’s nothing doing, without drip, drops His hands, sighs. I’ll show you how it’s done, and Hamm leans a head over the partition of the urinal next, steps back a pace; only you got to be patient, takes a while to get it all out. He slits his zipper then goes rummaging around in his pants and shorts and then, wrangling a wangled grasp, gradually extracts length by majesty and hardening by the tug an enormous member unfurling, slowly, luxuriantly, uncircumcised as if, circumscribed by worms through which vein strained swells, steady pulses, the black beat of a lower heart. I keep it wrapped around the left, he says. Phylactery of the leg. Its roots to be found buried in great bulges, twinned, rising under the tightening pants. I’d take those out, too, he goes on, only they don’t like the zipper none. Teeth for tooth, a mouth. And then with delicate fingers, an expert tact, the ultimate retraction. A fascist helmet. Foreskinned darker. Benjamin’s awed, if awe’s to die amid torture. Angry, martial, there’s that familiar tattoo, a light rustle, tinkling on porcelain, then giving way, to heavy flow, a flood deluged in steam. Hamm fists his shaft then squeezes, shakes, ekes out a last spurt, a final drizzle.

And Benjamin, breaks.

Only later, there’s the shame of admission—anyway, it’s all caught on camera…where I was when suspect wasn’t; sir, occupied returning penis to pants, and underwear, which is tight and deliriously striped. Unlike any animal known, or prison: Sing Sing, where he’d supped enough. Hamm turns, spatters drops of stinging piss on his pants, down them to drip below pockets and drear his knees, as if he’s kneeled atop mopping, pitterpuddling through his underwear also to dampen the legs. He gasps his pursuit across the tilefloored veldt, as quick as the sleekest predator though nowhere near its grace, his tongue out to shadow that other massive endowment still wagging, and its even more massive foreskin, too, as if the dark flag for a nation forgotten flapping wildly in the wind of his run, his fast dirty feet in their shoes trampling this foreskin now, liberally powdered, though it might be snow from the floor: how he runs up onto himself, as if his foreskin’s a welcomemat just pulled out from under, tripping, over his unsnipped flesh falling flat, on his face on the slick tile next to the sign that warns Slippery When—is anyone here a lawyer, is anyone else here at all?

Torque Mada, out in the foodcourt, calmly waiting for assistance, anyone who works here, a sentient pimple popped across the register, pussing the keys. Most of the employees have advantaged the tragedy, taken off, personal days, to mourn strangers at home and that with the screen out, only occasional electricity. He has two hands on a tray stacked with hamburgers a week old, complimented by a host of condiments, wilting fries washed with soda wanting for gas; him wondering whom he should pay and why as Hamm glides risen out of the bathroom and across the floor, his hair and hang still proudly out, his head gashed, two front gold teeth of his loosened, kicked in his slide to skittering flight toward tables at the far end of the glare. An echo, he’s screaming, waving hands, doing semaphores of an unintelligible nature though you do get the idea of Jesus, and even more offensive obscenities shouted, him knocking over tables and chairs, the destruction of concessionary displays of myriad intricacy: pyramidry rendered of chocolate candy, toiletry tombs. Mada throws his tray down the line, off the end just for effect falling, scattering burgers, buns, special sauce, lettuce, tomato, onion, grabs Hamm and steadies, then the two of them run arm-in-arm, toward the exit they’d entered from with Mada and as if no one expects slipping and falling himself over his own scatter, a rogue patty with its melted swiss square, on his face, finally spilling his hat. Hamm, what do you think he doesn’t stop he wants out, toward the doors, pushes where he should pull then pulls out into landscape and lot, to head N/NE as door signage indicates deep into the Kieferöde beyond. Heber left in the limo idling with the inside heat on all the way up, the door open and his tuxshirt, too, its ruffles fluttering in the storming midmorning; his shoes dangling over the ice, pants cuffed high to bare his knees, he’s smoking an unfiltered: flakes of ash fly scattered across his chest, which is hairless, and he breezes them off and their embers with fingers gloved, as Hamm ever so fitfully slides across the wetwaxed hood, to ride shotgun, reaches around Heber’s neck as if to strangle his bowtie, a clipon, drags him by it in and behind the wheel shrieking an approximation of find Him.

Who? Heber grabs at his tie as he revs up the limo.

Who, Him, the fatass kike, Jesus the lardy yid I’m talking who else, what’re you thinking?

You let Him get away, Heber’s yelling, futz me, futz us, we’re dead…still, he flips down the mirror over the wheel, inspecting his hair prior to releasing the clutch. Hamm opens, necks his head out the window, then out the roof for the sun.

Benjamin’s just down the lot, lumbering over the asphalt, trash, foodwrappers, and icy oil as fast as He’s able, not having been toddling for long and born this out of shape, making toward the Kieferöde, which is the Joysey forest that trees everywhere beyond the city, anywhere that’s not citybound, set in rings grown concentric, and hung with infernal cones—pining inland to heaven, southwest to hell…

There! Hamm shouts, pointing, He’s almost at the woods…and Heber shifts a turn, throws the limo madly, aiming its speed at the gross quavering tush. Hit Him if you have to, says Hamm, and hard—wasn’t our fault, dumb luck…just get your fender smack on His hynie! Heber floors, topspeeding at this looming rear…Benjamin only a blur of pants and trunk, then embraced by the branches, comforted in the midst of the boughs. Desperately, the limo goes hurled over the curb of the lot, falls into a sluice, slamming into an embankment of woody decay, icemelt, smoke wheezy from the hood: Heber’s thrown over the eructed airbladder and into the windshield, Hamm tumbles through the door, lands tush over head, flails, his hands grasping at logs dead and wrapped loose in diapers; the limo’s wheels turn up dirt, mud, the severance of weeds, the vehicle entire revving one last, worthless assault, raising itself up on its rearwheels as if posed alongside the Unknown State Trooper for a proud example of municipal statuary, prior to flopping its flab metal down again, finally, what a mess. Hamm surfaces with a used diaper perched as a nest on his head, tries to stand, slips on a log submerged, falls again into the sluice as insects unparticular to climate begin their swarming around him, assemble tightly into nimbi, artfully shifting their shapes—isn’t that an elephant, its trunk hovering about his mouth and nostrils, or a lion, a bestial storm, manelike clouds. He finally rights himself, staggers to the other side of the limo from which he drags Heber unconscious out of the dent shaped like Heber in the shatterproof shield; leaves him on the asphalt, propped against the limo pouring fire, tires singeing his tux. Mada mugs over with one hand denting down his hat, the other holding a pilfered plastic sipper, in which he’s iced Hamm’s two lost teeth, found slushed on the reststop floor, having been spit to slide slip under a chair against the easternmost wall. Limoside, he stoops to enshrine the sipper in Heber’s hands limp, taking a moment to arrange them in a disposition of prayer before he and Hamm make their attempt on the Kieferöde.

It’s the wind that rustles them in, a gust of rope, a whipping noose—branches snap underfoot and those under them, sog; at lot’s edge, last scattered lungs of leaves still hang from the boughs, breathe uneasy, giving way to the horripilation of needles, sharply incising of flesh, prickling floor. Staying near, they scurry the two of them as one, a mutant rodent now sundered at its gut by the jut of a tree it has to pass as they, on two legs each they hurry, they run; dense stone foliage snaps up against them, whips into their faces as hard as knots, as barbed chains…Mada shouting His name and it echoes in the voice of Hamm, who shouts to echo Mada with them too occupied in the preservation of their status of employment to notice the difference, if any; them running deeper into the needles’ slice, the blistering cones, then having to slow, the forest treeing denser…rimming these immense windquaked piles of leaves, and huddling, too, around widening trunks dark, deepfurrowed, furry with moss; these piles themselves piling into one solemn pile flaming with ice, identified as Joysey in atlases too soon to be made obsolete: they slip into this pile of piles, and into splenic cranbogs, scumponds of sunken, groping root; slicking on slabs of blighted bark, which is the fallen scab of the wound that is the tree, a scar on the horizon known only as white in this weather. Their feet mire in sap, freeze, they fall then right themselves only to lose each other, themselves, nature fills their mouths when they try to scream, what, why, Shalom, Benjamin’s name—echoes echoing wet leaves around tongues, as tongues, down their throats into stomachs, needles, also, that’d slit throats down to navels, spilling their pursuit all over the floor of the forest, amid the dreck and the imprinting paw.

A wood, the Kieferöde it’s been called, where many of the wealthier residentials of greater Siburbia went to loose their canine companions aged old and useless. When You Won’t Put Them Down, Put Them Here, an old plankside sign offered in the ought tens, bought as a collectible curio summer memories ago by a retired Philadelphia lawyer weekending at an antique market out by the founding of the forge that was Batsto: Jack for Sale, its reverse went on to declare, by the bushel, the basket—Apples—Pumpkins—Golf Course Sand By the Bag or Trap…they’d drive themselves out to this particular weathered marker, maybe driftwood set to demarcate another, more intimate, distance, that of love fallen out of, perhaps, an incalculable exertion; at whichever exit, a tenthed mile, a third, mensurated like mad, amid the wilds of New Gretna, just a shallow inland from Mystic Island, the milchy oyster bay and shoals giving way to the wetlands by which the Absegami first came to settle Absecon, the cattailed marshes turning to cedar, the birchedbeery, dogwooded wade; its exact number, though, if any it had, a secret to be passed around only in whispers at dunch parties and schoolboard meetings from brother to inlaw, a wooden designate standing high and holy menhir, megalithic, ever ancient and older even, as if natural, organic, grown of the earth, in the early light often recommended for the execution of this particular ritual: usually the morning of a Sunday with the kinder all still attractive, intelligent, promising, and unsuspectingly asleep, they’d drive on out, stop for coffee black for him, milked and sweetened with flavor for her, drive then stop again on the shoulder rumbling as if the earth disapproved of their betrayal and would quake in punishment, to swallow and so betray them, throw it in reverse, stop then throw open the hatch doors of their vehicles allterrain, to kiss and kick, slap and punch and, ultimately, to lead by the leash—there to let their unwanted pets loose to the world. And the Top Ten it’s your faults given for this were, drumroll please…Lameness, Rabidity, Old Age, Senility, Newfound Allergy, Unwanted by New Husband, by New Wife, Scared the New Baby, Newly Moved In Dying Parent, Grandparent and the like—don’t get defensive, it just ran away, we’ve been driving around searching for forget its name, it answers to hours, all Reward Offered day.

And so the Kieferöde’s stumped full of dogs of various breeds, many now regarded as domestically extinct. No longer around for your roll over, sit, stay. In a stark, terrible reversal of the laws of evolution—which reversion seems in the air of late, doesn’t it, an upheaval, an overturning—these dogs had devolved to an existence prior to that of domestication, to an incarnation even earlier: before the morning Shema, according to one rabbi or another, when a dog was nearly indistinguishable from a wolf. All were carnivorous, all ate meat, ate anything providing, though were starving, are always, these what to call them omnivorous, these allaccused, and manynamed: monstermutants, postnuclear primitives, survivors of hearth and home and neglect and abuse and of love, not enough, just wandering around foaming, gnawing hides, rending flesh with teeth sharpened on teeth; rendering their skins parchmentlike, palimpsested, adorned with scratchy symbols and daubed marks the language of an ungardened estate. And not only those still alive: of those lost, their boned carcasses lie everywhere ripped open to dank decomposition its stench vomitous; rot, the mate of disease. Predators swoop down to rend, tear flesh with talons; fleas swarm overhead, maggots teem pleasurelessly in remains. Verily, these are the only known denizens of the Kieferöde, predatory flying things, nibbling pests, and their native dogs, now a newborn and His frustrated pursuit. Mada initially thinks these dogs are dead, have to be, though are they playing, is this only part of the game: whispering at first, here Spot, tear out my jugular, or Hearsay, the Philly lawyer’s mutt, those precious billable morning hours fetched out on the beach in Sea Isle, Hear Say, come boy!—they wait for Mada to approach, then spring at his gut with an imposition of jaws, starry teeth, brilliantly yellowed, though, just prior to the bite, there’s a simper of slaver, they fall, into fur heaps, exhausted; it’s obvious they haven’t had food in a while, wet or dry. Hamm about to pet at their exposed ribcages, their flanks stretched thin, withdraws his hand, himself, with rakes, scrapes; who knows if they’d had their shots, whether Hamm’d had his…

Needlemarks covering their matted flanks of one vast scar, slicings through their coats, of which some are merely pilled, and others totally ragged, prophesizing in their motley markings the ineffable, the excruciatingly obscure. Those scrappy slits of weather, nature, and affliction untold loosing, also, the inner jellies of bulging, bloodshot eyes: there’s one eye bleeding, the other hanging out the socket by only a single thinning dangle; noses veined on by a mere shredded nerve, a fringing, a scapular tassel; frayed straps for tails and phylactery ears; hairs skewed in the electric antennal as if their existence shocks even themselves. It’s evident, too, they’d been rolling around in their own dreck, as the reek’s overwhelming, and black, both excremental and fleshified, and fiery, ash, with a whiff of the marshy egg to the east, it’s cold, and it dizzies: Mada’s loafers encased in droppings, these sickening green flecked in red, and pissyellowed, in every color of traffic’s bypass, control—the lanes that divide the forest into forests, the wood into woods, the known into all these many separate unknowns; every three steps or so he lands a foot in a leftover dogdish, overflowing with urine so acidic it scalds through the turd, then his loafers, dress socks, skin; then how he steps into it all over again as if to salve, and shrieks, inhaling remnants of the latest autumn, fall down the wrong throat.

They bury their burrows in wormy dens, hidden by snow, in pocks emptied by the force of forepawed rain, nests of leaf and needle, piles, logs hollowed for infestation. And then, come the dawn of late afternoon toward winter’s dusk, they crawl themselves out, to prey—what’s left of them, that is, what’s been left, their own stray parts, their lost. As many of these dogs are missing limbs—some with limbs hanging by torn tendons, others dragging themselves on two front legs only, on two rear legs, on one up front one rear left and right, right and left or, one leg or anything less how they’d deal. It’s apparent they’d long ago adapted to cannibalism: once rich dogs fed and watered well, exercised and groomed, even with papers, certificates of bloodline, shots and widely accepted veternary approvals, though now straggling superlean, scraggled scrawny; in their mouths, hunks of other dogs, either gnawed from them or loosed in miscellaneous incendiary, strayed in unfortunate mishaps, lost to accidental deterrence: four legs to stagger into errant leashtripwire mechanisms, you have to be careful, traps set down, concealed, leafcovered; dogs, only a handful, that still have their collars, their tags, by which they’ve been leashed up to treetops, hanging spread for the eagles, the night owls, and noontime hawks: who’d hung them; what, exactly, merited them this punishment—that they’d been coupled in heat on the Ark two-by-two…beware, what’s justice to the dogs?

With saliva freezing in jaws, both sires and dams, dogs and bitches, pups and whelps, slash at one another, then huddle together over their weakest dead to warm with the last pumpings of innards, and then, finally, with the smokelike steam of their panting; in masses emitting whines fiercely piercing at the chirpless pitch of dovish, preyedupon snowbirds flown south to tend to their Nest Eggs, anywhere but here with its graygrim weather and violence. With slobbersome, hotheavy tongues, they bay their own natures separate again in a snort, in a terrible gasp, dispersing in whimpers at dawn, with raging stomachs, with the stirrings of growl, a roar echoing from within the past shared. An instinct, they sense—intruders; they want their bones, a life to bury, other than their own, to grave down into earth.

The sun setting, and in its wane a host of tapetum lucidum reflect the moonlight risen over the snow, its dusky sandsheen—the Kieferöde, aglow with their eyes. Though it shouldn’t be in conjunction until the opposite season, the Dogstar winks above, Sirius to shine at the very height of the sky: nature resigned to regression, whistled home, put to sleep. Time is dark, and the packs attacking, not attacking, too tired, reluctant, retreating, seem deeply afraid—of what, the lost light, the starlight, the moon’s…of what else might night up ahead: a clearing, burnedover, barren, a forlorn expanse of sand topped with the rime of the prevailing hyemal, the whole of it ringed with stones ritually, and so as if a firepit or altar sunken, unmarked by tracks. Mada meets up with Hamm here, fetched and dogtired, they’re bit up, their clothes hanging in tatters; wounds flapping like the tongues of their limbs, they suck them warm with the wound of the mouth. Then, they hurl the stones of their encampment at the dogs more to air emotion than to injure, soon tiring, toward morning, the death of the stars. Hamm heels up a turn of sand, Mada sighs doubt.

Opposite the clearing from their entrance, a swath of old growth reduced by burning to husks, this clutch of trees gutted to molder—trees so closely grown, so barren and yet so near and twined, they’re one, as if splinters of the Great Tree, destroyed in the first lightning on the third day of Creation. In the midst of this burnt, wasteheaps, dumped, irradiated, who knows, and you really want to take chances, on trashcans municipal issue from any last Administration, overflowing a grossgummy slurry; above, plastics clinging to ashen branches as if shrouds for ghosts, windingsheets of wind; further: a huddle of wrecked hulls, the chassis of antique cars, junk without tires, up on their gas canisters and cinderblocks for repairs only the dead could perform; a disastrous prop aeroplane lost out of Newark, its propeller smashed, tail-twisted—blame a hurricane named the same as your mother, during which you, my boychick, were conceived; what else, the forest floor: a slippery and fall patching of kitsch novelty postcards once postmarked Atlantic City, lost on their summery ways to grandkinder residing northward in zips 10somethingsomethingother; rotors ripped from defunct telephones, discs gusted to roll edges across the scathed ground; dead AA alkalines, 9volts, spent bullet casings; a clutch of umbrellas, more metal spokes than holed fabric, tumbling around the trunks of trees, picking up radiosignals—foreign and maybe even extraterrestrial, yet outdated, old news of it all—amid screeches scratched on the exposed reticulations of roots; snakespidering a tunnelling web westerly and south toward this tree spanned wide of mysterious metal, its unpainted, autumnally oxidized leaves forming a mottled netting that, upon later inspection, are only odd, interrupted sections of fencing, makeshift and weathered, rusted, breaking here and intermittently there over ravine and ridge, piles and all midden manner of natural swell, the compost of stray cats, the ruin of paper mills, turbine, grist and furnace remains: a fence strung high and taut with barbedwire, tightly coiled to threaten, too, the wires that’ve flurred loose from Parkway’s edge, just further a wave, a thumb out and flag down—powerlines screaming their shadows, torching ponds of stray gas to flame, guttering at trunks of all root sunken with nothing left ringing above them to burn, no soul left to become ash, air, damning sky…

Benjamin, though…He hadn’t wandered as much as hurled, vomited Himself atop the mess and slithering over, to wriggle with the wind, with the treewind, the dogwind, Godwind geschwind, that of every quarter then against them, too, winds from all opposite fronts that make for this perpetual weather: unopposably gloomy, grave; maneuvering Himself stomached, roly-poled, scraping the clothes from His body, the skin. Unharmed upon reaching the clearing He continues through it, not to the right, and yet neither to the left, as it’s been argued by those who’d wish to forget this Joysey sojourn out of shame, but straight on, directly into the woods further burnt, immediately upon entering which His tshirt’s tail, used to patch the seats of His multiple pants, gets snagged, He rips, it tears; the mend says in white type bolded on blue: Goldenberg, Goldenberg, & Israelien, 25th Annual Firm Picnic, stained with the blood of the chosen.

A flag, a Joysey standard. Raise it high and proud above the any, all of us as upright as poles. Over the Gatekeeper’s, He remembers…the Development’s, too, had been blue and white and red, with a house in the middle field, stripped of family, its siding striped and windows starry. Benjamin slows into the pace of this memory, the sidewalk stroll from house to house, everyone of them known and the neighbors within them, knowing. An afternoon with His mother recovering outside for a walk, Hanna in the stroller, with Him pushing, to remember…these woods aren’t familiar, though, nothing doing. The little greenery He’d glimpsed, that’d been gardened, neatly, plots both herb and flower left untilled for the season of His birth, with the rest and more public of it landscaped, kept to grated planters along the slabs of Apple, Birch, Cedar, concrete, asphalt, planted to take root amid gravel that would ground the tankings of tiny pet fish, Judy’s gold, those upsidedown floaters flushed down the drain; with the odd weed, Developmentapproved rest assured, superadded for the sake of diversity. Trees separated, appropriately, spaced at intervals surveyed, all paid for by—Depro, the Development Prettification Organization, His father a founding member, and as such open, fair and solicitous, from donations received at the generously anonymous. Each tree would have its sign to own, tacked at trunk: Pick Up After Your Dog, as imaged with a mensch without face kneeling to scoop at poop; Curb Your Dog, no, curb your meaning; No Littering, except for the litters that are signs; alongside plaques that identified each tarred tree with its sponsor, whether individual or business, which was an excellent tax deduction—welcome to the sacred grove of the accountants, Mister Buchhalter, CPA, from down the block a ways.

Half Benjamin expects those other placards, the Latinate wood, those that identify tree from trees, and from forest, which sort as to type, Genus, species—as if to provide an experience more welcoming, more understanding, by way of introduction to the outer world, the earth unkempt by our trivial science. Him left unprepared for such surroundings, then, these trees so oddly intertwining, grown up from out the earth at any which way angle: these trunks writhing, without fruit, around each other and up; a canopy of closing trunks, obliterating the above; the occasional two trees merged entirely into one, forking into another, growing out the other; strangling two trees growing out from their trunk shared, mutual roots, common ground argued over in a high, conflicting silence…spindly burnouts starved of bark to peel from bone, their pleading limbs waved fanatically, fingers spread to the vault in a supplication charred, and chilling. He makes past them all on tiptoe into berryless branches, bush, through the webs of spiders, their spinneretwork sticking to His face, sticking His mouth from saying, fine dewed silk that holds the light, and then’s ripped through, torn by sound, by the gust with which it’s brought—the faint rataplan of wind, a clattering of the clouds with brandished branches. Fire tears the Kieferöde, a weapon unloading into the later sky, each bullet the beat of a wing…birds scatter, the echoes of their calls disperse into wind, as winds themselves; the snow snows on unabated. And then the smell, which is the promise of smoke, of heatless smolder, then the pineneedles, too, to Him an outer household disinfectant without any hint of that Floridian citrus, PopPop’s balmy lemonlime: more like an organic dank, an illicit wetness, as if of the panties of His mother schlepping, at the end of a long long day of rushing around, vomitous at depthless stink, the basement’s crotch, that of rot’s own grandmother, mind the hip, the slip to break all cracks; the reek pervades, subsumes, wafts spore, fungi and lichen under the horizon’s door—the woods, He wipes His mouth, an abandoned bathroom…to remember the womb, fold fast the underwear drawer. He’s wet Himself; what’s let is frozen; His knees are spurs of ice.

To trudge ahead with legs pissheavy, with hands under His arms, digging out the soak of His pits, shvitzing less from His escape than from a motherly exhortation to fear, that and the wet only freezing Him, slowing Him, more. Benjamin’s pants cling tightly to His body, His chest heaves Him out of breath, a babied mass of chattering fat, a shiver tightly wound around a spine. He’s panting for air, air, any air but there’s only the falling flake of ash, smoke flagging a heaven above weather. Then, the burnt wood clears, the trees disposed even sparser until only stumps remain, agelessly ringed, tressed trees within trees, then a fence in the distance, forever far and tall, with barbedwire curled atop, snarled sharp; to lick the metal, and stick. To step over puddling mud, intermittent holes hailed, He’s holding the fence so as not to lose it, its marking there…barbedwire merging with the clouds—they’ve grown into and around each other gnarled ever since the advent of all fall; He’s slowly rimming for an opening, an out, any.

Along the perimeter, scattered postal letters, these unopened, and more postcards, from Florida, registeredreceipt packages addressed to the same address that is none ultimately under a God’s directory of assuming names, stamped in ink wetted smeared into the earth. Benjamin stoops to overturn a soggy envelope, postmarked three years, two weeks ago in red, another letter to Santa or a party so named, c/o the North Pole; these letters forming circles around stockades of large square package, paperwrapped, tied in horsehair twine, darkstained in oil and leaking slow schematic drips that might only be melt, rainbow wires stick from them, and ticks inside. Iced hearts, about to explode, the spleen of the mechanical. And between these markers, sunken pits, ponds rare as they’re not aflame. Small pollutions, poisonous to think. They sizzle, hiss; their gases give a rise; an eruptive skin, tarthick. He thinks, to make ablutions, to stoop to drink from your own sink. Oil stains of the first rainbow. Ask your reflection—to destroy what world no more. Then further, over the last week accumulated, as if by the unlikeliest of weather up against the fencing—as if an offering to its metal limitation, linked indissolubly to authority’s rule: there’s a whole small mammal frozen, kept from decay by clouds and snow, and, unbelievably, too, from scavenge, placed to keep the form of an altar of halves and quarters, of unnibbled wings and thighs and breasts, most probably poultry, those of a chicken, or a turkey or both marked down on sale Aisle 10 from Thanksgivings and Xmases past, a coin lodged in the whole’s gizzard, perhaps, rendering it inedible, unkosher, tainted forbidden…a blemish festooned with rinds of pork and feet and ears and snouts and those other various entrails and meats of the pig, offal and flesh hung with bacon daintily, delightfully toothpicked to the hoarfrost of chops; ringed by a dozen eggs thrownout upon inspection, candled badly, wafting with the stench of the marsh. It’s an occult kind of ecclesiastical arrangement Benjamin finds here, is frightened by, further adorned with an order of oysters shucked, halfshelled, and a meaningful scattering of mussels, shrimp and squid also frozen to keep, a shellfish assortment, a gift basket of clams. High above this gourmandizing tower, a garment of mixed materials flagged from the fence, barbed to the wire to flap in the cold as if a warning, in its pocket two tickets to the opera or movies for next Friday evening (but cancelled). The entire tabernacle, maybe that’s what this is, Benjamin thinks as He avoids, not wanting to desecrate, not needing the guilt, marked at each quarter by cheap plastic lawn ornaments of the Virgin, themselves individually fenced off by lengths of rosary loosed of beads tied off to wire and trees, each miniature chapel, or church, fronted by the planting of crucifixes, splintered, branches and boughs thonged together to cross; all of it dazzlingly packed and floored with a flossy excelsior, shavings not of wood but of a whole Parkway motel’s worth of shredded New Testaments, as if prayers left behind by pilgrims in the hope of appeal—these being the local losses, and shrines like these appearing everywhere of late; heapings, makeshift piles windily scattered, unholy dumps to which all would, late at night, on dunchbreak from work, or on their ways home from work before nighttime’s conversion, haul all their olden, obsolete embarrassment—their sacrifices; that that’s to be given up, rent then lent out to decay out of season, in the chance of living differently, anew.

Benjamin wanders amid this incomprehensible humus until, there’s a noise: that weapon again, discharging its last, a strafe to empty, without warning this time—no longer a bird’s death, but a dog’s bark, the report of a howl; echo and echoed talking at the same time, to each other. He falls to the ground amid the stockpiles of worldly denial, this seasonal abnegation, or potluck—it’s a laughingly rumbling, regretful quake; the sky, slit, split, falls from the trees, lands on His head, needles to pierce Him laid splayed.

An approach sounds on the snow, loud and coldly damn it let them know what’s coming.

Benjamin raises His head, crawls on His back, His stomach, slowly makes forward.

A stump stands inside the fence.

A walking stump, a wanderous wondrous stump, astride the altar, decked with hat and gun.

Benjamin goes to put his hands up, way up, then realizes that if He does He’ll fall on His face again as He’s crawling.

I gave at the office! the thing talks, too, I toll you once I done toll you a thousand times—I gave at the office, goddamnit…the goy’s not quite a log hollowed out, but he’s wearing one, held up over his skinny with rawhide suspenders. His beard’s to his knees, bristled with thorns, streaked with berries suspended in the puke induced upon their careless ingestion. On his head’s a helmet, Kaiser Wilhelm style, an apple impaled on its spike. He nudges the muzzle of his gun to target Him—this here’s a Palesteinmade Mwhatever the hell, it’ll hole you right up…Benjamin half bows into a pond, dripping rims the fenceside altar on allfours still, rises.

You ain’t a dog, is you? the goy asks, lowers his gun, then sets it down against the altar’s fence, squints an eye, the other’s patched with the pad of a waterlily. I ain’t going to say it again, he says. Stand up. Stay. And so Benjamin heels, straightens out, cracks His back. I want you to take off your skins, slowly now, you’re already halfway. And so Benjamin begins to strip, easylike: disrobes His clothes, first shoes and socks, then plural pants, the goy stares, everything, he says, so He gets Himself nude out of the fruity underwear, and the pressed pinned shirts of His father, lays all in a wrinkling heap—throw it over…and the goy slips Him a slop pail on a pulley slid along a downed powerline. Not folding ever, He stuffs His clothes down into the pail, which the goy in the log reels in over the fence, then shimmies up a tree inside, logged torso and legs smoldering trunk, he descends with the clothes he heaps at the rear of the altar. He leans over, strikes a match from his mouth on himself and fires the pile, whistling through oozy gums he blows on it to burn through the soak—puny smoke, the flames gutter: this offering refused, Benjamin’s pants emerge only singed.

The goy lifts his lily, squints what’s his one good eye at Him and asks, what’re you doing here? To stick a twig in one ear, stick out the other. You lost? Got a name?

I’m fleeing.

He scratches at himself, raising splinters—they after you, too?

Benjamin thinking, who isn’t?

He peeks past the goy into the fence’s interior, nudging up on His tiptoes and around the altar between them: the growth seems to clear, comes sparser, unnaturally nude; resembling nothing but a risen scalp, a barren balding from haphazard uprooting, use, trod upon, paced gleamingly naked if not purely white, coldbleached leaves and needles giving way to a covering of only a small stubble of saltgrass up from under the snow—a skinned head, rimmed around to the west by an armband of brackish river, flowing toward the east and its trees, the dogs, the Parkway then the Atlantic, there the water refreshed of its frozen clarity, clouded and heavied with salt; this and its compound—apparently, a vast wall—hidden by the forbiddingness of this altar’s late treyf, pilings secreting all access.

Anyone on the lam’s a friend of mine, the goy’s saying as Benjamin sidesteps idolatrous Madonna statuettes, the shrouding vestments, censers extinguished, and the meltfilled, birdbathing, dogdished fonts and collectionplates stacked. I know a victim and you, friend, whatever your name is, are you ever Him; the goy stooping Him through a hole ripped in the fence, squeezing Him in—its links stabbed through with the voice of the wind, as if in warning but which: flee thither, or don’t; the chains bind His flesh, slice and gash at His pudge. There’s no infiltration here, he promises, serious lockdown, my perimeters are ultrasecure, and he releases a bush back into the wild, on the other side of the fence snapping it into its planting to screen. The goy stands with his hands on his log, proud and beaming, as if after a kind word, a compliment or thanks. He takes from his helmet’s spike its rotted apple and with wrinkly lips lays into the mold, a white fuzzed sheen the same shade as the flesh beneath, he gnaws from it a hunk, spits out half a worm and now has two teeth remaining: you want a bite? he asks, then swipes the mud and the moustache stray from the fruit and with an empty smile offers it out.

But Benjamin’s otherwise occupied, turned…to that incongruous wall just beyond: a height of irreconcilably colored bricks, loosening from their laying, their cracks covered over with paperings, scrawl—so much so that it’s all drossed, weighted down, leaning to topple with wind.

This here’s my church, the goy says, replacing the apple and with a sweep of filthy hand beckoning closer, the fingers webbish and flicking dirt from their flail, HQ of LAFF’s what we’re calling it this week, the Libertarian Armed Faction or Front, haven’t yet made up my mind…you might know our work? Forget it…and he raises his rasp for His attention: I’m known as the Most rt. Irreverend Lemuel Leeds, Chaplain-in-Chief, Joysey Irregulars, the first, last, and only division of its kind, thank you kindly…Benjamin, though, He can’t be distracted, diverted, over here, this’a’way, despite how with hands and fingers and nails sharper than shivs or drops of weather and with slitted eyes and snakish tongue, too, Leeds persists in showing off his station, its militant amenities, the lately newest improvements he’s happiest about, the first line of trenches freshly dug, the dock only recently planned: what I’m saying is, you’re safe. Secure, for now. Amid this openness, veiled. A pox upon the shaved pate of the earth.

At the foot of the wall, the lone structural survivor of disaster, a boiler’s bankrupting explosion, a gristmill’s wheel rolled amuck: a ruin of destroyed foundations, blackened bricks and gray, too, and others in all of near sunset’s shades held aloft with mossy mortar—are a number of portapotties, Chamber of Commerce white if sullied, and reeking of waste, piss, and antiseptic fluid, scattered amongst what have to be hundreds of monitors heaped haphazardly, their screens scoopedopen, the wiry guts and circuitry cleared, then refilled with sandy soil; they’re being used as planters, hosting the growth of what might still flower or fructify winter: tuberous roots, black and brown and other wasteshaded, turdy starchy things that’ll squat in the stomach for seasons. Benjamin extends a fat finger to knob, to turn their volumes up to silence, as if for the edification of a flock absent from the multitudinous religious furnishings surrounding: rickety pews arranged in sloppy rows, a rattily cushioned kneeler at front, a hassock turned splintery lectern topped with a rock to prevent it from being blown away that’s how grievous it is, and how weak. And then further, as He wanders a looping, around—the house, the old homestead failed by its flimsy wood and globbed white paint: on the inside of that wall outside papered and graffitied heavily with all manner of misprint and image, and there kept safe from the weather, Leed’s oversized trailer, doublewide, without hitch, surrounded with scrap and junk not waste or the dump of materials found but more like hunks and even rooms of the trailer that’ve fallen off over time, undersky. Off its cinderblocks, though, and sinking slowly into the wet, it strikes Him as nature itself, as if so overgrown and for so long it’s become, finally, organic, embodied, incorporated, ingrown: the stairs leading to the door are stumps; its roof the slatted rows of long dead trees the wind might’ve swept into shelter.

But it’s the wall above that interests, that holds. Webstuck to it under kinks of spiderwork, nailed, screwed, needled and pinned, there’s everything you ever need to know (but, yes, were afraid to ask), the casebook displayed, the fact file. Benjamin approaches it again in His wend, slowly around and circumambulating around its corrupting presence amazed, what not to be by these skins, these hides, maniacal pagings parchmented by weather, burdening the faces of slagblackened, goldenbrown brick: windrustled tattery newsprinted images of white middleaged Midwestern balding and cleanshaven and glassesed politicians posed in meticulously managed stages of photogenicy and colors of tie blue and red, faced amid a clutter of magazine clippings, tearsheets of fawning, gawking celebrity profile: who adopted whom, who’s dating, who’s married, who’s all broken up; faded mugshots of movie and television actors and actresses and those ostensibly famous for doing nothing, for being nobody—an act, their eyes and mouths circled or xd out in black; above and below obsessive reams of mullet length statistics subtracted from the ERAs of assorted Yankels or were they Metz pitchers since traded in an unspecified though rare losing season, multiplied by a multitude of precipitate statistics for greater Berlin circa every year of the last war; a ream of passenger manifests, apparently, recovered from the wrecks of defunct, Russianbased aerolines who could read that language, that unalphabetical foreignspeak; timetables of garbage pickups for Harlem, New York, New York; a flapping, dogeared map of Mormondom, Utah, strung across to nails with human hair meshing together every known abortuary ever to offer that procedure of damning sin for under a grand out-patient; Leeds’ hands splayed open it seems what with the dirt prints that remain used as stencils traced in pen on a map of Joysey, superimposed atop National Parks Service and U.S. geological survey maps of the Kieferöde with areas of probable dog saturation labeled and keyed according to the phases of moon; pornographic stills of male and female minors, hairless and pigtailed both demandingly angled, cut up and remade halfsexed, quarterlimbed, their resultant anatomies sectioned, and labeled: hearts, livers, kidneys, and spleens, where they would be embellished, in chalk and charcoal, with various gematric inversions and retrogrades attempted with the mailing addresses and telephone and facsimile numbers of a host of Texas holding companies with interests in both oil and war; the ages, too, heights and weights of their CEOs along with the dates of their mistress’ birthdays, then stapled and clipped to an alphabetical list of and scripts for the medications they take for any sexually transmitted viruses they’ve been given by them; Leeds says, finally noticing Benjamin’s curious browse, did you know that when the Freemasons dedicated the Washington Monument, that it stood, what’s it now, 555 feet and 5 inches tall, all those fives, and that its base, you should be aware, is 55 square feet and then that the windows they’re set 500 feet above that base, too, isn’t that crazy, I’ll be damned—now, didn’t know if you knew this one, either: that if you take the base and you multiplied it by sixty, or in other words by five times the number of the year’s months, which are twelve, and you get what, 3,300, that that’s the exact weight in pounds of the capstone of the thing, like the pyramidschemes the aliens made, the allseeing eye up there, Ra the Sun God, the Cyclops on the paper money bill, you with me, if I’d had one I’d show you with all the poisonous spiders and Latin; follow me here, as the name Washington as you know has ten letters, of course, five times two, and that if you then take that capstone’s weight multiplied by the base yet again you get, just give me a second here, 181,500, that’s it, which is as we all know roundabout the speed of light in miles per second, the whole atomic project, this is nuclear now, you get it, no one survives; and then, that if you take Washington, the name, I mean, which has a numerical worth of 122, with W equaling 25, A, 1, S, 19, H, 8, you get me, alright, and then let’s say you go and take that 122 and subtract another seven first for the G in George Washington, and then again five, which is the governing number of the Monument, as we’ve found out, and also of the Pentagon’s pentagram, if I haven’t yet mentioned, which is the symbol of the devil, Satan 666 (and how many letters does George have? now you’re getting my drift) the dragon serpent and the fallen prince of this world taken times two for the division between the base and the obelisk’s top, between George you with me and Washington and what do you get, you get ten, also the number of the Israelien tribes and so of the sons of Jacob, too, of Israel the goddamned IRS ATF kikes and then let’s say you go ahead and map that onto the calendar, say, the 365 days of the year and what do you get again, you get 105, if it’s not a leapyear, that is, which is the day that taxes are due, you get how it’s all connected with the Vatican Mafia and, if you weren’t aware, the day Lincoln died the same day after having been shot the night before, which…not only nailed and screwed and stuck with web and spit to the wall but also stuffed, stuck deeply into its cracks, between the burnt, ferruginous bricks, as messaging mortar, as all that holds the whole repose upright, keeps it from falling from its own grace: as a safe and secure depository for this madness, preventing it from becoming actioned into violence or humiliation upon the surrounding beach communities, exits north and south on the Parkway, just upstream, then down to the Delaware Bay. Far to the edge, a strip in white spraypaint, a thin listing stretch swathed entirely with naming displacements, interpolations of vowels:

STEINSTEIN :: STINESTINE, STEINSTEIN :: STEENSTEEN,

STEINSTEIN :: STINESTEEN, STEINSTEIN :: STEENSTINE,

STINESTINE :: STINESTINE, STINESTINE :: STEENSTEEN,

STINESTINE :: STINESTEEN, STINESTINE :: STEENSTINE,

STEINSTINE :: STINESTEEN, STEINSTINE :: STEENSTINE,

STINESTEIN :: STINESTEEN, STINESTEIN :: STEENSTINE,

STEINSTINE :: STINESTEEN, STEINSTINE :: STEENSTINE,

STINESTEIN :: STINESTEEN, STINESTEIN :: STEENSTINE…then above everything, at the very fall of the wall, the height of its highest loosening brick leaning to topple atop the slats of the trees roofing the trailer—it’s the head of a dog, killed in attack or that’s just how its expression’s been preserved for the mounting.

And, what’s this is all Benjamin thinks to say, standing naked.

Don’t you know, Leeds says on his way up the stumps to the trailer, figgering I’ll trust you—it’s the plan, understand.

No.

I’m just pulling your putz, son, what’s that they say, pishing buttons, and he gasps, leaning his head out the trailer’s lone window, also its chimney, and puffing smoke—this stuff was here when I moved in, you know, came with the wall…

But you must be freezing, he tries to say, through deeply worrisome coughing: come inside, chow’s almost on.

A trailer little more than an oven, its longways spanned down the middle with a flagpole fallen, suspended from window to window, one of its ends still topped with an eagle melted of wings: stolen from its stand outside the local euthenics school, a State Police outpost abandoned to tragedy and its rampageous dogs, a city hall with no city left to its name once the ironworks went bust, the mill broke down, rolled its stone to seal tight its sepulcher. It’s now the spit for the pig, the leftover half of a whole sow Leeds’d been feeding on the finely mealed remains of minority mutts then slaughtered just last week for his Xmas, since turned, a mite sour: an appreciably fat, devastatingly hairy faygele pinko of a sacrificial animal, an oinker one flank remaining being lashed with thick whips of greasy flame, a conflagration fed halfwise, crosssectioned, with bushels of leaves drifted down on wispy midnight wipings of dreck, then stoked, too, toward its premium rump, with its young—Leeds left its piglets inside as a sweetening. Kill and heat, a recipe as old as fire and death. To improve, he takes what’s left of the apple from his helmet, stuffs it into the mouth of the porker. A locomotive puff: a snout’s two smokestacks, one for you, one for me. Tickled pink, more like gagged. Pig, the food of the Gods, Leeds says as he heaps on it rocksalt that might be nits from his hair, the only white meat for me. Trichinosis, it’s government fearmongering, don’t be fooled, it’s all disinformation…subversion, a repression mentality—afraid of the psychic gifts, keep on giving. Benjamin freezing and unable to breathe. Mind it, will you? It just needs to warm up…and Leeds heads outside, returns up the stumped stoop with a canister of gas, pours it to empty over the spit; it flares, their meal singes; he leans over to savor and so basting the whole dish crude with his beard, then shoves an arm up the animal’s tract—it comes out utterly far from clean, so treyf ’s served.

A table’s outside, one of the portapotties toppled lengthwise, halfway drained, and Benjamin’s sent out to set it.

Plates? He asks again at the doorway and Leeds distractedly hands Him a sheaf of papers that comment last week in obituary, eulogistic columns.

Utensils? Welltrained, brought up civil. And what does He get for His trouble, which’d been Hanna’s—only an annoyed eye, lilied disgust. Fork and knife…meaning, with what are we supposed to sup the food that God hath given of Himself unto us? With another one of God’s gifts, with two of them if we’re lucky, that of our hands that’ve been wrought in the image of His. Give me yours, says Leeds stomping outside, here hold mine—nothing weird about it at all. To say grace, then Amen, not a woman or an anything else. With his left he stirs at the tableside toilet, wrenched from the potty, plungering away at its moonshine brewing, pure grain, joy juice with just a dash of melted weather to taste. He offers Benjamin a preprandial sip from the rubberized font: al-cohol, he says, only good turn the Ayrabs ever done us, though why they won’t drink the stuff themselves, don’t ask me; goddamned diaperheads, sandshvartzes, though they have the right idea as far as Palestein goes, I say burn, baby, burn it all the damn down…not just in His throat, this rare heat: the smoke pouring pink from the trailer’s chimneyblack window. Leeds rouses from his squat atop the table’s disembodied potty, hunts a peck around, retrieves from a rut in his yard under heaps of fallen wall, amid paperings and jaculatory jot, a rusted chunk of chainsaw, takes it up the stumps with him inside, feels fingers over its tracks pushing splinters out and through, then revs with the ripcord, slices off a hunk of pork, taking a good stretch of his beard along with it, wiping, a napkin.

At stoopfoot, Benjamin holds out His newspaper scraps—necrology plus erroneous sevenday forecast—rustling, shaking, already drunk. Leeds tosses to them a generous flank, then revs again for himself and slices, serves to walk his meal back outside. Hope you’ve worked up an appetite. Dig in. But He waits for His host to partake, which is more fear than respect, or pleasantry, Hanna’s polite. Leeds’ head rears up, dinosaurlike, as if a raptor rapt for prey, this old, oddly carnivorous bird: nearfeathered facialhair, thin wrinkle mouth its lips dripping grease, undifferentiated gross, strands of sinew stuck askew from between remnants of fillingful teeth, stoops themselves, stumps, ruts amid gums, nubby rots, or just one of them, or half, and a tongue, or else none at all maybe and tongue forked, perhaps, no tongues that aren’t meat just hanging from the hole whose, He observes, dentition lacks entirely, lost or pulled it’s anyone’s guess.

Pork: Benjamin had never had it—who do you think He is, thank His parents, their rabbi, his insatiably parochial God—had never seen or smelled it, heard its own goddamned oink, never petted a specimen at the zoo, no, neither, but He anyway knew the restrictions, He’d been born knowing. He’d never not kept kosher, when and how the opportunity to pig out on forbidden foods? Wherefrom trefyheadedness, who would even think or ever could?

He knows that His virgin doesn’t serve Him, that first taste, it’ll sicken, it has to, poison even, has already without it, a lip, a mere sniffling lung. All in His head, His head’s saying: psychosomatic the symptoms, the parasitic signs, a worming, and Benjamin’s feeling them, too, wriggling up His fingers, down His throat, furrowing the burrows of brain—imagining small, generically animated pigs pink as sin, shvitzing hot as psychedelically napalmed, turning flips in His gut, rooting around down there in the bile colonic, dirty snouts flaring deep amid the gastric denature: His stomach, the trailer, piglets nosing evidence from off the westernmost wall. An estimable mouthful, a steaming morsel—such virginal schmeck weighs upon His tongue yet to be downed, the meat and not the lingual anatomy that if swallowed itself would choke and make bestially dead, which is why the drink, grained booze more and more of it He plunges, too much and profane of a Kiddush, it’s never enough: L’Chaim, L’Avram, L’Benjamin, too…come on down’s the idea, the digestion’s fine—the flow tasting like antiseptic, thousandflushed with a tinkle of blue chemical toilet deodorizer, potpourri sprinkle, faint hints of moldy potato peel, onion-skin, and low notes of musky piss vintaged last week; it washes past, and with it the hunk of pork flows down whole to gag swallowed, without bitten chew; it would’ve snuck up again and out if not for a slap, quick and feely from Leeds leaning over.

Perfidy, he says, you was hungry, then smiles, haven’t had anything, reckon, in a while.

It slithers, a raw pink leeching the animal’s parasite’s parasite slow in its own sleazy grease—to settle in His stomach, a fresh new infestation, this hosting warming Him wrong, an eating fever of fleischig, this meat shvitz and yet, amazingly, without guilt. Thus the squeal of revelation doth enter…pork! this stuff edibles incredible! It can’t be believed, what a ta’am, what a taste; Benjamin breathes. I’ve never had anything—what? Only a growl. He teethes into His next, tears at His meal with assenting nods of the head: one’s slob another’s primitive, and both He’s happy to be.

Pork, Leeds says finally satisfied, proud almost as if he’s responsible not only for this specific preparation, a recipe he’ll secret if only for the kooky thrill of it, but also for the existence of the species entire: it’s the universal meat, after all…you know this, closest animal to us humans, it’s like cannibalism without the threat of prosecution, incarceration, all that prison raping to death—hell, even the darkies agree, they love them their white meat, finish it off with a little watermelon, spit them seeds out, grow their own, if not for the weather. And then you got those people that just went and died, you know, poor souls, the Affiliated they’re calling them, they didn’t know what they’d been missing these however many thousands of years, I done lost count since Christ; too occupied making their retirements, too distracted making the world turn on time, beats me, I’ve been beaten before. I’m glad they’re all dead and gone, serves them right; I hear you got just the firstborns left…you heard the one about that lastborn kid they think survived—they need to find that kid and give Him the business, the what’s what, just deserts. There’ve been rumors, you know about this—former Treasury secretary or head of the Fed out on this nowhere Island, New York, hope of hopes that hole gets totally wiped out soon enough, hand of God or earthswallowed, it’s done enough damage; anyway, this Das they call him, don’t know what it stands for if it ain’t his name or title, he’s out for the firstborns: if he’d do what I’d do then I wish him all the luck in the world…cowering, Benjamin’s a lump, stumped for the saying at the end of the portable, semipotable table, pottydrunk, stuffed on seconds and thirds, more and still nude.

Jesus, my manners in heaven and Leeds gets up only half lucid himself, staggers into the trailer—you must be freezing, he says, ain’t no one yet used to a winter like this…scaring up on a kick, a flail rummaging, think I got an outfit around here somewhere, something from the good old days—he’s rooting amid slop, dripping, jars kept of offal, animal effluvia, raising his head to the wall of the trailer and its cross hung there, the crucifix for a scarecrow that’d never quite worked on the dogs, a scaredog, why not, frighteningly thin branches burdened with white; he rips the shroud off then crows out with the uniform of a Klansmensch—you’ll look just perfect in that hood, it’s very vertical, slimming, throwing it to Benjamin who shrouds it on over His naked; it’s way too tight, but it works. And you should definitely put on a new face, all excitement now, a little much fayg, what he hates—but something new, something different…stoops to grab up snow, under it a fist of sandy soil and below that, black, while with the other hand he frees Benjamin from the gagging peak, on backward, turn it around and try to find your eyes, the slits Oriental: this is so they won’t recognize you; and he begins applying the stain as liberally as his politics allow, digging the thick frozen grime into His face with greasy, rough-wrinkled fingers. I should remember you are who you are, and not this minority reporting out and about, else you’d be in a hell of highwater trouble…lucky for you the more bowls I drink the better my memory gets; what in God’s name was I saying, who are you? he goes as if to punch His teeth, the only light visible, though just knuckles his guest a dark dimple, Benjamin’s wide cheek he shrouds again with the hood he then pyramids high by the tip, its pointy white foreskin: don’t worry, son, I’m kidding, that’s just me having your rib…

A smattering of shots, then two, three more and their echo, their echoes—Leeds falls to the ground, to the hole he’d dug for the face of his guest; it’s not that he’s been shot, as the blood about his mouth is the pig’s, underdone. Those swine after you, he says, don’t worry none, we’ll hold out, I offer full protection plans, no money down, sanctuary veritably guaranteed, this wall’ll never fall. I’m ready for a fight, a standoff, anything; we’ll hold here for months, years, Armageddon, we got enough pork—goddamnit, kid, he’s too loud now, smacking the earth and seeming to cry, I’m only a chaplain, ordained, licensed and bonded, but still…there are rules of engagement, there are dogs. Attack, will you. Fetch the yelps. Simpering whimper. Bitch out the bawls. Then, more shots, the undocumented calls of miniature, metallic, silverbeaked birds…a trampling of nature then fence. Benjamin gathers the hood tight overhead. Leeds quiets, puts a finger to his lips, raises another two to his eyes, with yet another finger points to the wall, sucks his thumb. He follows him, and they take shelter in silence: a squat behind bricks and trailer still puffing its signal…Leeds inconstant, disconsolately weepy one moment then all planning energetic the next. He beats out a march on his log, then springs up and begins searching himself flailingly, desperately behind his trailer the sloppy piles of trash—overwhelmingly papers and leaves fallen from potty refuse dumped black to freeze the baldness—for thrown bones or leftover flesh scrapped to serve, to appease the hungers of the howlings that near, then recede: the fierce howls and moans coming in waves too strong and too irregular for the creek, and in echoes of sounds too distantly dim, too muffled by the trees and leaves then dispersed by the wind to hear as to species or sense…only to near once again, a circling of noise and heat, a brutal noose of scurry and snap: this attack in its muster not animally savage, as would be expected, with barking and bite, but apparently organized, taken out back and executed with discipline—human’s the suspect, the goyim’s good shepherding…

An hour hunts, stalks its approach in ritual ringings, a merging of smokes.

Suddenly, a voice reveals through a megaphone:

Send, it distorts, if a voice of God then the voice of a god testing, just sounding it out…an airhorn, then, so sorry, it says, I pressed the wrong button:

Send, Send, am I doing it right, can you hear me, you can, Send the Minor Out, how’s that, and You Will Not Be Harmed And Neither Will He. Good. I’ve got it now. I’m alright. Be Reasonable. We’re Reasonable People. Or If Not Reasonable Then At Least We’re Trying. There’s No Excuse. I Mean Escape. I’m Sorry. I Apologize Too Much. My Therapist Says I’m Making Progress…enough. Don’t Get Wise With Us, You’re Grossly Outnumbered. Then, gevalt what next what next…there’s from nowhere, as if both visited down from the clouds and as cloud itself—smoke; not pigsmoke, smokesmoke; they’re setting everything on fire…it’s a strategy sieged without mercy, without appeal—if you can’t beatem, burnem, and so this tactically torched forest, the scorching of woods. All’s aflame, the tinder kindled, untamed: the wall’s caught and its craziness burns to growl big, a roar despite the pelting of sky.

The toilets, they smolder.

Never! Leeds says with regard to what, he’s already forgotten, but it’s the thought that counts to ten, nine, eight…then hesitates toward what would’ve been three—throws a grenade that soars up through the fire as if an expelled spark, a bomby wingless creature flying freely over the wall, lands…agents scatter, a smatter of suits and the flutter of ties like rare snakes, the grenade doesn’t—explode: goddamned clods, he says, pinecones, what, defective under battle conditions. A slash of tongues, a roaring, the roofing trees aflame and so they decamp westward behind the trash pilings that front the river further, cedarbrown beneath ice, a stilled running of rust. Our position still secure, Leeds yells into his fist, over, he hisses, a fiery crackle, a burning burr in his throat, the boozy dizziness and the womanly, weakening stress…remembers only then his Mwhatever the hell, remembers it’s all out of ammo. And has been for weeks. Three agents advance slow steady in lockstep, firing shots into twilight, downing stars to be culled for collection. They’ll be examined, byopsied by communists, Mexican migrant trash, aliens picking a new glowing fruit. Regroup, Leeds says, retreat, whatever; he rips off his helmet and punts it away, making contact with it at the brunt of its spike and so hurting his foot, which is bare and so, bleeding…the river’s our only hope, he says limping, gnawing his tongue—I’ll ready the vessel, you hold them off…but without saying with what He’ll defend, Himself and His host, his churchy compound and their Joysey land, besides, any better ideas, the chainsaw he shoves into Benjamin’s hands, Leeds scuttles scarce, into needly underbrush, the shorelining sparse, scurrying low, bareheaded balding and stooped: there to the stolen rental canoe loosely roped to a stump on the verge of the creek rearing his property—a vessel battered old, striped in white peeling paint, beat out of shape in aluminum.

Benjamin follows behind, waddling in white vesture smeared over the slick and snowmuddied; His pointy hanging hood hooking in His lumber on a perimeter’s branch hanging low, snagging Him, choking, breathlessly bringing Him unbalanced to fall—rearing up the saw panickingly revved in His hands to tear from the ancient, ashy tree its moldy boughs and bark, them crashing down on Him to hit on a root exposed, jaggedly knobbed, knotted, to gash Him on His head, the saw remaining lodged in the trunk. An advancing agent in a suit and tie the black issue of what department there’s no time or clearance to tell grabs Him, lays Him out face up, lifts hood to air Him, shakes, slaps, He’s out. At Benjamin’s falling cry, Leeds turns from untying their canoe, his straddle of the gunwale with one foot to steady the thwart while with the other still bleeding he’s stomping to free all from the freeze, then—he’s frozen, too…shrieking, they’re agents, kovert kosher operatives, Gmenschs they are maybe diamond merchanting Hasids, perhaps Mormon Hasidim, militant lesbian activist fascists who the futz knows; him tipping, to almost wading, kicking hard at the ice into water surrounding the bob of the logged canoe, eventually freeing its hollow freeze, shoving it out then over the floeslick, to water open if sludgelike, thick like a pudding or iron soup, bog metal smelt and yet cold: grabbing the paddle by its shaft, choking up for the steering and heading upstream against flow, deeper into the woods, the Kieferöde dim, its piney hide. The canoe, though, throws all downstream, along with the under-current a tug imperceptible and yet stronger than him, fate implacable and should’ve been humbling. Leeds drops his paddle in midstroke to cup hands, yell again a last for Benjamin but by now he’s forgotten the name. Sounds like—I lost it; the whistling water, finally flowing out here, and whiter with force, a froth that’s rabid, that’s thirsty. Purifying, too, washing to swallow. All hands cupped to the bailing. More agents arrive onscene, commence laughing, they can’t stop…and, are you ready for this—it takes six of them, two to His legs, two to arms then two more holding up the saggingly white-sailed, surrenderflagged middle of Him to triage, to lift Benjamin then hump Him herniate through the woods to the clearing, along the way the agents surrounding His path, the trail newly marked, trod and fired, shooting stray at the dogs coming near, never close. Carcasses lie everywhere, theirs, being ravaged, teethtorn, and savagely pawed at by dogs still alive if only barely, though shot through themselves and singed, with others clear burnt, their hair hardened to an insectlike shell, a pest’s exomost skeletal. With existence at peril, they’re less inclined to attack (these instincts so terribly tough to stray lost); they sense out the danger, react with a low. Heads hung with night, they cower and bitch, drag themselves sorrily into loggy dens to recover, to heal; they’re slowed by the bullets lodged in their hindquarters, their flanks—there to lick at their wounds, though still hungry for anger they gnash, as if feeding on themselves never sated.

And far below a raging helicopter—a robotic locust native to a local military installation who knows behind which stump or sump it’s been hiding, its spindly rotors wild with whirr—rising high then north by northeast again through space amid dark; humbling the supplicant trees, a forest bending from the copter’s cresting rise to bow low as in that dream of Joseph’s—it’s Leeds, hurling at them and God Who hovers above and below them, in every tree, as every leaf fallen and under every rock overturned, a handful of dumb, pathetic stones poached in his progress from river’s bottom and weighing down his vessel, his stolen rental canoe, aluminum and holed, weatherbeaten, shorebattered, snubbowed, which’s rapidly sinking no matter how fast he hurls them up, hurls them out; stones dropping, though, always just short of the airlift. One thrown directly up at the gyred glint above the wink of the moon falls directly down, hits him in the upturned face, knocking him over and out, to hold fast to the lip of the tossing, the rapidly whitewatering teeter, the river widening with the force of the current, if still cold and hazarded frozen, sharded sharply with ice toward the shores. He attempts both those banks at once in a flail, a futile grope, inevitably a doggiepaddle, is swept downstream, and further and brackish, toward the salting, the calming spanse of the ocean ahead—just over, it’s said, your run of the mill Joysey waterfall, this kill fluming logsplit, gaping its taillike spume spread as wide as the day; then over it he goes, hugely, whiskwhipped with a snap beyond the effervescent edge, aired to the rocks that rim the tidalpool below, not whirling but stillgray beneath a white unforgiving…to dash there, going under—then to surface; gasping a grasp at the stones he shrieks out of his own mouth now, as the canoe—turned birdy, as if a helicopter itself of one lone rotary paddle stilled by the gravity of the moon—comes down upon Leeds’ head, emptyfirst.

III

The hall is—what’s that they’re searching for, what is it that they always say—hushed; filled with bodies still alive if kept as cold as the corpses to which they’re related: this mass of firstborns ignobly birthed from one dream into another, huddled to the floor of the Registry for a meeting. They’ve been woken by sirens; sleep’s still in their eyes, night’s sand and damp in their knees and fingers—they’re so naked, they’re not even wearing their watches.

It’s early.

How naked are they? a voice might ask, a little late.

But listen. All time has been confiscated, to be reset to the hour of the Garden, the timeless Edenic. No clock has ever hung here in the Registry, or been set atop the Great Hall, and no clock ever will hang, and none will ever be set. This is an orientation, in the other direction, the direction most opposite—not east by west cardinally but in time, the past, or in the eternity that is tradition kept daily…O think of the opportunity! think of the spoils to be unearthed in such still! And know, too, there’s no further contingency, this couldn’t have been planned for, mapped out, or plotted. Any better than it’s already been. Among this generation, who’s the prophet, tell me, the navi, I want to know, who merits a vision like this. Bring him to me and I’ll cut out my tongue, I promise, I will—I know I will.

Hundreds of thousands of firstborn males have been forced onto this Island—ingathered they called it once, a making of Zion with their brethren left dead—and you thought seven seals and a prancing white horse were too much, nu.

As for me, I wasn’t there—they left me home alone. I was gazing out my parent’s window.

At a reflection, I don’t know what.

Good Morning, & Shalom…eighteen mouths grilled in rust say at once from every recess of the space in a thousand languages, and this one, too, which is God’s.

You are now in the Great Hall. Our program will begin momentarily. Until then, anyone know any jokes?

That’s how you can tell they’re alive—that they finally silence the silence, ask each other in whispers then roars: the Great Hall, what’s so great about it?

Hymn. Allow yourself to be told.

In the beginning, there’s the schedule, which is the Law, they’re inseparable, of tablets—ten hours given down on metro Sinai. Mondays and Thursdays we wake, we wash, we pray and eat, then buss and clean, don’t forget to rag the sponge; Tuesdays, Wednesdays, sweep and mop, sinks and toilets, too. At every eve of the month, which is the new moon with its silver, you disinfect, you polish polish polish every other. Friday is Saturday, is now the Sabbath, which we call Shabbos. Observe it—it’s the only item on the agenda at which attendance is mandatory, wherever you are.

To give you an idea—it’s month the fourth by the civil calendar, month the tenth by God; January’s being forgotten, keeping watch for future north and south, not east and west, and so the flanks are exposed, and the revolution enters through the sidedoor, the porchdoor, the basementdoor, the maid’s…is everyone with me?

And all the heads nod, if only to wake. God, there must be millions of them, heads and necks thick and thin and hairy arms and legs, wandering to the Hall from their muster on the square, to receive the newest of gospels by gossip.

To be precise, this is the Registry, historically the Great Hall’s main room and the Island’s most preserved from its previous function: plasterwalled, roofed with barreling brick; a balcony slithers around to strangle, a knife cutting the inside’s vaulting height. At one of its extremes, the east, which is the front they’re presently facing, there’s a dais, topped with the only podium to be found on the Island, fronted with the seal of this new tenant concern: David’s star revived, encircled with white in a sea of blue, a representation of the land upon which they’re being kept for observation, survival; this podium has to be schlepped from meeting to place, from gathering to session, briefing to conference—another’s in the process of being requisitioned, its sexagrammatic seal’s even now being stamped onto all. At the rear of the hall, westerly toward its door and the massing of those arrived late, laggard, and so not given shelter, made victim to the flog of the weather, a numbed mumbly muddle of disabled or otherwise ailing survivors, the incapacitated with walkers, in wheelchairs; gurneys have been rolled; they’re swarmed by devotedly uniformed, nametagged attendants, essentially strangers, and necessary medical equipment on rental.

All of them, though, they’re naked not to be humiliated, only to be cleansed. To be briefed debriefed, their clothes, underwear and socks have been outsourced to sanitation, offIsland delousing, antiseptic douse; hosed, then machine wash again and tumble dry—how much they miss their maids, their hospice nurses, caregivers, bubbes and sisters, those inlaw, daughters and wives. Garments that require drycleaning have been marked and shipped accordingly. Everything will arrive back this afternoon by barge, it’s promised, unless the water’s frozen: the Hudson’s lower bay at whose Island wharf the last stragglers of the assembled stand, one foot to test the shoring ice. Thousands before them stand and sit and lean, as unhappy and nude as birth, as paled, only to be reborn here, to become initiated into this, the newest order—mourning. Though they could’ve staggered the orientation times, divided then subdivided them into groups, there’s no time, too much work: anyway, the totality’s what interests in this endeavor already failing, failed, the way information passes as rumor, whispers down the mob. And so morning for one’s been consecrated as morning for all—a host of histories lived simultaneously, symbiotically, Creation made coeval with Law. And this despite the cycle of any profaning, daily time—that of this continent or another the same, and, too, that of any family, work, or nightly love; all ingathered to this rationed, ruinous Island and set to an ultimatum’s test: forced union in damp, moldy quarters, early woken solidarity without brunch or even coffee yet, made subject to the life of a single people, its purpose…two clocks received into millions of hands: upon the metal mountaintop, the skyline’s Manhattan beyond—two cycles cast down to asphalt earth. Rain pounds rapt at hilly windows, its rap silenced by snow. All are encouraged to save their questions for later. Don’t waste them. Keep them safe.

High above the furthest doorway, in the back of the balcony at the back of the assemblage entire, a boy just of age and only recently fatherless raises his hand out of nowhere, then shouts. Ooo Ooo Ooo, call on me…over here—what question can he have; heaven forbid us assume. There’s a great rustling, a jocose jostle, as the kid’s accommodated, he’s handed toward the front, the crowding unclothed passing him to each other, up and over one another to the railing, his feet to dangle over the balcony’s filigreed edge. Perched there as if a musing God, a philosopher, or a miniature king just resting a little, still mulling, he scratches his head as if he’s only now lost the nerve; then, after a moment clears his throat and with his voice just breaking asks his question out into space—as if a tiny planet, to be accompanied by the murmur of moons.

The kid says, when do we eat?

Suddenly, amid hushes in shushes, pshts, fingers held to lips pursed in thirst—try to behave yourself, set an example, fix your hair, look your best—two goyim have entered the Hall, coming in up the stairs then through the crowd with their escort, guardparting with elbows, prodding with nightsticks, they’re proceeding down the aisle to the steps up to the dais on risers: one Doctor Abuya trying for dapper in a dark suit blue or black they can’t tell which, white shirt, slickly red silken tie, he’s pudgy, pasty, an excess of face beset by jowls, fatty as if of plastic gulleting between where the chins should be the chin, a wad of white hair messy atop the glaringly inclusive forehead, presently adorned with the unflatteringly rectilinear metallic glasses of a goy you can only trust never to trust, and so you know him—his eyes distorting his face with squint, like dimples made by fingers, knobbily kneaded into the face of unleavenable dough; the other goy, to be known to them as the Nachmachen, is taller and leaner though for now largely inscrutable in a tight robe that flows to the heels, hermetically dark and expensively hooded: half alterebbe, half secretsociety monk (a shadow purse of lips, a crescent bone of nose); everyone thinking in whispers, how important does he have to be to get away with a uniform like that. Doctor Abuya grips the podium, uncomfortable, stiff and shifty, his knuckles pale as if he’s at stool. And then silence—until he sighs, loosens, holds his pants in his hands, hoists the band up to his waist. From his hood, the Nachmachen forces a cough that’s a signal. A swath of slate descends. Chalk is brought, a clutch of bonewhite fingers borne to Doctor Abuya atop a pillow trimmed in plaited lace; the young Arab assistant retreats, scampers back into the wings. The Doctor feints to follow him off, his hands held behind the back, his stomach sagging him hunched, but he’s only pacing, around and around the surface, suspended. A blackboard hanging unsettled with the weather inside. The stripped boys and those older, beyond death, they sit, they stand, they throng, impatient but laudably so given the circumstances, who would believe; their eyes and heads follow his pacing; their ears swell, the hairs prickle; they pay attention through the nose—sniffling, an occasional sneeze. Only silence and the goy’s fatty footfalls, until—a screech…then, erasure by a coat edge, charily pinstriped wool stained with white. A small laugh bursts out from the assembled, in odd, nervous clumps, and the Nachmachen stomps a foot on the dais, carpeted in thick blue, which mutes his reprimand to a muffle. On the board slightly swaying, blackness is quickly being covered in markings, with numbers and letters in fingernail scratches like unhealing scars, desperate scrapes either for life, or against it—the Schedule…

0600 is Reveille, meaning wakeup, they’re advised, with a rousingly roostery trumpet, the metallic horn of a mechanical ram: the morning’s sounding of the Garden’s siren, which had been made to alert to air war, to send people a lifetime since dead, their entire families and livestock and what food and drink they could and candles by now a century past eaten and drunk and kindled extinguished down into the earth deep into their bunkers, to huddle amid the graves and the dust to wait out within them the damning fire and sky—it had been looted from a town in Europa, which has since been forgotten, in Polandland it was, a village whose name in any language has gone unremembered, untongued. It sounds loudly and long once again, though this here’s just a test to make them familiar: conditioning, call it, to put the fear of governance into them, to install the alarm in their souls. Then, static pours through the PA, whose speakers, they’ll find, are rigged up and wired throughout, perched like rusted nests on the signposts, boughdeep buried in the trees, suspended from every ceiling corner, screwed under grates, secreted down crawlspaces, inaccessible ducts, under each pillow, feedback, in our very own mouths…

Shalom, Garden! the Voice says, that of their new deity who’s to be referred to only as Das, good morning!

Overhead, generationold fluorescents go mercury mad gas discharge, flick flick flicker, remain fixed.

On the square just outside, a slip of water once used for docking and now, frozenover, an orchestra tunes, warming up for the Flag Raising, delayed.

As for the flag, for now it’s just a naked pole, as no one knows which stars to fly—the fifty spangles of fivepointed, or the single whose points number six, maybe both. We’ll keep you informed; it’s still being worked out in committee.

0630 is the time of Morning Prayer, which is known as Shacharit, don’t ask—with a projected thousand minyans open to any denomination; rabbis off to form groups, scrambling to put in the forms for tallis and Torah. A guide to available services is to be posted like teffilin between your eyes, upon your arms, then on the walls between the two Commissaries; check it, as there should be daily updates.

On the Sabbath, though, things are different, and on Fridays late, too, when the holy begins. Shabbos it’s called, mark it TBA—we’ll proceed; I’m sure you’re all very hungry…

And so you’ll be excited to know that everything’s kosher. Always, it’s glatt, rest assured: no outside food’s ever allowed. Mehadrin. The Shade Administration vouches; the President’s given the hechsher himself. Hope that answers your question. What else? We begin serving at 0700, and provide three meals per day. Our menu revolves each moon, regurgitates you might say. All meals are served in the Commissary, which you’ll find labeled on the maps provided as #7…and there’s a mass folding over, an accordion wheeze of outscrolled paper, a squeezeboxy tear. Might we share, mind if I save myself over your shoulder. Seven, sieben, sept, sette, siete, siedem, hét…interpreters secreted throughout the Hall call out numbers, the informative Babel. On offer are all your favorite popular cereals of sugared flakes, and healthy granola, too, müsli with seasonal fruits to top (allow us to take the opportunity to thank our wonderful sponsors, including ten or so companies allied with prominent senators and a conglomerate or two for which President Shade had once been on board), along with a full complement of milks, percentaged whole to skim and flavored almond, butter, chocolate, and soy, those for the lactose intolerant. Of course, we’re speaking of the Milk Commissary, it’s the dairy that’s talking; you’ll find the Meat nextdoor, labeled with the #8 and eight echoes throughout: acht, huit, otto, ocho, osiem, nyolc, BOCEM…of course, both are strictly supervised; we’ve got inspectors working around the clock, mash-giachs they’re called, stick around, you’ll get good with the slang. As most of the survivors, like most of the dead, are unobservant, Kashrut, which as it’s explained again and again and in the deepest of details is the keeping of the dietary laws as given down from a mountain made of earth and so, inedible, will take some getting used to: please, Rabbi Bunkmate—explain to me the lack of brunchmeats, the sausages forbidden, the absence of bacons neither lofat, nor excessively stippled…why O why is brunch always dairy?

Welcome to your tour of the Commissaries…these two long and low, screenseparated, twoentranced rooms, tiled and laid with tables separated by squat columns themselves tiled an institutional white. To the left, where you get your silverware and your fine china, a burning bush of metal. A sign’s lettered italicized, bold—Deposit Trays—And—Dishes Here. To the right, the foods, their lines forever long, lasting throughout the day beginning with night then into the same meal next, all over again: lunkfast, linner, dunch, and on into brunch, how they’re still queued, thousands deep—everyone, to the omelet station! with its migrant who knows and who cares from where chefs flipping the contents of skillets over their hotplates, a freewheeling cheese selection apportioned on translucent plastic cuttingboards, grapestarred and nutted, crumbling gouda, gooey brie; alongside the vegetable offerings: pepperwell giving green, red, sweet, and spicy; imported onions to tear; mushrooms handpicked: a delightful array of mycological oddities imported from Wielkopolska, grown in premium mycelia of don’t want to think about it, its earth, nu, don’t think to ask. I should mention a bit about the eggs, though—they aren’t dairy, and yet neither are they meat. Fleischig’s the term for the flesh. Milchig just as it sounds, for the milk, what a lingo. Rather, eggs are exemplar of that third species they’ll know from now on as Pareve. It’s neutral; gustatorily speaking no mensch’s land. Meaning not this, neither that, here-there, yes-no…I know, it’s tricky. You’ll adjust—that’s a promise.

Their guide’s a guiltless intern in from Bumble, Iowa, here to gain experience in any field that’s not corn. He stops for a breath, savoring the waft of fresh bake…this is the Bread Section, a vast marbleized surface mensched by a skilled cutter of crusts resembling Dad, Aba, whatever you called him even if he was absent, at meetings away, always at work; and we can’t forget the bagels, now, can we? In daily from the yeastiest beaches of Brooklyn, trucked across the ice hot and fresh, crustysoft suns of hole, burnished rings of gold: waterboiled glutinous, everything to plain, toastable in individual toasting units located just across from the containers that safeguard the condiments, that keep and preserve; the oils, vinegars, sweet and salty dressings, and interjacent to extensively sneezeguarded, oftrefreshed troughs of spreads both flavored and plain, butters and buttery marge, jellies, jams, preserves with rind or peel and without: creamedcheeses, schmears plain and whipped, and all those brands that’ve been liberally flecked with tomatoes sundried then shredded, infused with salmon smoked, chopchived, too, mostly for the edification of the adults among them, or that of any kinder preternaturally sophisticated, with according discernment of palate. We aim to please; that’s what we’re here for, what we’re for here. To stuff a nameless napkin into the comments box, the charity of complaint. We Welcome Your Suggestions. We need less, want more. And out. And then further on down the line, the line’s line endless, a waiting wait—to push, to pushshoulder, shoulderelbow with knee and hand shove ahead their trays along runners: beggars can be choosers only here; among these loaves and hairnetted fishes, gravlaxed, herrings sweet and sour, in wine and briny cream. Selection varies. Appetites, too, then tastes. At the far end of the Milk against the screening wall on whose other side is a replica for the service of Meat, the saladbar, administered by women with a tendency to spit: they demand you eat your veggies. A clean plate policy’s in effect, don’t you know, enforced on pain of seconds served up with a side of guilt. These mothers cry, eat up! grow already, will you?

And if you’re thirsty, their guide announces, on this tour a mild mestizo Mexican named Fausto, he says, spiffed in yarmulke and tracksuit, and I know I am…laughs ensue, titters—we’re proud to offer only the best in juices, squeezed fresh on our premises from choicest Florida citrus (from concentrate); this served up to their parched from out of great gurgling rubbermade trashcans stirred with oars, then ladled out with plastic pitchers roped and knotted off to handles, each of them the trashes labeled large in yelloworange spraypaint with product, Pulp, A Little Pulp, and Very Very Little, none without. As for wine, it’s served only on Fridays, with Shabbos dinner, which you’ll be eating with your families assigned—red or white, good vintage. All name brands, overstock from California. And Palestein, also. If it’s ever water you want, feel free to find an icicle to suck.

0900 begins the Garden’s School Day, with mandatory enrollment for all no matter their age or education level: the kinder alongside professional professors, doctors, lawyers, and wholesale illiterates in any language known. There’s so much to get caught up on, so little time to care. At this hour, in the windowless rooms of the wings surrounding the Registry, and in a number of outlying units, too, in mismatchedly ramshackle sheds and annexed trailers, temporary structures rental or lastmoment erected slipshod and so soon to be razed to make way for shelters of a more permanent nature, which are expensive and so the financing begins…the latenight, underground audits of firstborn assets, the brunchside, bunkside pledge drives, multiplatform fundraising initiatives implemented for the sake of new beds, chairs, and desks—they’re studying, in rows yeshivish, of learners quick and slow, of Malamuds and Lerners at their markedup, knifed and gummed and grafittied tables creaking under their books omnilingual, books and languages both on permanent loan from recently domained area parochial schools, courtesy of unasked donation, benevolent largesse anonymous only in its receipt, the pitiless ledger lines, page after page flipped foreignly to distract them from, what…Doctor Abuya’s been assigned to the eldest class, invariably the least advanced, difficult to deal with though invaluable in influence; he stands in front of them parsing, glossing, wising up, a foreigner, a usurper, just a lesson ahead of his pupils, middleaged, geriatric and older even, ancient: to study—knowledge never ends, its endeavor never does, only the time in which we have to risk it, is it worth it; if knowledge promises wisdom promises happiness, maybe, and if not, then. To study the value of study. Here they work their mornings in ulpan, crashcoursing the mamalashon: the holy tongue shoved down the hole voweled into their faces, wondrously agape if breathing in snores; the afternoon, though, educates the hours of laziest attention, those of wandering gossip, grabs and gropes, the torpor of distracted flirtation, is given over to the secular, to practical business and communication skills, with pertinent mathematics. If Adam has one apple, and Eve has two, it’s a better investment to buy the tree. Chop it way the hell down. Build a goddamned shopping mart. And plant trees of plastic thereupon. Very good, Avram. Very good. All these lifesized, fully competent and heavily insured adults stuffed behind desks, with their bellies overflowing the swollen wood, squeezed into chairs tight about the thighs. Menschs all, displaced paters familias reduced to immaturity, reverted against their will, ulcerated, idle—insomniac professionals just going out of their futzing minds, if we’re being frank: middle of a perfectly good workday afternoon and you find yourself pacing the hallways, as forlorn as a hospital’s, as spare as a court’s, annex to annex with a class schedule burning in the hands, plodding through every rationale, justification, drivethru philosophy, the selfhelp exhortative; finding safety, solace in the bathrooms, smoking quick cigarettes out windows and cursing teachers, perched on porcelain while they’re expected in class to recite, to approach the intimidating presence of blackboard—how did we get here, what am I going to do. Plot a lawsuit. Hatch an escape. Hang yourself from the fixture in the stall. Above the watery laughter of the tank. Suicide. Many do. The Nachmachen’s is an easier task, and holier: stalking the younger ranks, the choice kindergarten classes, he slaps their faces, tugs hair, makes sure their yarmulkes, which are mandated, stay always on and fastened—prodding, demanding, insistent, imparting to them their own tradition, their only inheritance, despite their resistance to its assumption, despite their unwillingness to take responsibility for its meaning, its future; though tuition’s already been deducted from their accounts, which have been frozen by Garden, Inc. offIsland, in escrow, presently administered by the government and invested in this, its venture, reinvested in life, which is theirs, which is them. No appeal.

And then, after class, its brute bell ringing out to air their excited shrieks, enter the age of extracurriculars: our ocean lately iced, they quickly change to dip themselves in the heated pools, Olympically domed in glass to Island–West; Free Swim’s M–Th, 3–8, and Sun 10–5, though the times just like everything else are subject to change or plague…what a life, what encouragement, support—to become involved, included, to be welcomed warmly into every club ever founded under heaven: chess instruction’s offered and so soon teams are formed, and tournaments are organized, lessons in piano and violin are made available to those demonstrative of talent—apply in person at the Prodigy Office, POD 33–6…community service is an option, an opportunity it’s called, also that of interdenominational outreach: hobbying at a home for the aged; litter pickup along local highways; mornings publicly speaking for broadcast at Midtown mosques and churches, detailing recent experiences, the script of how thankful we are; then, evenings privately reading poetry to other orphans and the ill throughout the greater metro area: instructing the world, in its popular mass or only one at a quiet time, in the very culture in which they, too, are being instructed, despite the fact it’s dead.

Attention, the Library is Open.

And here they gather, standing amid haphazard stacks unbound, confiscated from the collections of the lifeless, Fifth Avenue’s umbilically far and stillborn twin.

A miracle, in that they’re women—though they’re employees, the only women here. And don’t even think—there’re strict policies against that, and they’re enforced, too, any infraction punished with affection withheld. Of those paid to attend to the survivors, these are the most beautiful, conventionally speaking; they’ve been hired for that, then gathered up into the folds of this room that’s most recently become the Library with the dedication of appropriate plaque, which is bronze, a ceremony accomplished in silence, without circumstance, without attendees: a multipurpose, utilitarian hall, with a gymnasia’s appointments, heated by the humidity of shvitz once spent upon its burnished burls of flooring, laminate, polished to a greasy slick, walled in by plaster festooned with insignia and jerseys, the retired shrouds of police and fire heroes; streamers faint in light fluttery from raftered sag, amid the stick of banners, bunting, spattered with squalid insects; two hoops, one on each side, lacking nets—between them, an empty scoreboard’s hung over a stage; the books are stacked in alphabetical piles atop the inbuilt bleachers opposite, stadiumed precariously as if to cheer in their silence the topple of the ceiling.

At 1800, precisely, this matron enters all in a bustle.

How to describe her? She’s busty, chesty, whatever it’s called she requires for herself and even her title a hall’s wide berth, is due an approach that is its own announcement, given grand entrance with suitable clearance; flushed and winded, hoarselunged with her sighing and how exuberantly she’s entitled, but to what, she hasn’t yet demanded; her heels click as if in preemptory reprimand, clack pushy; you can tell just by the way she carries herself she thinks she’s better than you, her very presence a judgment on yours, which is an imposition; the strap to her purse wound around her arm as if a vein, darkened to writhe above the skin; a frump knot of hair and a loose flap of film: she leads a porter who schleps with him the podium on loan from the Registry’s morning assembly; the porter’s son falters behind his father, with an ancient 8mm film setup he sets atop a bleacher’s books librating. Breathlessly, the woman lays down her purse at the edge of the stage below which the podium’s placed, alongside more heapings of books these without covers and perhaps just loose pages all of a single book, a universal, unread, unreadably total book yet to be cataloged as to the interest of its worthlessness. With fingers dunced with arty nails she dismisses the hired librarians: homely women stooped to their unpedicured toes; they drop their tasks, shuffle out with stares for the young women seated and silent; then, she dismisses the porters, too, these family Kush (mostly shvartze or otherwise minority inmates repurposed from prison, their Garden service intended to lenience their sentence), who gape at the girls on their slow ways out; the woman takes her position at podium, straightens it centered then begins with roll, leering a moment at each face as she kisses out their names…

Here is another orientation—though directed toward secrecy, which is located neither in space nor in time, but only in the head, and therefore private, beforehand classified, disclaimed…Mary? she says, and every girl out in the room seated in their metal foldingchairs posturewise unimpeachable raises each one lacey gloved hand with an innocence that’s debilitating. Eager, earnest, here. All say, altogether, present. Amen, she works her way down the list: Marys check check check, they all seem to be named Mary, what a coincidence to ponder, to squander in fear, and so they bite their lips again in unison, into a weep of blood, weeps, unusually nervous, anxious, in this waiting for what’s next. A shiksa showcase, an extravagance of health and hygiene: these are girls almost women, a moon or two until spring away from their fullness, their ripe; to be perfected only now, if a touch early, a little young, they’ve been selected for that, for that very innocence, appalling, the willingness in their giddy bones, their sympathy for the cause or just desire to help, to be of some aid, some service rendered to tragedy, that and their bodies babied, don’t think they’re not what—proud, greenishly grateful, flattered. Accounted. Forget selected, then extensively profiled and interviewed then selected again; they might as well have been engineered especially for their present purpose: with their surfaces smoothmachined, an expert and easy gleam secreted wet below the skin, a pure denuding whiteness flushing veins like festive wires, as if they’re robots dappled with attractive, demographically approved freckles, symbolically parceled moles, the rivets of their soft planes, the endearing scars of playground, playdate stitches: Zeba’s fall against the kitchentable, Isabella’s tumble down the stairs…they’re real, though, pinch yourself; it just happens they’re all named the same, they’ll have their new names soon enough. Every one of them daughters of Garden maintenance staff, of nurses, redpalmed laundresses, chubby charwomen, foodpreparation personnel; they themselves are all on paper maids, however nominal, or indulgent, that employment. As for their actual purpose, how they’re to earn their true keeps, that’s the secret of their assembly this late afternoon and rumor stiflingly short of notice, only after finishing up their final turndown service—1700, unless their charges, bunked with apologies due to scarcity of space, had tagged a foot the evening prior with the placard provided, Do Not Disturb—leaving a macaroon on each pillow logged in drool. Here in the allpurpose, makeshift, scuffed floored Library, walled without shelves, without system, they sit, in moaning, rustbottomed foldingchairs, demure in their matching outfits, tight’s dark uniforms new with matching nylon hosiery stretching netting across their thighs to surface islands of flesh exposed, stockings webbing even tighter ever darker behind the knee, the length to which the frill hangs from their puffy little skirts slit high, slightwaisted, into which their blouses have been bunched tight against the bud; their polished heels clackety click impatiently, too, as they gossip, give susurrant whispers of hair, to keep their hands occupied lying dusters of rare peacock feather under their seats, placing purses on their laps, opening them, rummaging and applying from them makeup, lipstick, and mascara into the mirrors of their palms; then, once readied, presentable, they straighten themselves again into that posture nothing less than laudable—so wonderful, it’s been said, that the entire Library chaotically surrounding, each and every book, could be balanced on their massed heads for parade through Island streets as yet unpaved.

Good evening, girls, the matron says.

A giggle risen to pop on the bulbs bared to empty heads above…all attention’s turned to her, whoever, their matron, and her breasts like two suckling babies swaddled with a labcoat to which a nametag’s been pinned, saying: Sex Therapist—Staff. They can’t look away, can’t blush, their eyes are hers, their lips; the Marys in unison flip wisps of hair from foreheads free of blemish, from brows kempt, untangle locks from lashes slick in upkeep. Atop a chair of her own she nudges with a heel to the front, the matron dumps her purse, trivially overstuffed, messy: lipsticks glossy, matte, tampons knotted together like sausages, diaphragms like condoms and a cervical cap, gel and spray, loose change, below everything her pointer, with which to smack her own tush as she paces the room, the heads following her to dizzy.

Please stand, she says, and altogether they stand and wobble, on heels they’re still getting used to: they’ve only been on the job for a week. As she paces, the woman looks them up, down, as if assenting, in an invasive nod, not indicating approval, more like its opposite or hope, with slight sighs, low whistles given out through the perfectly attractive crack between her fawned front teeth, she pokes, she prods and pushes…Mary, not you, not you, not—you! pull the hair up and around, yes, now let it down…no, let it fall, that’s it, keep your fingers out of your mouth…take off that necklace; get rid of that ring…Mary, no, no, no, no, yes—keep your head straight, you! I want your shoulders back and chin down…suck in that gut (palpates)—what are you laughing at (pinches), it’s not like you couldn’t stand to lose a few yourself…remember, she whispers, these are little little girls, at least most of them, the latter halfdozen—like for you, better a padded, a pushup; accentuates what you have, rounds out what you don’t…wandering her way back to the front, she goes down on her knees to search for an outlet, to light the projector with its cord engaged in a sensual snaking around her waist, her thighs, as if she’s to plug the device into her very crotch, the always warm and wet socket of her own power; then, she removes her shoes, loses the labcoat, the nothing underneath to nude, unashamed.

Strip, she says, there’s no blushing here or cry, it’s not allowed, we’re women…billows of cloth, indoor cloud—mounds of clothing like whispery cirrus, like melting, melted icecream, spilt milk…excess buttery fat to heap about the feet, then stirred a step out of and around, to whip: the Marys strip slowly and selfconsciously, item by item soon teasingly, too, bit by bit to baring all, as if they don’t know whether they’re flirting with themselves, with each other, or with nakedness itself. My God, she says, that marbling, those striations; I want you all to exercise—and grow that out, your hair; I want curly bushes, huge…turns from them to the door to the hall, opens it, wheels in chiming clink of hangers, a rack of wardrobe left by the porters departed, in her draggy, stumbling schlep knocking books over and open to pages loosed from bindings to wind around the hall in gusts from the slamming door; paper leaves like chaffing, burning labels, ironsafe, white cleansed from dark colors separately, Made In An Image: the newest clothes, they seem too small, though intended modest, longsleeved and skirted, these uniform black and blue and whites, sweaters standardissue, shoes and accessories folded on the shelf atop, separated there by tags not of size, style, or brand but by identity, which sister.

Get dressed—you, Rubina, and you’re Simone, the tennis shirt, the white white one, don’t worry, it’ll stretch…you, you’re a Liv; those stockings to hide the thighs on you with those nice neat little irises at the knees…you, you’re more the Judith type; she was into bouncy blouses…she’s handing out assignments, dispensing identities, coupling them sibling to her cause. My job, she says as they fumble with their futures, is to turn you into relations…the monogrammed backpack, with a pencil behind the ear—yes, you have to wear the headband…the Marys dress, become others, turn to others as themselves, all relative to one another, a halflife, still becoming: skimping on flowery underwear, bras for those who need them (which sisters and not which Marys), buttoning, clasping and snapping zip up hips as the woman, too, steps into a hanger’s clothes: a dark scrunched skirt, pink cardigan over white camisole, her necked adorned with big jewels on bulkier gold. As a mother, then, she stalks the room, screeching out inquiries parental above the dressing’s din: who’s His favorite sister? does He even have one yet? what’re His favorite foods? quick! rip out the heart through the stomach, anyone have an answer for me? how many squares of what kind of toiletpaper does He on average use? does He use on days He has too much dairy? anyone, anyone?

Let’s begin with something simple…

Which Mary she is, even she doesn’t know, hasn’t yet remembered, she raises her hand, waves it desperately, then whines as if she has to pee.

Her mother sighs, what is it?

Who?

A reel’s readied, the lights overhead strangled with trembling, infanticidal hands; the screen’s the wall in front of them, whitewashed pocked plaster that backs the stage edged with tattered curtains; the woman flicks the switch. A world opens on a longshot, another hall, its weather…snow, the static sky. 10–9–8 kept by circles, blinking as if eyes wandering noctivagously over stage and floor—a flicker, and then His mother, His Ima, her form projected onto the woman now dragging the podium to the side, the body shot across hers, boned, one face ghosted upon another…she shuffles outside the shot to adjust the height of the projector. A woman, rising, raised, levitated, floating…halfdancing to silence, or she’s having a seizure, she’s palsied, perhaps a virus, at least she’s able to laugh at herself, she’s laughing, but at a friend, or with her—but no, she’s not deformed, mutated or miraculous, it’s more like the film itself, which is silent and slipping unfocused, again, and so the matron returns to the projector to steady the image atop its stack of books, wanders halfway across the shot toward the podium removed, returns and readjusts, then interrupts the image yet again and stops to stand far to the side and say the name, Hanna, voicingover the mute…her maiden name, Senior, married Israelien—can everyone hear me, I hope you can; I hate microphones—they’re only good if you don’t know what to do with your hands. She quiets, wets her lips. Here maybe ten, fifteen years before she died, forty if she ever told the truth about her age, give or take a few surgical procedures. 36–30–36, fivefoottwo inches tall, or short she thinks, a bit of a complex there, averaging 130 pounds when not pregnant, which wasn’t often: acceptably zaftig if not a Beshemoth, as she’d always joke—she had a sense of humor. Her husband Israel, whom we’re just getting now, the mensch in the green suit, this was a decade ago, forgive him—he found her attractive, she had beautiful breasts: above average, as you’ll notice, heartily unproportional…with nipples asymmetrically positioned (here she points her pointer, a collapsible erected, extracted from her bag) right pointing up, left down, stray hairs around the—surprisingly small—areolae; a cancer scare at age thirtysix, a cyst was removed, a scar; she has stretchmarks around the waist and thighs and at the armpits, too, a polio inoculation shot to upper left arm near shoulder, radial wrinkling about the face…but don’t take my word for it, you’ll have an opportunity to observe at a later date—we’re keeping her on ice, in Storage.

Her occupation, that of a homemaker, wife if you prefer, or mother, that of the undifferentiated uxorial…note the hairstyle, she says suddenly: it’s a wig, she blushes this once only, the one I’m currently modeling…as Hanna’s head’s flicked up to obscure the shot, pursuing, zooming in on the appetizer buffet behind her, the meaty pinks and vegetative purple—like many women of her enlightened generation, she wore it short after age thirty or so, thinks of it as feminine, but manageable…henna, but a between shade, undecided, or placating, peacemaking, a reddish brownie blond; she went light on the makeup save lipstick, professed a marked preference for skirts at the length of the ankle; in reasonable shape, especially given her twelve pregnancies, eight of them to date, with credit due to classes in aerobics, weekly episodes on the treadmill set to easy.

And, if you aren’t noticing—the woman dances.

If alone, adorned with necklaces of chamsas. A cocktail hour piano/violin.

Observe, please, that this is formal dress; for her, this was fancy. Her underwear preferences tended toward the synthetic, less panties than modified girdles, rearlift enhancers, thighslimmers, waistsnippers, what have you—the entire life cataloged, mailordered by phone, through friends; lacey brassieres with trimming underwires, floralpatterned when risqué or plain in white or black. Her hosiery fleshtoned. Her nails she kept manicured, professionally, in a shade and brand that’ll be made available to you shortly. Patience. I ask you to note the jewelry. Conspicuously chunky were the presents. Amethyst, silver, gold, what she picked out on her own. She holds out her hands, gangly jangling. I’m presently wearing many of these pieces…then gouges a projected eye with the tip of her pointer and says, you don’t know this woman, though she’s now your mother, understand?

And altogether, they exhale; gum pops soft, red lozenges gulped loudly.

Questions. All of you know the boychick I’m speaking of, Ben, one of our Garden’s more famous charges—or have heard of Him? and their heads nod in a row out in the hall dimly far from the projected light. Needless to say, everything I say in this meeting is to be kept strictly confidential. You’ve signed your sisterhoods away. We’ll hold you to your word. Exercise caution and your abs. Your lats and glutei. Marys, daughters—you are to be sisters to one another, and to Him: to keep Him company, to gain His confidence, how should I say this—to keep Him occupied…meaning, to seduce Him—to entertain His body, to distract His brain. In this assignment, Hanna, His mother, is to be your instructor, your mentor; maternal guidance in all its trusting worry—her here the one now dancing, or this evening she thinks it’s dancing, why not, let’s indulge her, that’s what daughters do. Or should be doing, if they’re behaved and well brought up; and you are—try to remember how well you’re provided for, how you’re kept always fed and warm. And thankful as much as ungrateful, too, it’s difficult, it’s tough. I want you to study her, to learn me, to become her daughters, mine…I want you to know her as cold as she is now. Observe her every moment and physical movement, her every overmothered eccentricity, the way she holds herself and others, the tic of the eye, the teethe of the lip, the scratch at the elbow, too; any and all idiosyncrasies you’re able to glean from stock and inspection firsthand, which will occur tomorrow at a time mutually convenient: daughters to bundleup in hooded down, with school announced cancelled, and so gathering instead for the true examination around the frozen slab upon which His Hanna lies, Morgue-stripped, bluegummed and crazyeyed. Anatomized. Dissect her, it. This, the womb from whence you came. Scalpels out. No copying.

Learn to walk her, to talk her, live her, breathe her mouth in yours, to give you life, I mean…eat her and sleep her—because He will; her when you rise up and her when you lie down, her when you go and her when you come, especially when you come…and then this business again with the pointer, her hysterical tapping; what am I forgetting?

Some of you will have your hair dyed, others will be given wigs in various shades and styles; many of your noses will require lengthening by pros-thesis; we’ve already gone ahead and rounded up their six pairs of glasses, frames we’ve refitted with new lenses, nonprescription…and then—and this is why you have to stay in shape and not get pregnant, or menstrually bloated, bellyfat and soft—if all else fails as His sisters, we’ll revert to your normal shiksa states, you Marys blond and blue, allAmerican, you’ll forgive me…I’m getting ahead of myself.

You’ll follow my instructions, and Hanna’s example’s what I’m saying, are we understood?

Lips lilt sibilance in the suspiciously affirmative, then giggle…that’s your first mistake, she says, your last—in this family, no one ever answers when spoken to for the first time, not even for the second, or third; they ignore. Then they yell themselves again even louder.

Now quiet down and pay attention, watch; what you’re seeing is upper-upper-upper-middlemeans, it’s said, classwise not too bad though taste is often the reversal of fortune—we’re talking six figures just a promotion away from partnering seven, with smart investment…late period Assimilation is it, and this despite the ostensibly religious nature of the event, the occasion Hanna’d call it, less a celebration than an observance, a catered cultic rite: the Israelien parents attending a function, was what Israel would’ve said, an hour after the synagogue, and so not a mitzvah bar or bat, but a wedding kashered with the ketubah, the contract writ upon the chuppah, which is the marriage canopy, then the heel that signs the break in glass: a wedding of whom it isn’t known. Whether family, most likely that of friends.

Allegedly, the videographer had a problem with the sound—I’m sure the lawsuit would still be alive, if they were.

CUT to the elevator, mirrored, marbled, its grand entrance, expected, that of the inlaws—or already the guests of honor finished with their quiettime snuggling sequester, the tradition of their intimate room, its connubial consummation…they’re lost or only unfocused, dim and rangy in this hall as if it’s unwalled, gorged on adornment, to dizzy, to right and steady now—lavish like ten, twelvegrand a night lavish, posh even far past the sofas, the divans and skirted chairs, the glossy white lacquer of another, different piano in the upper righthand corner, then a zoom past morbid flowers, the lilies bluepurple, occidentally called stargazers, Lilium orientalis, tightlipped white roses, they seem frosted sprigs of grass set in vases of glass so delicate, so fragile and thin, that to pour water in them would shatter all, it might; a mensch and his queenly wife head themselves like she’s his daughter, too, a princess if only for the day, the night, the happy arrival of the bride and her new husband, groomed again after that moment or so left alone in which to remember each other, today’s purpose, that and to break their fasts on one another, with snapped fingers and arrowed tongues…the bride and her father, or the parents of the bride or parents of the groom, they’re rethinking in how apart they are, alone, how it’s impossible to know them in their making their rounds, their public faces, the outward, untoward smiles, them receiving blessings, kisses, hugs in their seven circumambulations they’re counting through the lobby then a right through a doorway and breathlessly on, into another hall; she whoever travestied in a fresh clump of chiffon, him schlumpy however resplendently remade in bleached teeth and loosened bowtie, they enter the mix, become the swirl, apparently already intoxicated, as drunk as the camera, handheld then even with tripod, jerky.

Inside, the tables are stacked with numbered placards, each area of them the family and friends, the coworking congregant strangers completely separated by a host of diaphanous screens decked in blue & white, the color scheme of the evening: Royal and Virgin to match the drapery, the tablecloths, the swaddled chairs backed with flighty silver bows, napkins ringed with gilding, the florid centerpieces, the bride’s dress, shoes, and purse—what does a bride need a purse for? especially when the line for handing over the enveloped and carded checks terminates with a bag held by this immense, unsmiling Palesteinian securityguard, onloan from the local skyscraper of the groom’s employment, his father’s, hers. Then, this not quite matchcut, back to glimpse Hanna across from that wife, or that daughterwoman, secondwife or ex, secretarylover among maybe fifty, sixty others circledancing, a paralegal hora; the groom up in a chair its legs unsteady in the unsober hands of best menschs; the bride holding a napkin its other corner held by him…Hanna holding hands with all these women circling women circling woman, of diverse ages and affected lives, the ravages of an aging time, its effects evident in the very faces of these dervishly circling feminine clocks, their hands clammed, their chests panting a mad heart’s tick, a pill’s tickle, wild now that they’ve managed to just themselves squeeze in, ringing off the inner enclosure of celebrants with their arrivals, fillingout the edge of its sacred courtyard, from the predatory perimeter pace of the minority waiters just beyond: they’re like dangerous foreign beasts, they can’t help it, like wellfed, sweetbreathed lions; how they’re all paws proferring their offerings of appetizer, trays of wieners, kabobs speared through on toothpicks of every rainbow’s hue; wraps, fingersandwiches, God! I hope you didn’t miss the stirfry, the meat and mixedvegetable; carvingstations heap blood to the left, savory altars.

To the right, three suited kinder loiter around an endtable splashed with a pinch of glitter, strewn with straws gnawed twisty white and soiled linen napkins, a surface used only to hold drinks both empty and not quite, interred glassware, alcohol displaced, discarded on the way to a drink ever fresher, a thirst new and on the rocks; sipping the remnants, they forsake the cold buffet for the hot microphone and into it mouth greetings foul to their hosts, private profanity, injokes; their younger brothers wave, make scrunched faces, make the twofinger alien ears devil horns antennæ sign, a resourceful panoply of other obscene gestures directed at the embarrassed bashfulness of their older sisters, half, a Shanda not their names but their very selves or at least their bodies, that they dance a dawdling shame with a number of older, balding menschs whose wives have already seated themselves at their assigned seats at their assigned tables and pout, moan, fight amongst themselves for possession of the plastic party favors, the Taiwanese novelty giveaways, grabbags’ swag, oversized sunglasses, glowing wizard wands. Favorite single uncles glide halfdistracted, smooth receding hair, combover, brusharound, pick at wedgies, loosen the knots of their neckties so as to give enough slack to hang themselves from the fans and fixtures in the event of extreme lonlieness or their paid escorts’ extravagant duress; other of their dates, these lesbian aunts, adjust their tight, waistteething undergarments with none watching save the assembled…a gape of mouths, set to drink, to eat and talk, with further drink to wash words down, without meaning save a warming gurgle, a bitchy burp; a fit of sneezes, croupy coughs, Gesundheit’s mouthed and thanked. A mensch obviously with the hiccoughs, his wife arrives at his side to scare him with a glass of seltzer; for her, an extra glass of ice to soothe her swelling, weepworn eyes, everything’s so wonderful, it’s just my luck, I dressed for a disaster. Other drinks more like melt are worryingly brought into balance, carried through the shot from the bar tended to upper left like the last standing wall of a godless Temple; interrupting conversations, occasional groupings of untuxed bowtie. Menschs in singlebreasts, doublebreasts, in threepieces, vested, invested to the fullest extent, as nothing’s ever optional: the invitation in one pocket, their placard placesetting in another. Who do you have to handle the divorce? You might keep me in mind.

A mensch arriving directly from work, a doctor oncall, or that lawyer returned from emergency court, an ambulance fetch turned vehicular homicide, a businesscard dropped on a woman’s toe resulting in severe hematoma; excusing himself to the bathroom to change into his dressier suit: one arm in his shirt, one out, one leg in his pants, one out, he’s halved and hurried to let his wife know he’s here, she hadn’t noticed. Another mensch standing in the last stall, then sitting almost naked: as he ate and drank he’d spilled and food fell from him and his fork and he stained his clothing, article by item; each time he’s so klutzed with drecky luck removing himself to the bathroom and there removing under the sink and then in the stall whatever clothing stained, first his bowtie then his cummerbund, upon which he’d spilled wine, then his shirt, which he’d taken off when he’d spilled on it gravy, then off with his pants when he’d dropped his knife on them to cut between the legs, and so there he sits much to the humiliation of his wife now hurrying herself on home for another pair, a spare, without even a full meal in him or a drunk in the cooling bathroom, barechested, wearing only his underwear, womanly soft and fat.

As for the women, their dress is formal and is called formal not for its style but for the way you have to wear it, seriously, straight of face, as a sarcastic smile or an ironic eye makes it seem all a laugh or flinch: two women in the same dress in different colors, two women in the same dress in the same color, two of them in different dresses in the same color, then many of them in many different dresses in many different colors, laughing blush into the ear of a mensch himself struggling to hear, and to make himself heard over the din with the cocktail hour soon becoming two and the string quartet only just finishing and then overtime, they’re union…halfheard gossip, metropolitan pretense, obnoxious, mingling with Siburbia’s frustrations, quaint to most, the grip and gripe of the flighty, fleeing Developments; the dinging of silverware on glass, stemware raised then drained; a dropped tray of plates the caterers had been made to rent from the synagogue because who can trust their kashrut, what a scam; as the quartet becomes a trio, a duo, then a cellist solo; in the lobby, the pianist takes over, tinkles away with pathos enough to the cloakroom, the bathroom wait, then gives out the Gershwin like it’s money: “It Ain’t Necessarily So” not necessarily slow, though loud enough to mask the last glass and porcelain swept smash sounding at the threshold, attracting the irked attentions of the father of the bride, finally, it has to be him with his fury and forehead, then a hundred bridesmaids, a nosegay of them the bouquet caught redhanded, redfaced, the event planner and the synagogue’s socialhall manager himself to stand around and shriek tongues as if cancelled checks at the help, enjoying themselves as much as the guests, maybe even more.

The help, they exist only in occasion, every day after night into morning’s cleanup and bagging detail, every sweeping function, life as event, as tidying up after those honored, never them. They’re tired, destroyed, just trying to save up enough to continue college, to pay off debts, loans and lovers; why not leave a tip: waiters, waitresses, tenders, and ushers who five nights a week observe only the happinesses of others, party strangers, are often even asked to participate, in saddening lieu of family or friends; they’re in all the period footage, with their hands heatscarred, with the same shiny knees and ragged cuffs and tarnished buckles, their upsets everfading, with the same listless, spent expressions for this woman in a purple minidress and pink mink stole her husband stole, how she seems to be invited everywhere, her husband not so much: an immodest neckline, her shoulders social out the ears, and, too, with an evident heft on heels so high her knees can’t breathe, a wisp of pearls she strangles with one stocky, shortfingered hand manicured in squoval, the other mauls a plate of miniaturized maize in a singularly nauseating glaze of sweet & sour…I shouldn’t, she mouths to a friend, I really shouldn’t, then crowding the tiered cake iced in her saliva: she’s on her diet again, for the love of a mensch across the hall not her husband but his brother who he holds a tumbler of water in his left, one of vodka in his right, or it’s the other way around, even he doesn’t know; they gesture lust to one another, the mating ritual of the properly insured, the sacred dance of the wellsalaried, choreographed just a step ahead of casting: all plates, knives, forks and spoons down to do the dance of the dividend, the propitiatory gesture of the seasonally bonused, yearended, quartered, the rump moves creditlined, lit and smoked with the mortgage burnt at candlelighting—them surging to the gathering of the now fed, drunk, cigarettebreaked orchestra after yet another set by the DJ whose idea was it to hire him, whose recommended references supplied…they’re playing our song, and, nu—have you heard the one about the Davidsons in B ? them liningup with their requests, fountainpenned on the napkins, linen and so costly, they’ll show up on the bill; the emcee finds a tambourine under a heap of fractured maracas; the hired dancer pulls a ham-string treyf; the plumed horses prance, knock knees, saddles slip to become leathern udders at which the magician’s bunnies suckle, they trip over each other to crash atop the impersonator and the caricaturist; the midget on stilts falls into the Vienna Table, rises to mime his survival. A glare passes over people shaking it to the silence ensuing: Hanna again, recognizable in reproduction, an embodiment of the eveningwear hangered off the rack in front of them at the front of this lesser hall—she’s busied tying a heliumed balloon within a balloon within a balloon to the back of her chair, while at the same time talking schools and teachers, standardized testing and homework tutors to her neighbor with the nose and portfolio, with the eyes observant, an orient of detail rumored, talented with such unkind acuity of gaze that could feel any face up and identify work, ID plastic surgery of what type and by which doctor at three counties’ remove.

A wide veer into the fray again, the throng: amongst menschs dancing with menschs, this we’ve seen, but now unscreened, with the partition fallen, irreparably, a flimsy, heelholed Oriental divider, it’s also women dancing with women and with menschs, too, at first their sons, then their husbands and then their husbands’ friends and partners, dancing together to silence as if a reproach to all that’s mutual and forbidden; to effect a congaline, an enactment of an earlier reenacted hat dance and chicken dance and grind, encored by a sliding of the body electric, more chairs and most glasses raised, as the toast’s roasted, burnt, there’s smoke from the kitchen and outside the chefs stand and bum cigarettes from the dishwashers and accountants. The elderly sit still, aloof, they dab at their eyes and disapprove, check their reflections in the blades of their knives, test the sharpnesses upon their thinning wrists and throats. An obstructed view, a hollow column faux Hellenistic draped in the colors of the evening, weathered with crepe streamery, the slow snow of confetti thrown, cast banished, fallen from heaven. At the periphery of this the final shot, an ice sculpture of a swan melts slowly: people slip, trip, and fall, doctors are summoned, everyone’s a doctor, everyone’s always a doctor or is always married to one, or else knows someone who is and is a lawyer, too; the rabbi soon enters, to sermonize an argument with the help arguing with the rabbi, who rudely interrupts himself only to nod to the bride’s father who hands him an envelope the rabbi weighs for a moment then pockets, turns himself around and stoops to say a blessing over the slipped, tripped, and fallen body there, the puddled mother of the bride; the bride herself now, it has to be jilting a jolt up to her father, her lips to marry his ear and whisper pained, confide, beseech, help me, save me, I’m a little girl again…she touches his wrist, he withdraws it quickly, looks at his watch, holds it to one ear, looks at it, holds it to his other whispered then looks again, shakes his hand in a frenzy, then shakes hands all around. The film flaps through, reels out onto the floor, and the woman, the one here in this hall and dressed in the clothes Hanna would change into, maybe, tomorrow morning or upon arrival home past worried, handheld twelve, too late for her and with indigestion also, decaf dessert heartburn and its hearthlike, protective warmth for the kinder with the older sisters tonight entrusted instead of Wanda or the regular sitter, unmarried, who’d been invited to this wedding, too, along with her parents who were cousins, don’t ask her how—the matron hurls herself forward as if vomiting, to heap it all in her lap, the memory, vain tradition’s lit command: to consecrate time and space and image if only to their own furtherance, even if it’s just for purposes as obscure as hers, as this…as dark, as evil; the wall beyond is washed in white, deloused into a purity, annulled.

Too early for morning, too late for regret, the air veined in lightning, the sun a clouded clot. Thunder. Gods are being born in the sky.

This is why we left the Garden and moved out to Siburbia, as we’re always explaining, most of all to ourselves.

My boy, look around you, listen, sniff the air and taste the bread your mother bought, you’re sure to understand: this is why we lit out, bringing only the candlesticks with us—why this dispersal to plot, this diaspora of the subdivision, such limitation of the eternal Development.

Our sages say the following:

If you have a house, you are safe. If you have a house with a lawn, you are safer; though a house with a lawn with a fence is still safest, with neighbors all around to tell you what is yours and what is theirs and to affirm that nothing will ever be both of yours, or no one’s. But if you erect a fenced and lawned house on an Island, you have only created another Garden—and so there can only be another Fall. The familytree will be uprooted. Apples will turn to waxen wood, becoming mere ornament atop the table. A chart of the ABCs will burn. Plush dolls will lose their stuff to rage. Limbs torn from toys. And even the toys shall be allotted toys of their own to neglect. The hobbyhorse, thou wilt be lamed. LMNOPee. The crib has been moved against the window to make room for the bed, whose bedding matches the carpet, which is pink, brightened by the sun coming in past the gauzy tongue of curtain. A cedar chair cushioned in a fluff of white by the door, which even if closed is always open. A son who trusts in locks is no son of mine. A woman sits atop the chair, knitting a bootie big enough for the thumb of God; she whispers to her boy, a lullaby for the waking. Benny Cenny Denny Schlaf. If a baby lives in a room, that room is called a nursery, the knob to its door a willing nipple. Suck it in, suck it up, He’s our kaddish. Talcum breath, with hands of cream, clasped in benediction. Keep quiet. Tiptoe an inside voice, He’s sleeping.

Without bells, or their jingling toll—the sleigh that’d brought Ben back from night and forest, its horrid, haunted, enchanted, and terrible wood, it’s a flatbed knockaround workhorse that’d been too rundown to haul a century ago; its wood unvarnished and splintering, it’s parked now in the garage below; its horselike dogs impounded from the pines romping puppy in the backyard, amid the snow of the sandbox overlooking the ice and the fieldstone, the gley and the marsh, the warehouses, the fallen stockyards and trafficlights wavering slow yellow in the wind. Across the ice, dawn rises to a vantage upon Bergen and Communipaw Cove, silence rents to own; a railway terminal with its switches abandoned, the grids of the parkinglot like empty graves stood sentry over by leaning watertowers, the lowing overpass of the holy drainage ditch, baptism by the irradiating verd of sludge—the skyways arching over the fallen industrial gardens of Joysey as if they’re the rainbows of a million different covenants, each fulfilled only at the deadend of the asphalt and its prismatic stains of oil in the miracle that is the city, founded to last any Apocalypse, as secular as steel.

What a view, what a nightmare, Joysey and west, the Palisades; a mountain risen from the receding of the waters below, only to be frozen by those above, that crystalline breathless sustenance of window—glassing the gaping mouth of house and, too, the unspoken dreams of those who live within. Who lived. Understand, this is how we once spoke of dream, both as a visitation of the night and as the mark we hoped to make upon the forehead of the day. Of what did I dream now not a concern of the prophets but of the failures among us, those who would never own to a home. Above the window there’s a banner, cardboard, one end of which hangs low to the sill from a tack that’d lost its dig into wall. Mind it. In retrospect, this banner reads like crank prophecy, as if the first words mumbled after a darkened sleep.

Mazel Tov, it says—It’s A Girl!

As the sun makes her face, the woman rises slowly, failing to countenance a litany of joint ailments from the weakly kneed chair—don’t get up for her sake; no, really—she’ll be fine. His mother, with her dress taken in too tight under the breasts, the wig askew and all too black, makeup smeared as if yet another face fallen from the face she leans to light His own, to kiss Him awake upon the lips.

Come downstairs, the hallway calls in a voice, if not hers then whose—it’s brunch.

Better, it’s that dream Ben’s been having, that’s been having Him: one eye fluttering, one two three then, poof—she’s gone like never was. Only a wisp of skirt, a flash of heel, a taste of tongue, then nothing…His sisters, too, and father, them and their promises made. Any other morning upon waking—to rise an immediate rush down the hallway to their room as if expelled from the Paradise that is sleep, banished forcibly forever from its rest and so condemned to wander an eternity down the deserted halls past the mirrors and windows draped, and the framed photographs, too, and the shoescuffed, handprinted walls whiter than ash being the death of ash, the rooms of His sisters their doors shut, locked even and the carpet between them what’s patterned in stellated hexagons of blue on white down to its other end and the humpbacked trunk that floats there, the treadle sewing machine antique and decoration only aside the top goatskinned, meeklegged table topped with a vitric but plastic vase of baby’sbreath, its icewhite blooms seasonally intermarried with an abundance of lavender hydrangea made in Asia, crowded around with the silence of unread books, a stray shoe this loafer, a pair of His father’s old glasses, wireframed round and without lens, a forgotten, shattersheathed thermometer, a bowl of shells from beaches south…then, a quick last left to the door and He’d open it into another temperature zone, the alternate universe of a thermostat no one was ever allowed to know, let alone touch. It’d be freezing in there; His breath would come like shvitz, to take the air like faces. To lie down at the edge of their bed, which is made and empty, which was always made and always empty, and there on the pillows that still smell of her hair, His mother’s skin’s comforter, too, discomforting, in that it still feels like her legs and arms, to pray for sleep again. This was a week, had been. His sisters would have been up for hours. His parents, forever.

And then to sleep there at the foot of their sleeps between their twin nightstands topped with more books, yearold magazines, and the forfeited frontpage of the newspaper, their wedding photographs and telephones their cords tangled with those of the lamps and the 06 blinking 59 clocks, it’s another dream: to lift the shroud on another night, this different from all other nights…a maid’s wifely sheet, He peeks—and there’s a woman, standing just outside the lone wide window of His parent’s room, this great green monster in the robe His mother mourned the night when she, and that other time that, the once then don’t forget…O to be born too late for memory, waterswaddled, as naked as metal. Liberty’s her name. He stands on His Island next to hers. They match. Are twins. They’re just friends. Good friends. They’ve been married by the moon. Tell the truth, they’ve been forbidden from each other. It wouldn’t work, won’t, not to say it never does.

A love, it’s this…Ben and her, they never touched, they couldn’t have, can’t: His arms are too short and hers, they’re holding stuff. A book. A torch. Commandments. In reward for their keeping, an icecream cone of ten scoops, their flavor’s bronze, and its melt, molten—who knows to ask, who would ask to lick. Anyway, she couldn’t speak, never did. She’s without tongue as if guilty, He can never look her in the eyes. His are shut, He’s sleeping. Still. To be born too late for waking. Sh. He’s pretending. All night, they’ll drift further away from one another, then far beyond the dream. And then one morning—her crown will be the sun. A gloriole. Another day.

To sleep here always, forever in your own bed—your childbed, your deathbed; to rise up and lie down day after night in His own room as if in the very house He’d been born in, on its table a floor below. And that it is. Joysey or near enough, still within its jurisdiction, the judging throw of a stone from a strong hand, of an arm outstretched to Manhattan and its water iced. To wake always and run to Ima, which is what He would’ve called Hanna, to hug at her breasts and kiss upon them nipples, never again. Forget any finding His father already left for the office, Israel in depositions early, high in Midtown, trying every courthouse from Centre Street down to Camden, a dreaded arbitration in Secaucus; out to try a client in Coney Island seeking to sue Berlin for nightmares at midcentury…then, His sisters—never again to tug their hair in a row down the hall: I’ve got your nose, a quarter from His ear. Home is where the heart is, it’s said, and there imprisoned, criminal, beaten. The doors to the outside have been locked. Ben lies in His bedroom, and even sleeping aches. In what seems His house to the final detail, the most thoughtful ornament, the voweled adornment last. Down to the lost sock strewn His room, His nursery’s what they’d called it, His parents, it should be, should’ve been, way back Turnpike to the Parkway south and exits further—a bedroom that’s His and isn’t, relocated a mile or so north of the Great Hall at the edge of the Garden, an Island ringed in ice, with a sheet of freeze paving from here to shore in reflection of the appled lights.

Ben’s slept naked, His Klansmensch uniform’s been washed, bleached of vomit, dreck accumulated, has been dried, pressed, is hung in one of Israel’s garmentbags, draped over the hutch of the desk too crowded with clutter to work: birthcertificate, photos for a miscarried passport—this uniform the only estranging item, the only touch not to be found in the original remade.

All of a sudden, hazily, halfway between eyes shut and up, there’s a hold of alarmclocks, thirteen of them ringing halls at once—and so, finally, to rise Himself to silence. His sisters’ schoolday warning, to begin their waiting for the coldest shower. Ben’s shvitzy, feels like oy. He rolls around, grinds the sheet of a foreskin into the bedsheet, fumbles for the glasses He’d been born with. He finds them, stumbles out the door toward the sirens, hanging a right and into the bathroom first, His and His alone intended, even if His sisters would still be alive and requiring an emergency toilet, in which He proceeds to wipe eighteen minutes from the earth—life’s ritual already, routine. He pisses salutiferously, to greet the day with health, this steaming stream, to foam wild drops on seat and floor the purest white. To shower in an excess of scald, hot water over then lukewarm, to towel Himself; hot water the one true luxury in the Israelien house: how they’d bought a dysfunctional heater from a relation, Hanna’s, an uncle; with fourteen then fifteen before one in the house, pleasurable showers had been miracles, like sunrises—you had to get up early, or else outgrow them. To the mirror, now, to shave the face of its growth. He slices Himself, wads, washes. Adolescence is to remain with Him, a shadow’s shade. Pimples congregate, constellate as acne. He airs His pores to puss then sucks His fingers. No shame in that, no loss—all will have stubbled back by nighttime. He doesn’t yet scrub His teeth, abstains from flossing—that’s left for after brunch. What’s cooking, what’s not: there’s another noise from downstairs, between the smashing rings, the ding ding bells, an oven’s timer’s rattle…

And that burning smelly taste, a crash of tongue in mouth.

In only a robe, His mother’s and her voice, then that ringing still. Ben heads downstairs, stopping on the way in the rooms of His sisters, vacant, and then that of His parents, too, to silence their alarms—rooms all empty now of nothing save them, that that gave these possessions their utility, their use and so, their meaning: personal effects already unpacked, replaced, dusted more inclusively than Wanda ever was able, was ever bothered: their teddybears, who remembered their plush petnames; pillows hugged into the shape of hearts, desktops of plastic dinosaurs, above a shelved abundance of junior encyclopedias, dictionaries; on the walls, their school certificates and diplomas with the signatures of adults responsible, principal, superintendent; posters and playbills from the shows up on Broadway, they loved them; like that spectacle with the cats, and that sad extravaganza, Phantom Fiddler on the Roof of the Opera. A silence totaled with His parent’s and their unit, Hanna’s—Israel never used an alarm, could never sleep; he used a clock to tire not to rouse. Ben makes His way down the hall to the stairs, which darken, why so closed, so much space and claustrophobic—with its windows draped in tarpaulins, no views afforded of outside, He’s kept slept from any vista.

And so with a trepidant hand, Ben lifts a shroud and through its pane below beholds…no, let’s not think about that just yet—hymn, let’s eat first, get a little food in us and, nu, then we might be in a position to think things through, a city…clearly. All the photographs along the stairwell have been draped as well, along with the mirrors, as if in mourning—then that other sound again, which rang itself between the shrilly weltering calls, still rings: on the way down the stairs, that din, the hum, of noises, alarms lesser in volume if more immediate in threat: the sounds of drilling, of hammering, sawsawing…at the foot of the stairs, this team of workers redrilling, rehammering, reawing, some; others resanding, restaining, repainting; in the kitchen as Ben greets them without word, only the mute of a nod unre-turned, them in their overalls, with their muscles and dim, seriously straining faces—rerepainting, as Hanna’d just done it, had had it done what, six months ago, maybe seven; some of them working as high as prosecutable up on the forbidden rungs of stepladders, others taking their breaks with schnapps, cigarettes, and foreign food. That’s that smell, the smoke. He walks along the kitchen edge, past the furthest island counter, the bathroom and its soft cry, a ply of whimper…there’s a rap, stifled—He tries the door, it’s locked.

Who’s there?

It’s a ringing to drown a moan, then at that other door, but which, too many—there’s a knock, knocked sharp and mean. And not at the side or porch, but at the front, which is never and peculiar, and so leaving the handle and the end of that hall, its door down toward the garage, Ben makes to answer through the kitchen, around its unperturbed workers, the long way, the touristic, scenic route…He can’t bear this gettingbearings, but its freedoms are intriguing. Nothing much has changed, though: His house had always been a switchboard, the nexus of all calling. Always strangers getting in touch, checking up and catching. I’m here to install, I’m here to fix, I’m here. Though Ben had only known it for a week, it’s His, this kitchen He’s wandering through, His mother’s Hanna’s open to disarray, the innards of each drawer spilled, exposed if meticulously—scandalous, that there’s nothing much to hide…a quick ragging, a rash of appropriate towel. It feels almost too—what, an excess perfected, of what even the most attentive maternal might accomplish, almost an onscreen test kitchen, like up on the television, now again set high above the livingroom, the den, without signal. I’m here to hook up, I’m here to put you online, I’m not sure why I’m here. Dingdong cable babble. A store display of home appliances, it retails as, and so to make it home again He passes His hands over it, the formica just wet from sponging—sponged by the same brand used exclusively in the Israelien household, endorsed posthumously by Hanna, only ten shekels, and only at Wiltinghills. Then the cabinets, opposite the counters milk, opposite the counters meat, with the middle mediating digestion of the pareve prep marble, once again stocked with sticky wicks with candles at their melt, the spices to the right and left, the Kiddush of the cups—the fourteen of them then the fifteenth, His, to’ve been gifted to Ben though only after that pleonast procedure, graillike lost the bris. As if to say, thanks for letting us cut you kid, here’s a cup for your troubles, as silver as money…a yarmulke, don’t wear it all out in one place—you’re good people, you’re golden, let’s do this again. Arranged as if never moved upon their wedding present tray: the large cup hath His father, His mother’s lesser cup, which’d both come with the set, initialed, dated, then the twelve ones in declining size of His older sisters; guests had drunk their Kiddush from ordinary glasses, impressively fluted within the cabinet next. Israel, he’d make the prayer—would bless the bushels crushed, drink then pour out the wine to His mother, and only then to the cups of His sisters, who’d argue about who’d get poured first, would ambush their father with viney whines, but first was always Hanna; they all wanted the wine that’d touched his lips, needed the exact liquid that’d tasted mouth and then receded, Aba, kvetching with such determination it’d been difficult to second guess, or twelfth.

In reflection, He goes to take His from the shelf, the smallest of them all at rest upon the highest. Just about to reach, there’s again that announcing flurry, a ring of fingers many and funning: dingdong the knockknock of a little fisty joke.

Ben makes His way from the kitchen, past the dishwasher running bum chug and warm, the dryingracks, then the toaster and the breadbin; ignoring the workers as they’re ignoring Him, as they’ve been ordered, not to speak, avert their eyes and mouth—how they’re behind schedule, everything took longer than expected, the plumbing, the wiring, you’re not the only one with problems. Him to stop, too, alongside the pantry, which is having its door hinged on screws gone stripped to nails: with Him old enough already to have favorites, they’re all already stocked, cereal flakes sogproofed, puffed rice and sugared wheat boxed nicely neat, nutritious; a worker’s hauling in the fridge, the upstairs unit, with another following him with two troughs of what was in it, should be still; photographs depicting their arrangements on the shelves mounted due diligence in an album lying open on the stovetop. Milk went bad. And so to mother another carton one percent. He makes His way around the recessed table: salt, pepper, then the holder which sister—Isa, Asa—had made for napkins, baked from the clay from which we all are formed: a worker walks over, around Him, and unobtrusively grabs a handful from a bag, arranges them white and fanned as Ben turns into the hall to the front, finally opens the door unlocked.

The alarm’s been reinstalled but not yet set.

And there beyond the mat that says Shalom, streaming down the stoop and out into the lawn’s snow disturbed only by their shuffling, waiting nervously after their sure troop up the path as if they’re nearly adjusted already, they’re having to be—to the Island, their new boots just broken in and the weather that’s flogging, the death and its memory’s enslavement—there’s a cluster of boys, the oldest of the group of 12-&-unders, about to become barmitzvah, sons of the commandments, give them time. They’ve been woken only to be rescheduled, assembled, then remanded this morning to welcome—they’re dressed appropriately, be sure of that; each of them holds a metal glint, a shovel or a spade.

One of them, he’s the smallest, the littlest of them all with it makes sense the largest, roundest head: he heads the group, his hands in mittens in his pockets, that head a conceit beaked freakishly high…you haven’t been introduced yet, my apologies—then the rest still massing impatiently behind him, so many now, it seems that they’re thousands and more seething from slat to slate up through His frontyard from the fence and its tiny sidewalk strip, the slabs poured only yesterday and already frozen dry: boys uniformed in thick down coats and woolen hats, mittens, gloves, and scarves—they’re here to pay a courtesy call, we were just in the neighborhood.

From them that smallest one steps forward onto the mat, wipes his feet, shakes from himself the fallen snow.

He offers out his mitten with a smile—and Ben, He can’t help it, grips and pumps.

Shalom, he says.

What I mean is, good morning.

Behind him, the boys jape quietly to themselves but together it’s a roar, an avalanche. And soon, they’re heeling up the snow and hissing smoke…yelling Over here louder, each time more willful, dropping flies and pants and pissing from their snips their names and other cursive curses into the whiteness underfoot: the culprits are soon smacked down with shovels to collapse, to make their angels in the day’s light, young and yellow; others, they’re tossing balls and sledding on their shovels back down toward the fence, through its opened gate and further sloping over asphalt toward the Great Hall: a few snowballs hit the siding, spangle windows, around the opened door, and the kid still standing there turns from Ben, glares back at his friends with a yarny finger to his lips, shrieks for quiet, silence; almost immediately, they all turn whispering and sullen mulling: their faces redden, nip blushed, though that might only be the cold. Another moment stilled, and one taller, skinnier kid, him more mature than the others, or only more obeying, respectful of authority, it’s said, or only open to suggestion, he sighs and with its coughing end kicks his shovel down. At this, they all fall in, arrange themselves and with only scattered moans and demonstrative grunts stoop to their first load, tossing the snow to the lawn’s edges, over the picketfence the length of half a block and off the curb, begin their disordered clearing.

I’m Adam, the kid begins again, turning and straining up to face His lean against the scrollmarked jamb, Adam Steinstein…your name I already know, who doesn’t—Israelien, it’s nice to meet you.

Ben waves him come in, come in, what else to do…it’s the birthright of Hanna’s hospitality, an apology for the mess inherited—He leads him inside, asking feel like a bite of brunch?

Thoughtful but no.

Just dropping by to check in, Steinstein begins babbling, how you’re getting along…as if he’s trying to remember how he is himself—that’s wonderful, everything to your liking, and my what a beautiful robe…from down the block, you know, I’m new in town and yadda; it’s painful, this kid trying so hard, and why. Help me out, Ben, I’m supposed to be your friend. He follows Him in through the hall past the coatcloset, then to the kitchen’s nook, the table where Hanna had always received her guests informal, though today more like sloppy, slobby, filthing; them taking their seats opposite each other, across the round—the kid’s still in his coat and boots, has tracked in dirty snow over the mat without wiping, then over the tile to melt the frozen mud in tiny prints, where’s Wanda?

Your friend, Steinstein says again, yours: they asked me to be, last night, then they told me to be, I admit it, damn it…I can’t keep secrets, especially from you—we can’t have any secrets from each other, we’re supposed to be too close. They said: make nice, find out what He likes, baseball, chess, what have you…and as Steinstein talks he takes from a pocket of his pants a fold of shredded white, then removes the lick of paper inside, lays it on the table. Ben scratches Himself in the crotch. Says Steinstein, I’m no good at this, no good…they slipped me an envelope, under my pillow while I was out yesterday at meals. And then a note atop the pillow. It said, check under your pillow. Thanks, I thought, I did. I found this and opened it, no choice. Neither do you, while I’m at it. And I’m curious, no aveyra. I’m no expert at opening envelopes…I don’t unseal, I rip, I tear. Excitable, I guess. I’m not proud. It’s a check. For services rendered. Pay to the order of, it says, zero zero over a hundred and signed…but what I want to know is, how the hell am I supposed to cash it?

Steinstein is small and smart and healthily pale, with a ready receptivity and openness as if the whole world’s his for the having.

Tell me, what are you into, what’s your thing, relevant hobbies, interests, sports and girls, your shteyger…he’s innocent, inexperienced, all that recommends if you’re into it, the openfaced, the openpalmed, have mercy. Quick and happy to be in a house again after a week or so spent bunked. How old are you, and what grade are you in…what’s on teevee, have you recently taken any vacations whether alone or with the family? I’m lonely myself, I miss my mother. Steinstein, where He’d heard that name before He can’t recall…almost impossible that He could’ve, He thinks, as he’s Texas, Steinstein says, and as to exactly where within that enormity he says to everyone from Houston by which everyone should understand a exurb thereof, safe and removed and he knows it, too. Faroff, ranging. In his eyes, which are full plate round, as if headlights, or like those of the wildlife his father’s truck would hit and run and kill: the guileless, alienlike eyes of a boy who’s been allowed to develop an interest in anything, who’s been always encouraged, supported with hugs, kisses, and creditcard, clubbed silver, gold, sky’s limit. His mouth and ears are open only to the speaking and hearing of his own. And his skin, the skin of a boy who’s spent his entire short life inside. Amid the airconditioned. Here, the heating’s pulsing, coming steaming up from baseboard. They sit close to one another with the napkins in the middle and the salt and pepper shakers and the check. Their intimacy the immediate brotherhood bond of the fortunate, that of those bred to be mutually understood, understandable to one another and, also, to their God. It’s obvious, pitifully, that nothing’s ever been denied him, not even his dissatisfaction, not even the forthcoming brag: I’ve never wanted, how I’ve been totally without need until now. Nothing denied him, that is, with the exception of the darkness: the community of those who hate even their own conspiracies of hating, with their Development plans sixmillionpointed, both bulleted and less violently conspired—from lynch murder on down to forbidding you the favor of their sisters. All mostly memory, though, a telling: how my grandfather had found it difficult to find a house, a store; they’d burn crosses on his lawn and pinch his wife. As Steinstein talks, Ben less listens than stares at his teeth, it’s impossible not to: those white perfect drops of bone, like mints to sweeten the tongue and breath. And with his hair perfectly styled, slicked. His nails, pared round, refined. It’s envy, a jealousy they both understand, an animal covet: as Ben’s so obviously special, to Steinstein then to others more powerful than him what with their governments and money. Despite their mutual birthright, because for however short the kid had had a life. What’s it been, thirteen years. And Ben, born only weeks ago. A family loving, or if not that then living, even if Steinstein’s parents had been divorced and his sister she’d married Baptist. Possessions he could break. Relationships and shtum. Steinstein had had other friends before.

Workers are finishing up around them, coiling the cords to drills, folding up their stepladders. A last team’s accomplishing the filling of the final high kitchen cabinets aside those of the finery, the flutes and sacral cups, the pitchers fancy and plain, silver polished only to dull, in the reflection of the vases Sabbath and weekly still awaiting their flowers, always, those for the hallways’s plinths and tables and those of pink plastic for use on the porch, above the webworked, gluehandled mugs for Hanna’s afternoon tea, Israel’s crapulous coffee dawn, rows of them with their handles arranged out displaying wonderful logo to the sides: I Heart My Aba, Wakawaka Securities—His father had gotten that one for free, as a special gift to our valued investors—First International Plenary Session on Lead Insult, which’d been held down in Atlanta, or maybe that was Texas, too, Dallas/Fort Worth, who remembers with Israel dead and nothing remaining save the giveaway junk, ask Steinstein. Two workers left, they’re removing what’s still to be removed from its swaddling, stocking future Kiddush into the cabinets beneath: the bottles, his father’s blood glassed in glass and boxed in wood, his Shabbos wine; Rothschilds, Carmels without bouquet, Herzogs and many Schewitz’s, too many of them red and white and blushing both, watered down, which was Hanna, who didn’t like gouty Israel to indulge, wouldn’t much encourage. Steinstein and Ben try their best to ignore them as they finish up and leave, disappear, some upstairs-upstairs, others to partially unfinish the basement below. All this help and still no brunch, no morning food and drink, it’s unexpected. A perplex. What’s the meaning, the purpose, how we’re both too young for that. Whatever happened to the life that a house like this would’ve promised, should’ve, we were sure. Negligible, perhaps, but it’s no small thing to feel secure. Here this Steinstein sits unknowingly in the seat of His father, Israel if he’d ever make it home from work in time for sitting, Ben in what sister’s He’d never know, them both just waiting to be served, they’ve never served themselves: everything’s always come to them, kept coming, was given, handedover; the placesettings, the where and who ate first and talked and daydescribed, in order, the culinary cosmology of courses and the breakages of silence, of bread and bad news, the table on the floor flooring the basement sunk deep to ballast a house on an Island, now uprooted, dispossessed; how they’re islands themselves, made victims again of splitting water and historical weather—and yet with such knowledge stolen from their brothers dead for sharing amongst they who would survive so chosen all Steinstein can give Him is this I’m lonely shtick, saccharined tea I miss my mother spieling, the coffee creamed and sugary snivelfather…him gesturing with his hands as if this isn’t his native language (this tongue and, too, his giddy innocence within it), asking Him what kind of name’s Israelien, Ben that’s short for what—saying, I’m just so excited about my upcoming barmitzvah…

I’m excellent at math, and once played a solid outfield.

Then Steinstein springs up—he can’t sit still and won’t stand for it, what his mother used to say—to make his way through the kitchen finished since and emptied of workers to pace in place opposite the mirroring fridge at the edge of the hall to the stairs: to open it on his ownsome, the fridge then the freezer adjoining and then the fridge again, there ransacking around for a moment then shutting the door so helpless. You know how it goes…the fridge’s full, and there’s nothing left to eat. He turns to Ben and smiles, blushing, I have to meet the rabbi soon, I’m supposed to be studying. He pauses, thinking: I’m supposed to stop by, supposed to say hello…I’m supposed to do so much of everything that you’d think my parents didn’t die, like everybody else’s. It’s all the rules without inducement, like what’s the benefit of being good anymore, what’s in it for me. I mean, look at the check. Eighteen dollars, can you believe. Cheap schmucks. I’m not a kid anymore, thirteen soon enough though I’ve lost track of days. I was once a Pisces. He turns to the display digitally greened on the panel of the microwave. Is that right? They even set the time? On the wall in the hall above a countertop with the telephone, the pads and pens, the calendar’s still tacked on to December, the twentyfifth is circled Bris; next week’s the dentist for Liv, then the optometrist, or maybe the opthalmolgist what’s the difference they always ask and their parents have to explain even though they’re not quite sure what besides more money and more schooling, with Rubina to head to Florida with friends for the New Year, a friend’s grandmother out in Boca or South Beach, they forget but maybe trust her. Rabbi Schneer, Steinstein’s talking as he flips through the weeks, their ribboned Monday to Sunday days still in their boxes, wrapped in blank for the mourning—you know him, he’s short, like about my height and always with the hat. And fat. Bad teeth. Insists on his ordination, swears he had a mega pulpit, though word is he was only a chaplain; you know, like he prayed for the Army. He has me going over the letters, the words…my speech, he calls them prepared remarks: Welcome one & all, I’m supposed to say, strangers & survivors…he’s quick with the praise, knows to keep it interesting with chocolate candy. Steinstein, a wonder—they gave him God and he goes and finds his own belief, a faith to keep Him going. His mother always said he was a good boy. He’d been the king of the eighth grade.

He stares Ben in the face, searching out His eyes, the watery, venous empathetic.

What do you think’s next—for us, I mean, a future?

We studied this the other day, and he’s twitchy, scratching himself a rash on his neck: that we’re the last of our kind, and that we don’t have any women, not anymore, they didn’t have to tell me that—that our women were what made more of our kind of our kind; they made us, they made us us. Steintstein leans back against the counter. Affiliated, what’s that supposed to mean? What do they expect from me, Affiliation? He turns to wander, not back toward the brunchnook, the lox and capering cranny, but out into the hall and around the house. Forcing himself to perk, don’t forget to smile. Show me your room, he says, your parent’s, everything—him even venturing down into the basement as Ben waits His shame at the stairhead to be told what’s to be found down there, then taunted because He’s afraid though gently. Upstairs again, talked out. Bored already in his mandate, his curiosity thoroughly discharged. Steinstein peeks into the familyroom, pokes into the livingroom, take the given-room, the den, grabbing from its mantel and tables framed photographs of His sisters, feeling them up in his hands and so getting his smudging prints on their glasses as he fills them out, too, in his mind, with his hands, tilting to light up skirts, then facing down as if to pocket waists and shadowed cleavage, to steal their images and so, immortal souls, making rude insinuations with his lips he apologizes for with the flirty lashes of his eyes. His eyes black, with theirs a flashy red. At Ben’s approach, he replaces them disordered but turned to the wall, then settles on a sofa alongside a scatter of last month’s unopened mail to tap a foot and wait.

In time, a telephone rings in the house, all extensions, and Steinstein’s startled, flushes…there’s a far voice—who is it…is it for me, and Ben would answer but the receiver gives only tone.

Steinstein rises to meet Him in the hall hanging up, then the two of them head together toward the door.

Again it’s the front, through which no intimate guest would pass whether in entry or exit.

Steinstein saying it’s been fun…actually, really, I had a good time, great to meet you.

And Ben says thank you and you’re welcome both, He’s not sure which might be appropriate.

He opens the door for him: the stoop’s descent to the lawn and its edging drive before snowedover, now cleared, and cleared of the firstborns, too, who are boys no more though working still. A brotherhood of the frozen, they’re more like white themselves, less boychicks young and healthy than a stranger species of globoid mutant idol: frost babies swaddled in a wasting crystal flak. His new friends, apparently, they’re supposed to be, though He recognizes none of them, why would He: these firstborns turned rolypoly, fattened with freeze, though still laboring with shovels, having saved the stoop and the path of slate and the double driveway of asphalt toward the triple garage from the very substance of which they’re presently made; the tripartite snow that rounds their legs and stomachs and their greatglobed, roughhewn heads…the flurry that holds their arms of gnarled sticks, that steadies them and their wet, tenpronged leafless twigs. Each of them is a making of three huge hunks of weather, all of them piled atop one another then packed hard and dense into a mensch; fraternally frosted golems drifted into animation, they’ve been made and put to work then destroyed, too, then remade again by the wind gusting thickly, pitiless; or else on orders of, maybe, a gesture of goodwill. They’re rolling low to hurriedly heave their last spadefuls, to scoop the final white away while savaging for themselves a handful only, a meager ball, a fruit’s mere clod this modest dig, with which to repack themselves ever tighter to withstand work’s unmaking winter, and to survive, also, the lowing, rolling effort of their shift. To rummage through the plastic inside the rubber, amid the trashcans rowed and stowed under a shingled hutch to the side of the house—in frantic search of button eyes, noses of broken parsnip, turnip ears, a mouth of scrapped tinfoil. The garbage rebagged, recanned. Trash taken out again for another pickup. To shovel the snow to the troughs of the sledges waiting just beyond the fence’s gate, which are then hauled by dogs far out from the Island and onto the ice that’s stilled the vale of Joysey, its hardened wetland rim—there to firm the icy stuff into the forms of other boys, companions: inanimate, whitefaced godlets; survivors made in the image most familiar…to ward off the crows, the flightless boredom, unwinged idle.

Steinstein takes himself down the carefully salted slates and out into the day, whistling as he passes through the fenced gate then greets with a soft Shalom and a tiny wave a small group of the larger, older boys—they once were. Snowmenschs now, working out toward the far rim of the lawn to the west, they’re bending at the knees, which are clumps of ice flexed warm with their effort, exhausting, the melt of falter, their heaving the little strip of Israelien sidewalk naked, their shovels scraping metal on tar giving way with the puddling of self to rubble into gravel: an access road approaching the Great Hall, the frontage of which has already been cleared and kosherly salted, too, to prevent a slip, a broken life. Rain is known: it’d caused the crops to grow as Eden, then Adam sent His widow Lillith out to bring in the sheaves of the harvest. These widows found us in the field and there they married us, and then we were made and grown. And the field became a lawn. But snow. As we are told, there are two kinds of snow. One is pure, it’s said, and the other that’s not. It’s from here that it’s understood, said in the name of forecasters to come. One kind is the stuff of the boys—the firstborns out early on a Sunday and working before brunch; it’s dense, it’s hard. As pure as it is real—an actuality, a world, its presence thorough, round and lasting. As for the other, impure kind—it’s the favorite blanket, the comforting coverlet, the falsifying dust. That both are white is a matter of discernment. Of discrimination. A test of our very soul. From discarnate darkness, a lightning vein, then a shriek of thunder—the entire world is lit. The bunched and bundled boys turn to face the east, the quarter from which weather issues, the womb of the stillborn sun. All glare their whitest purest faces. Ben stands at His door above His lawn, raising His eyes from Steinstein’s cautious path, the gate in the fence, which is little and without latch, the sidewalk then up to the heavens, up to Heaven. West, He’s turned away. To nail a lid to a windblown cloud. A knife cutting flash the furthest dim. Far becomes near, and has always been, or hasn’t: the beaches cold, picnicbaskets blown…the benches overturned, the boarded summer cottages—then, the tankers floating out in the slushy open ocean: their cargo, blood, drained. Liberty stands. Her torch holds the lightning, smoke. From its reach springs a pillar of fire.

We asked the questions—and anything they answered we questioned again and again. And this was how it worked for generations, in every land and in all its languages forever. Call it a parasitic symbiosis, call it Ishmael—just don’t call it late for dinner, was the joke. Some years, some centuries, were better than others. America, for one. The here and now, the recently at least.

For us, no questions were forbidden—they were all our sons, and however they were born to us we loved them; we brought them up without an image, letting them take whatever form they would. As for our firstborn son, we named him Why? In every generation, he’s born beautiful, which is forgivable, and brilliant, which can be forgiven, too, but he’s also born blessed and chosen, and so is hated by the world. As he is pure and peaceful, he’s killed and dies without a thought. In every generation. We are proud, and loud with grief, and so we mourn him by praying his own name.

Though Why? is never asked or answered, only said. Or else it’s both asked and answered, or neither and green, flint as much as diamond. This is where the difficulties begin, when the generations become tangled, ensnared—trippedup on marks of punctuation…interrogatories phrased falsely as pronouncements, prophecy no longer extolled from the mountaintop but whispered from the valleys, without authority, unsure. It’s that we have forgotten how to ask—how to bring into this answering world a boy who is Himself a question. And so what ensures survival is not to search for Why? but instead to search for others who also search for Why? then to embrace them, give them gifts and marry them off to our sisters. This is the only way to peace. In this way, we increase our inheritance, which are our generations—and soon the Why? it’s said, becomes less a search than a limb. And then less a limb than a germ—a gene. Passed down. Flung among. Reactive, it’s been said. In our day, this inheritance has been programmed for extinction. Traits come up for expiration. A breath—expired. Rumors abound. After their death, the world deals only with the second rate, trafficks exclusively amid the middling and managing, the niggling clerks, the bores and the hopeless…gone are the thinkers; remaining are only the losers, the gentile. Unspeakable, thy name is mediocrity. It’s the best they have. We might as well make do.

And did they ever make do! Garden, Inc., its president Der, with the approval then partnership of the Shade Administration selling stock in stock, in the drained blood of the Affliated to anyone who’d afford it; huge banks stored in the holds of those tankers anchored out in flowing water past the freeze, a haul of the consanguine made public, nominally, in concept—not that any of these shareholders would ever come into actual physical possession of so precious a commodity, but—the coffers cough, spit thick gobs of gold. Though the blood it’s just a portion, a peripherally profitable venture, of this government scheme only vaguely privatized within the icicled gates of the Garden to preserve for the powerful the merest assurance of plausible deniability—this project proposing to study the physiological and psychological conditions of the ingathered survivors, which means tests: the laborious filling out of forms by which they sign themselves away, assenting to all manner of invasive procedures not limited to the sampling of everything from everywhere, whenever, intensive patience tries, the trial withholding of approval, hat and shoetightening, protracted submersion within lukewarm water; damningly, the injection of miscellaneous fluids, spuriously saving plasmic transfusions, veined in the hues of the last rainbow ever to be hung sagging over Liberty scorched to the east.

A searching of a newer weather. Another push for Why? What made them die. Was it something I said. Or did something. Or didn’t say. I love you. I renounce and yadda. And all an opinion requires is an opinion observed previously. Experts in quotes. A gene, a genome, which is the congregation of genes—a community of their genomes, a Jnome, say. Expelled from the midst. Researchers with eyes blackened from microscopic squint. Bruised tongue with a funny bone. Selfdestructive encoding from the sixth day of Creation—lies dormant on the seventh, inherited on its night. Late abortion by a rib. One doctor DDS, and probably also disbarred from an earlier career as a lawyer and, though briefly, imprisoned—he thinks it a reaction to whatever they’d sustained themselves on, the kosher, kashering food. Another doctor DPM and moonlighting lately as an accountant, dissents. And so to convene another cenacle of scholars. Then wait. Ideas, the ultimate in waste. Tenured philosophers and metaphysicians of the Continental school feel it wasn’t death, couldn’t be—that they’d only disappeared. Absorption. An assimilation, intractable. Rashed out to another existence plane. Palpated hard to dimension the fourth. Is that the best you can do. Group shrug. Mass Hysteria the foregone conclusion of the Free University of Leiden, stemming from latent fear of insignificance, what’s the term in Latin. University of Chicago cites ideal incest with the air. Who knows. And who cares, decisively. Who can read let alone understand these reports coming in by the hour, might as well be bound in skin and stitched with hair; these journals stretching to an impenetrable six, seven hundred pages, with prettily unfocused pictures and blurry charts to graphs and tables the university presses did up themselves and backward as the printers have just begun converting to a new language right to left what with the multinational publishing houses broke and gone. Speeches are broadcast, but the microphones aren’t turned on. Anything but apathy, that’s the idea, the thinking mensch on the street—apathy the breathless cause, though, and not the effect; that they died of apathy, let’s say, and so the reaction to their death must be the opposite, whatever antipode sanctified: enthusiasm, maybe, for their rituals, for their traditions…initiatives initiated, mantles taken up, causes championed to great effect. Accumulating interest. And verily interest would breed regard, would breed affection, then love, which is the sworn enemy of hate. Theirs a hate that had been a hatred of the self, however, which was only a love that should in theory kill, but paradoxically preserved. If only for a time. Dialecticians having a field day in a new field, which is rutted, smutted—the frontlawn seeded only with morning frost. Each half of any dialectic like one of two vases, blue or white, or both, gifts from who remembers—an uncle’s aunt, though she’d been married to—which Hanna always hated but placed on the table in the diningroom anyway, because something had to go there, anything at all…

A passingover, perhaps…an angel of God forbid to even think of it, death Itself—no Moloching matter. Or so announces the Honorable Meir Meyer, Mayor of New York, on the basis of information supplied by his staff, interns and unpaid. A thesis if you’re feeling generous, we’re just putting it out there, giving gnosis. That, and a collective allergic reaction amid the greater congregation. Bad milk; mutated poison secreted in the previous generation’s lacteal unmissables. And then, it’s gossiped, that the firstborns, they might have been the first to claim their chosenness, but they’re not firstborns. Impostors. Stand in proxies. The latest generation of secundogeniture. Seekers of fortune, profiteers. Opiners opine. Public intellectuals publicize. A malfunction in the mechanism of infridge units of water purification, another. Tampering down at the plant, etc. A reaction theory advances a week, half a lunation, a triggering agent hidden somewhere molecular or other, rendering it innocuous for drink to pass the lips of those for whom the Law’s without cause. Dribble. Mere chin music. Then, a Section A’s last page retraction of an entire moon’s worth of coverage, letting the metro area know they can’t believe everything they read. Tabloid advertorials headlining mass starvation. Overconsumption. To burn like a bush. Or a parasite’s parasite. Autopsies reveal nothing. Milkmuscled meatus. Shrinks analyze the dead upon metal sofas. It looks like a Rorschach to me. Now close both eyes and tell me what you see. A panel of mediums flown in from Anywhere That Sounds Good. Only to find that the Affiliated—they’re still around, why shouldn’t they be; that they’d only transcended human form, went on to exist in a galaxy popularly referred to as Memory (subsequently identified as dwarf spheroidal 3600, type dE0, though disputed). Under the crust of the earth, alternatively, secreted deep in its core, waiting out their day. Talkingheads and yesmensching no. And always with those suits: drycleaners must be making a fortune; salesmenschs, distributors, suppliers. Still, what of selfdestruction. Hardwired martyrdom. Mutation of the urge to submit. Give in, give up, relinquish or relent. An adapted strain of abnegation, anyone. Ritual mass suicide—this the thesis advanced in a private, independent study matchingly funded by the undeniably patronizing sponsorship of the Humboldt-Universität, Berlin. All of them just transmigrating into the ocean at once to drown, holding their yarmulkes down on their heads against the tides. Though, what’s most revealing is this: that not one authority has the media audacity to suggest sin. Who’d the nerve; anyway, it’s called chutzpah now. And on primetime, publicized to an audience of fearmouthed, willing millions. Punishment. As in, Divine Retribution. Deserving. Wanting, needing. Had it coming, then it came. Ask for death, and thou shalt receive only death—and cards you can’t see to read, prayers and sympathy you can’t hear to thank, flowers you can’t smell, and brunch spreads you can’t taste, then a grave that will give you no rest.

Initial tests come up negative for nearly everything—except when a positive false or not would more effectively frustrate any effort to know, to put in perspective. Across the board for those who’ve failed their boards—levels are levels, the counts count, nothing’s found out of the recent reinterpretation of the ordinary. Livers are functioning, urea, uric acid…mensch goes to the doctor, doctor gives him six months to live, you know this, don’t you, mensch can’t pay the bill, doctor gives him another six months is how it goes. RH’s factored in, age, height, and weight, how much you need a name for your problem, too, how syllabically badly you want to be wronged. Another round of injections are prescribed: thinners, thickeners, transalphabetical vitamins, middles, downers and ups; pressurelowering meds are administered; gel’s smeared on nipples, hearts thump away. FB test subjects—initially a sample of thirtysix—are prevailed upon to urinate into a cup, one cup plastic for everyone that no one wants to hold, understandably, as they’re all going to go at once; they drool their warm piss all over their hands, each other’s. Prostates are groped, they give cough all at the same time then gag swabbed, their only culture that of the throat and unbecoming, without feeling; they’re poked, prodded, their fettles are fondled, levels leveraged…saliva samples are taken, and that of their colloidal, colluding sperm; the walls of their tushes each the lower and upper the hairily lipped are scraped for the petri, as fungi’s selectively tweezered out from under finger and toenails, then laid flat atop altars of glass for the sacrifice of institutional money, time, and effort; test after test, more tests than Abram ever had to pass to become Abraham, than ever Jabob had to endure to make us Israel if only in name and more trying, without thicketed rams, no angels stilling hands or laming limbs to save. Ratnosed, roachfingered goyim in white labcoats that’ve been tagged with more initials than God has names, paperputschers, pawing keyslaves, buttonclawers, they’re consulting their charts, a flow veining throughout the evidential body, illuminating only the black mass of ectoplasmic night: testing fresh FB samples, every six hours, three, then retesting again why not, those of the living to be compared with those of the dead, all in an attempt, but how, to fix that strange date in this, the strangest land. Idea is, they couldn’t live forever, could they; naturally or not, they as a people would die out, the thought. And then, let’s say they lived, wishful for argument’s sake or hope’s survival: they could intermarry, they could reproduce with us, meaning with others, and then what Lawwise. Attention, executively ordered, is being given to Xmas Eve of this year; Year 0 A.I. it’s been proposed to call it, After Israel or Israelien, depends (studies have been commissioned: how can we ever count again?)—but they’re too optimistic…Unaffiliated. As forecasts are at odds for the upcoming eve of Passover, and when not at odds then just odd, unrelenting in their manifold predictions: such obscuring fronts and systems, ever colder dates calculated for contrast, timetables and stats, too many numbers serving not to clarify but to darken with cloud, with spilled ink; with the government, Garden, Inc., and not to forget the people, too, the firstborns themselves whose inheritance however imaginary is, in the end, what’s funding this Island endeavor, attempting to ensure that their investment remains protected, tasking Der and the Administration behind him to ensure this never happens again; and that, as the President privately asserts, if it does, which might be inevitable, when it does, then they know not how to prevent fatalities, which might prove impossible, but how best to exploit a survivor, if any survivor there’ll be.

If one needed in order to satisfy an unimaginable impulse, or wanted out of some derangement or another, I’m sure a term exists, to diagnose the office, the physical plant—I have the address somewhere out on Long Island—of the twin Doctors Tweiss, dispensing their office and its forsaken environs a dose of their own medicine, transferring temperament, displacing aims and verbiage in an inevitably misguided attempt to describe, preliminary examination would result in recommendation for the immediate destruction of the facility entire, on second opinion along with its parkinglot, too, and with dynamite. It’s squat stucco with not enough windows; altogether against the human—in no way a place of healing, better interested in hurt. Before they’d moved in, it’d been a funeralhome.

As if to say, Aesculapius, I don’t know. Never heard of him. Aesculapius, think I took his sister out once.

An office a mere block away by carpool from their home, in which they’ve lived ever since a disproportionately protracted birth resulting in the death of their mother and, aggrieved, as if in response, in the eventual feminization of their father, beginning with a regimen of hormonal therapy and then, ultimately, a surgical procedure necessitating a second mortgage—a vaginoplasty in which his testes had been severed to form a labia with the remnant, the shaft of his penis, inverted to manifest the hollow of a shallow vagina. Their office, it’s situated across a meridian from a takeout, drivethru concrete box, at the far end of an icy asphalt lot rented at a nominal monthly fee from that once promiment, national fastfoood purveyor just beginning bankruptcy proceedings, its paving recently annexed into adjacency with the mediating island homeopathically weeded, untended, disused—a tar openness providing ample space for the parking of their modest twin sedans, with the smaller, otherwise zoned expanse just past the island made unofficially available to their patients, too, and to any other visitor to this facility of which their practice, or practices, are at present the only two tenants. Here there used to be seven lawyers, six accountants, five actuaries, four insurance firms, three dentists, two dermatologists, and that lone funeralhome, groundfloor fronting the one pear tree, now barren, stripped by wind of partridges and bark. All of whose space is theirs as of last moon, an expansion from their previously tiny office that had been approximately one street, one address, one suite number too far to the west, which is already Queens. This ever since their official retention, an agreement to diagnose exclusively for Garden, Inc., from the aborted bris on to remain oncall; though they still, if guiltily and with a semblance of quiet, are willing do a number of things, grudging favors, for friends and friends of friends, too, for hard money on the side: accepting diamonds, gold, and other precious gems and metals, free meals, drinks, and High Holiday tickets in return, you didn’t hear it from me, for circumcisions and the mental health counseling their effect would subsequently require, both procedures always ritually performed. If with a handful of weird personal touches: as Doctor Tweiss the plasticsurgeon never uses anesthesia, whereas his twin the psychoanalyst always does, explain that; both having practiced for performance upon Ben, they’re thinking, why not put their work to abuse on a person truly grateful and willing—the general paying public. All at the Garden tolerate it, they have to, it’s too lucrative for them not to, and so they take their cuts both sharp and blunt, and look the other way—at their shoes, on the advice of their counsel.

The doctors, they’re booked for moons.

Through the door to the office that’s wide enough for a gurney, a prehumous coffin and its two medically fit pallbearers—this to facilitate the twins’ coming and going, the two of them at once through the lobby—there’s a sign: The Tweiss Group. One to the left and one to the right, then they meet in the middle. A lobby that also serves as the first waitingroom, as the initial station of a series of rooms that would test the commitment to recovery of each individual patient: however long they’re willing to be kept waiting indicative of how badly they’re in want, or need, of healing. Ratty pornographic periodicals they’ve recovered from the trash of a lawyer vacated or dead, facsimiles of transcribed testimonials provided by, if extorted from, patients former and present, promotional materials for ever newer prescription narcotics designed to alleviate the aftereffects of elective surgical procedures, too, fanned out atop little rickety, unmatching endtables, the nicest of them hardwoods topped in fauxmarble. A scattering of vases with even their cracks chipped, their fill a handling of left umbrellas, corrupt caducei. Antiquities behind frames that once held glass, stationed on both sides of the door, cabinets of rare fragiles shuddering with the entrance of every patient, never exit—and so their shattered statuettes with the heads of dogs and Gods, their idols in shards and showy halfamphoræ. Against that wall an analysand’s settee forbidden for sitting, at its sides two armchairs dermatologist’s purchases smokedamaged, tossed out, then divested by the brothers from a temporarily neighboring dumpster; the other wall hosts the receptiondesk, which is splintering, set on shapely legs—set on highheels—forbiddingly high.

As the firstborns are put through their battery of tests, subject to the painful whim of any government granting or other ostensibly official disbursement, many, though, private and so privately festishistic, insane, Ben’s kept waiting, shifting in one of the waitingroom’s armchairs, sloppily womblike, leaking its stuffing. His appointment scheduled for a lifetime ago, hours, an hour. Reduced to the abject, demeaned by each knifing lick of the clock above, He’s become its lowly ward, and that of the desk below it, too, not to forget behind the desk its girl, sitting low as if unaware of her power. All the waitingrooms, and there are many, as many of them as there are hells, even as many as there are ways and means by which to earn your hell, to become cursed and damned, to deserve it here on earth—all are the domain of this young woman, the offices’ shared receptionist and sole fulltime employee; according to the nameplate her employers would often fantasize nailing to her forehead, her name’s Minnie Tung de Presser.

No, I have Misses Abernathy down for three this afternoon.

Yes, she says, she dialed me frantic from work and I just managed to squeeze her in…squeezes herself, then realizes the telephone’s disconnected, plugs its jack back into the wall. What did she do, what didn’t she do: she’d settle disputes in case of scheduling conflicts, though often she’d be the one responsible for scheduling the conflicts, in an effort to assert her dominance over the doctors who’d woo her, this hourglass shiksa maybe a few grains shy of legal age. Domineering, like she’s making double what she makes, with spoiled ascension pretensions though of trashy stock, a Midwest import, eightfathered Bible Beltbeaten provenance, this who does she thinks she is requiring no analysis and even less anatomical enhancement. The Doctors Tweiss, they’d both been trying to bed her for years, to no avail, though they’ve become quite successful at their fantasy, wetdaydreaming of penetrating her small, pinch-veined, hairless, O so tight nostrils with what they think, they hope, passes for professional abandon; straddling her face, their testes dumbly smacking like tonsils her soft lips glossed in red, then leaving their seed there, shooting it deep and up to store, gunking her septum, behind her eyes then to her brain, giving her recurring sinus headaches they’d surely charge her to cure, deduct it from her minimum wage. They give her no insurance; they pay her in cash only when they don’t miser her in coin. To sit with her breasts rising from the fall of her halter uniform, midnight pleather; her chair’s retrofitted with a dildo, its modification to her feeling natural, the ultimate in cervical comfort, and a bonus to her employers, too, who for relaxation would sniff and lick it after hours: she’d sit impaled on it all day, her legs dangling for the floor, their feet nude, vanillapale and perfect. If perhaps indicative, or so the doctors would only wish, of the laterlife lymphatic—edema, a swelling from pregnant idle. If only she’d let them inseminate; if only impotence wasn’t physiological, too—then, they couldn’t have cared less. Dominatrix pleather except for the naked feet with their toes tapping to the rhythmlessness of her altogether tuneless hum, both accomplished at a volume enervatingly low amid the loud of her lipchewing, gumclacking, and the sucking of her sweets, which are ostensibly sugarfree, a panoply of red and green lozenges she’d enjoy herself while denying them to the uninitiated impatient from a jar atop her desk; rationing them in return for humiliation, to be perpetrated only during breaks from her work of all break, which is nothing more than losing things, not limited to files and office supplies. Abutting the jar, a holder hosts a single businesscard, lonely, its corners crumpled stale—that of the funeralhome director, having long required his own services.

As for the doctors, they’ve recently begun specializing in two disjunctive disciplines: rhinoplastics, specifically the physical enlargment and psychological encouragement of human noses, their exaggeration in all cardinalities and dimensions, imparting to them a particular aspect that can only be described as Mosaic—a nip of counseling and a Prophet’s tuck, as if the nose were a spindle of the scrolling Law; you know it when you see it, you feel it from within: elongating and bumping the rhinion to the supratip is what, which forms the downward sloping ridge of the organ, then restructuring the columella and its dissolution in the philtrum up to the nasion and its ascent to the glabella, is the term, the terminus, which is the root of the nose to be found embedded between the brows of the wondering eyes, the stupefied mind behind their incredulity ever widening; their other late specialty being penile reconstruction, specifically the surgical detachment of the foreskin, and, also, the severance of the primitive imagination’s attachment to that flesh, a process known to most as circumcision, which the people dead and soon usurped had once ritually performed to perfect their babies at the age of eight days, in an attempt to renew perpetually the covenant of their forefather, Abraham—a procedure continued now if not improved with only a sip of fruity schnapps, a quick and sure knife and a concomitant minimum of hygienic pain.

Today, which is of the new moon prepped if it isn’t tomorrow already what with this senseless sitting around, is to be, since birth, Ben’s first checkup, then down and all around—initially an examination septic, deep into the very nature of proboscine protuberance, its nostrils both actual and mindful: an otoscope is what it is, a slight light up the schnozz and, as if that isn’t enough, a brief if free consultation regarding the continuous shed and regrowth of His foreskin—a followup concerning the tender length below: perhaps a sample’ll be taken, maybe a test or ten again, whatever it is the doctors ask of Him, in truth whatever operation their backers, bosses, and peers have ordered them to perform, medical mercenary tactics on order of the Administration as actioned through the auspices of Garden, Inc., just a little too into this stuff, as it’s rumored, overmuch obsessed with it, His thing, He says, Hanna said thingie, down there, Israel would have said His putz, the Israelien member, apparently a most unusual specimen; operations President Shade would perhaps perpetrate himself, it’s gossiped, if just for the experience or pleasure, if only he’d be assured of, then insured against, not losing the valued patient in the process. Idea is, if Ben’s endowment keeps secreting skin, keeps growing a foreskin then flaking, shedding, regenerationally then growing and shedding itself again and again, not what do we do to arrest or perhaps moderate the pain it might cause and it does, but instead—how can a profit be made in its exploitation: with many prominent secularists to suggest an exhibition of His remnants to be opened at the Metropolitan or at the Museum of Natural History stuffed and mounted Uptown just off the Park, perhaps a sensational display of the actual regenerative process to be commenced in a public place, a spectacle to be appended with appropriate admission fee, think an amphitheater of GrecoRoman proportions, or the Rose Garden of the White House with all the presscorps corpsed in attendance and the President himself with the thorn of a pointer, explaining away for the media masses: tissue repair as a metaphor for survival, the recent regrowth of God’s science in every sector, a resurgence of interest in the divine mysteries of human life; the mystics to suggest, however, the pursuit of a fate far more secret and as such, more holy, namely the collecting of His foreskins solely for the purpose of further creation: the assembling of them into the form most familiar—once serviced by the appropriate incantation, of course, and the setting of a magical shem beneath the flat flap that would serve as a tongue—the making of a golem is what they’re talking, a mensch made exclusively of this sheath: a savior, though immortally soulless, uninspired and voicelessly dumb.

Nurse, how she insists on the qualification, despite having failed the entrance exam to every New York nursing school seventeen times or so, even those less discriminating accredited upon islands Long and Staten, that and she hasn’t yet begun reviewing for her next attempt, if there’s to be one—de Presser, she rises with a moan in her mouth and a crop in her hand, makes her way up to Him loosely, to escort Ben with a nod through the opposite door, which she unlocks with a key affixed to her uniform’s zipper, then over that threshold revealed, a glaringly bright uncleanliness, a pitiless fluorescence hovering in a dull buzz over the uncarpeted linoleum grime: here another waitingroom, this the second containment in an apparently infinite circuit of waitingrooms that in truth number three and only seem that way, eternal as without span, each furnished more and more sparsely, with less thought given in each instance and every area to patient experience, the conditions of comfort physical and psychological both, a deductible factor of welcome: the periodicals get older, more out of date, more and more specialized (Journal of Panamanian Gastroenterology, for example, Confronting Asian Identity Through Cosmetic Surgery, for another), with more pages from them ripped out, holding together from wet, pamphlets, catalogs and brochures, leaflets and flyers; the idyllically stilled lives hanging graven on the walls cracked, crumbling, prefab, massproduced, purchased in their frames from which pricetags still hang their half off, reproductions of images that if they ever existed shouldn’t have, needn’t have, the hideously landscaped pastoral, hills rolling dales, burbling brooks set with trees put out to pasture; diplomas onsite financed, and mailordered, or xeroxed, stolen and forged, their fields not yet filled in, unsealed and unsigned and unframed, held to the walls encrusted in mold with deformed, defective nails, tacks and swaths of tape, which are peeling to trap the flies swarming. Nurse de Presser leaves Him to an armchair utterly depleted, falling apart even more than the armchair wrecked previously; they’ll blame Him for its damage, the Garden will be billed. Of all the designs of this waitingroom, its appointments particular and that of its others, progressively, regressively, dilapidated, the trouble taken for welter, their worthless use, worn, lorn, and fray, He’s most interested in whatever that is opposite Him, whether furnishing or human. Nothing else but to wait for its revelation—calm in knowing that it can’t know Him, though, as it’s sitting slumped in what feels like a diaper, its head bandaged if head it is, a nose if that bound in mounding gauze.

It says from out of nowhere in a voice that’s a rubbing, a rustling sputter, how’s it hanging? then laughs, bandagebitten—anyone there? and so it’s probably a person, and suffering, with hurt evident in a laughing groan shifting its entire form toward Ben, its diaper, painful diapers, noising like parchment ripping dry.

I’m sorry?

Hard to resist, I know…mine’s hanging when it’s warm out just a little to the left. Today, it comes off—not all of it, you understand, just the crown, you know of what I’m talking.

You still there? I can’t see or nothing, it’s the nose…your head’s only this bulb to me, forgive.

A nose swelled with a pride so false as to occlude sight—no, only overly prepared: this thing’s entire hook has been iced at home, then wrapped for outsourcing to specialists, a mess professionally marked down the middle thickly with a greasy, waxy substance that represents to Him like ash; it smears at the apparitional pick, this large line demarcated down the spine of the proboscis, hatched with smaller lines, diagonally, and purposefully irregular xs where a wart, mole, or miscellaneous growth’s to be implanted, according to the whim the goy’s saying now of his wife, her expectations of him and his physicality not as difficult as they are embarrassingly tedious to adumbrate at present, and to a stranger in a waitingroom at that. Must be uncomfortable, like the flaming expected from his swaddled groin: this suffering a mere idea of the symbolic, a small portion of the distress it’s intended to provoke, not only within but also without, amid the greater world and its nosy, invasive demands—not yet fully understood, hardly articulated at so early a phase—for a people, new or renewed it’s no matter; and, too, for a specific Messiah, perfected: both looking the part and feeling it in equal measure, whose faces and Whose Face just have to have a certain character for credibility’s sake—and so this going under, the undergoing of this forever sit and wait.

I’ll admit it, he says to Ben…I’m a late arrival, what of it—that Xmas, the night they all…you know, that just destroyed me.

What if it had been me, I was thinking…what’s my responsibility to the dead and why—provoking questions, know what I mean?

I was crushed, wasn’t comfortable with who I was anymore.

It’s guilt, insecurity, those old feelings of inadequacy, and so I’m having these procedures…the nose—it’s a solidarity thing; identification, status; and then I’m getting sliced, too, ritually snipped.

Nature’s raw law, the more primitive, the primal, the animal, that’s on the outs says the wife; she’s been after me day and night. I told her what they told me, that there might be considerable detriment to, nu, sensitivity, occasional hymn difficulty, you understand—a bit of impotence at first, nothing medication won’t remedy, I’m assured.

She’ll love it, I’ll live with it, we’ll deal. I’m the last in my office to have this done; the doctors’ve come highly recommended—I’m told they have a heavy hand; apparently, it shakes.

Nurse de Presser enters the room again, and escorts Ben through the door opposite, which gives out onto a room even smaller and dirtier—a closet’s custodianship of a bathroom, maybe, converted to dinge as if for the accommodation of a solitary and reflective wait with the preservation, or installation, of a plumbingless porcelain toilet upon which He sits with its seat down amid the intricate webbing and egglings of tiny spiders, and the lonely motes stuck for their sucking, fat fluffs of dust to be leeched of their defilement. He faces Himself in the dim—the wall’s lone hanging, a mirror unframed in which’s reflected only shadow. He tugs the chain to the bulb above, no luck. If there’s anything else here it would be only a form, derelict, forgotten: a mop, thinhandled, or a broom bristlehairy, gunked thickly with sopping sweep, leaned up against the wall at corner.

I’m next, it says, and so it, too, seems a person, but standing on his head. And no way you’re getting in front of me, no matter what, won’t let you…I’m sorry, pleased to meet you.

Ben reaches out to the foot offered and shakes it lightly bare in shvitzy greeting.

People don’t respect the old order anymore—you know, they never did.

Patience, patience, patience, a bissel calm?

By the time I get in to the doctors, I want to be sick enough to merit their full attention, that’s the goal, I’m talking totally out of it, some days I even wish I were dead…he sighs, knocks knees. I want to give them something to work with, wouldn’t presume to waste their talents and their time.

I’ve been standing like this for a while now; they say it’s good for you, for your head, helps with the memory, brings back whatever’s repressed.

Nurse de Presser returns, escorts Ben through the barren’s backdoor, on their way stepping on the goy upsidedown, giving him in his howl a leer to her legs, the darkred wounding between them; the door opening into the vivisection of a hallway, still unheated, and again travestied, the paint, paper, paste of its near walls hopelessly torn at as if with nails grown teeth; a hall labeled opposite the door with two signs shaped like arrows…what are their points, opposing—one declaring Doctor Tweiss and the other the same, though not evidencing that to the right’s the psychoanalyst, and to the left the plasticsurgeon, if and only if it’s not the other way around. Throughout this lowceilinged, linoleumfloored hall, people in multiple stagings of an evident distress (being clinical), or derangement (becoming pathological), pace a placebic back and forth, slip on slickshod poolings of their own urgent wastes, only to rise relapsed through the ambit between the two closed, and probably locked, doors, one at either end.

They’re confused, says the nurse in a tone that’s been memorized though not quite as well as that that she’s employing such to confide: her briefing, closenosed introductory remarks—not sure as to which of the doctors they’re here to see, and for what they’re here to see which of them about. I’ll make it quick, pay attention.

Those who arrive for psychological treatment, seeking help let’s say with a relationship or sexual issue, often enter the wrong office and emerge two, even three days later pregnant, or else with a larger bust or smaller chin; sometimes this solves their particular problem, whatever they’d thought that was, other times not; though not a few of the cases you’ll find have changed their minds on their own: headed for one, they turn right around and head for the other, which I don’t need to tell you would necessitate another appointment, requiring yet another wait; some cases, as I’ve said, are confused—noncompos, maybe, whether from a preexisting condition or not; but others, the poor wretches, are merely forgetful, meaning their memories aren’t what they used to be—and whatever they used to be, that they’ve forgotten, too; and then there are many just waiting for their insurance to be approved: they’re one form short, perhaps, a missed premium, it’s tragic.

You should be grateful, she says, you’ve been fasttracked, straight to the top. No one’s gotten so far, so quickly.

A hallway, a glorified madward, an asylum transplanted like a canker from the dimly far, catarrhcoughing past, to bloom here in a wintering of institutional white amid the the tubercular exurban; the asphalt just a block too far to be boroughed. People checking off their listless, a life too inconsequential to register on the Xrays on which they sit; a goy standing to piss through an eyelet ripped into the tip of his bandage, wetting the floor and its median rug opposite the entrance door, its purples and gold dampening richer with his wail: a rug the foreskin of a vast endangered animal, the doctoring brothers would often boast (a whale, the Leviathan, lion, bear, or just a costly imitation), luxuriantly soft, stretched as a welcome mat, wipe your feet split then nailed; translucently dark motifed with veins, rumor has it that if you stand on it long enough, it’ll become a carpet, wall-to-wall. You’ll have to excuse me, the nurse says over her shoulder as she escorts out the disturbance micturating still. Just a moment, for her to think of the appropriate delay: the doctors are now occupied treating each other.

A woman who’s known better days though her eyes seem to ask, but haven’t we all, approaches Ben as Nurse de Presser and her cropped charge disappear with a twitch behind the door, which is locked again, the goy’s urine foaming in from under the draft. I’m looking for Doctor Tweiss, she’s staring down to the puddling warm and her only in her slippers; would you be so kind as to point me in the right direction? What left to do but shrug. I was referred to Doctor Tweiss by a Doctor Tweiss—smiling half a tooth—and he, such a nice boy and single, can you believe, referred me to this Doctor Tweiss for a second opinion, who then referred me back to Doctor Tweiss for unspecified tests, and now that Doctor Tweiss, he must make a comfortable living, you think, such a wonderful soul that one he’s referred me to a specialist, a certain Doctor Tweiss whom I’m trying to find now, and I’m afraid I’m lost, and quite late for my appointment.

About to give a grin in response when another younger woman, only a girl spasms between them and asks loudly of Ben, Tell me about your father!

Myoclonic. Say, you wouldn’t happen to have a sigh?

Her hair is in her face, but those on second inspection are wrinkles.

Enough, she yells, so tell me about my father, will you?

All the patience of the hall turns at this noise, makes to mob the arrival, this whomever hunk promoted past them, unremembered from the haven of earlier rooms—thinking, here the potential for new information. Husbands and wives in for counseling and couples you can’t tell which they’re in for, in declining health whether psychological, physical, psychosomatical, psychophysiological, or only hypochondrial, hysteria termed as mere suggestion; their clothes as if their insides turned out, an airing messy, ravaged with aliment; their faces haggard, cheeks sucked shallow to image as if idolatrously the hollowness lately experienced within: neglected, they survive on nothing more than dust, which is both sustenance and an experimental drug, as a palliative unsurpassed, a universal prescription the ingestion of which—by salivaswallowing, snorting, fingering on the gums, the thumbing of which up the tush—induces a nostalgic quiescence, a wistful longing for the unknown or possibly never extant past; the doctors have it imported from overseas, a treatment intended especially for the edification of their longest lasting patients, at an expense said to be significant both financially and, too, for the mind and body; its only effect whether side or frontally lobed being a particular thirst, which as its specificity’s not yet been identified is impossible to quench.

Across from Ben leaning against a wall of the hall—another later clock.

Tick, tick.

Just a wristwatch tacked—a tock.

Waiting, it’s an exam of time and money, a test they’ll never pass—specifically, how precious is a life? It’s always the same, this waiting, amid ghostly gowned, suspended patience—shrouded in the fusc and noise of incomplete or false report—the expectation day after day, after moon, and in every line, in every office hour, the prison of the calendar box in which the appointment’s set down, as if scribbled into stone: it passes monstrously slowly, sacrificing its people to patients, its patients to victims, monotony deferred to nullity, a void, this grave for entitlement, an afterlife of modest proportions, attended to by the biting of nails, by unwarranted hunger, and that perpetually unparticular thirst. Without even the promise of Purgatory—it’s the purgatory of purgatory, which would find you finally guilty only if innocent of shuffle, fidget, twitch. An extension to be granted to boredom, indecision, to seek leave only for a rest—though if they sleep, Him or any of them, they might miss their name when called, or if (no one knows, though, upon which pad that disclaimer might be scribed); that is, if names are still theirs to have and speak and hear amid such desperation—the aim of which, as implemented from above, from below, can only be to depersonalize, to victimize human not into animal but worse, turned to mere number, into order, into slave. All names to become, after this, the wait itself, named Wait—after this assimilation into oblivious system, this initiation into nothingness, misfiled. It’s the latest in destructive: how the one solace He’s expected to derive from this is that of His own suffering, and that of others, expectant, too; there’s enough to go around and dizzying around and yet beyond Him, nauseous, a sensation worse than suspicion’s comfort, or the consolation of His fear; Him by now mature enough to know that all the kvetch in the world won’t hasten fate, thanks Israel, which Hanna never understood, how our noodgy push is fated to nil, no avail.

The office’s patients are joined throughout the following days and weeks by older wards of the Garden—terminals, causes lost to corpse—tapping last toes, pulling final fine hairs, teething the lip then a tongue to suck the dust and, also, to postpone, putoff, keep waiting every urge—waiting for Doctor Tweiss or his twin, for both of them or their receptionist she thinks she’s a nurse if she’s not too busy, to belch them out upon the Belt Parkway, beached; as if prophets spit from the innards of a Leviathan sustained on watery time, sundered upon a brutal clock—an end to office hours, when. A doctor heals but time does, too, depending on how devoted that doctor is to the treatment. It follows that this is how one remunerates the brothers for their work; this very waste their payment, earned in the professional discharge of a gross neglect. Waiting for an hour is good for a consultation of ten minutes, wasting three days away will get you a fullbody checkup—in the perfection of this transaction there being no insurance information to give, no forms to fill out, or checks to cut; them paying the outstanding balance in their deaths; the wait being the end of them as individuals, as people; accounted animals, counted breaths. Or else, in another interpretation: as no soul ever dies, they’ll transcend themselves upon the reckoning, taking leave of their ordinal, regularly scheduled forms, to become the wait itself, a reincarnation to total waste. With all the days of their lives and their nights, too, sentenced to the time that must be waited out by their generations ensuing, until their own demise, then that of theirs and onward, which becoming is and would be perpetual, forever—humble contributions to a charity eternal.

Enough, enough to say—it springs. Dayeinu. An explosion, we will be swallowed by the earth. Our core comes apart, a bomb up from the Apple’s bowels—islands its shards, the city a broken vessel. Repair, whether mend or heal, you do what you can, your best.

A new life seeps up from the void within…disperses out, under the permafrost—in veins, a straining snarl. Our foundations are rocked; smoky tufts, dusky mold; buds shiver into silvery crowns; ices crack westerly, wrack the Island in a jarring purge: spring, the season of crying, kicking rebirth…spring, the season of sprung quickly, cold stillbirth—their mother is the same. Their father, he’s late—we’re waiting on him still.

Nothing’s thawed, only shattered. The verdant’s humbled under the freeze, as not much more than a sign, foretelling of symbol…a future down and dormant, entombed in ice, season’s promise without warming to fulfillment. If promise is the redemption, then fulfillment is the Law; this is our tradition. In the clock that is its cycle, it’s the season of Exodus—in a more obliging time, the season that would stream dew down to the valley of the faithful, to flow its flight past blackened cataracts of spoiled manna, then over and around the desert winding itself its clay bed as serpentine as sin, to pool at the foot of Sinai, shining like a star under a latter moon; summer’s slow absorption of the wetted, wetting season: the weather and the Law, inseparable, of the same womb, that of Hanna’s Hanna. As a babe borne to His first spring atop this ancient rush, in a basket woven of His eyelashes floated atop a river of His tears—so early in life that everything’s a first, a fresh discovery, a blessing lying in the waiting, twophrased at the crossroads: first face toward the Great Hall, then bow, and then toward His house above the ice, to bow again at its path of slate, its driveway of tar, freshly shoveled daily…to holy every revelation’s what’s required, if not for Ben’s survival then to make their deaths more real—no matter how meager, no matter the futility involved. He divines the smoke from the fire, and differences the earth from the unappealable ice. And so He knows, as much, this season for what it is, for what it’s become, and so for what’s forsaken—this spring isn’t about rejuvenation, regeneration, a new compact, or covenant renewed: this disillusioning moon, it marks only a season more, another loneliness starmocked, shone deeper into the empty soul of life.

A last twinkling, then darkness.

As it will never be written: when cycles are stilled, their memories go on with their turning, overturning; then what was of this world is called inside, is locked indoors, sent to its room, to toss diurnal in colorful, too clowny sheets. Know this—that we live despite the season, its weather, the wasteful, wasting time. That we live because we stay inside—that only with roof and walls are our lives saved; on the lawn and behind its fence, the car parked, the gutters blooming, there we erect our truest Temple. As courses are made ritual, the rise and set of sun get timed to the face of a higher clock; its hands of rays spin, realigned, to tick away our time…until—an emergence…revelation, an inspired sensing. As a mensch more than any otherness is both a part in a mechanism and an individual, a mechanism unto himself, both the cog of the clock and the clock itself with its two gnarled hands: one shorter to pull toward, opposite one longer to push away, that and the feet of a lion and with the tail of a viper, the time Ben spends in the Garden is made other from any hour known, is off the daily schedule. His are days sat out in this house alone He’s trashing, destroying, bringing it to the collapse of ruin: a house adrift on an Island floating in an ocean set in His sink, in the kitchen His mother once ruled as queen, out from under the timing scepter of her king—the third hand of the clock, pointing time independent and so perhaps to us erratically, but no less regulated, still within the same system, rooted to the same immaculacy and intellection, its floating face…squared by the lower tennis courts, their balls starring lazily over the nets windfallen, in the division of armies for snowball wars; the slides have been repurposed; the seesaws reeducated into catapults of frost; though the bases be stolen, no one has it in them to escape.

Indoors quick—and hide.

We have been warned, and warned again. Tonight, the only obliging outward sign, the lone telltale, is the newest moon returned. There are no more fillings of the sky, than usual. This moon filling itself with light, which is our essence, then this waning moon, waxing tidal death—the month the bodies, which had sunk then risen then sunk again, are consumed in full, the last one of them swellswallowed; treyf fishes stuffed to the gills freezing up onshore at the edge of the ice’s lap into open water, sharks with frost for fins skittering on the slick, flopping whales their flukes encased in hoar. As for the waters above, they’re drowning the stars—the dark to constellate the breaching of the astral ship, Argo Navis sinking, the ark of Noah, the vessel of Isis and Osiris…in our tradition, another New Year yet again. Vernal, and so unleavened. Unseeded, the spring of spring. Ahead into redemption. Nothing to sneeze at. A season of libels and of passings. And dadadadada. Of the seder, too, which is the order: wine, wash then green; wash and nosh. Fress your ess on nothing. But before, the streets split open, wheat that’s also ice springs up from the ground. A feather is plucked from its hide. A candle’s rolled. All that’s leavened becomes involved in an arcane exodus of sorts, sold to this goy hustling out of state for maybe less than nothing. A promise. Only a word. Equinox schquinox—what else could be its meaning, how to question winter still? Once each crumb is counted. Once each bread is broke. Swallow your tongue. Eat your teeth. Speak up.

It’ll be a fast plague. Swift, without mercy, a cold bloodless slaughter. As always, all will come too quick—is there any plague worth its lot of salt that doesn’t, that won’t, that just stands there like a pillar? Questions again, this being the season—the most pressing of which the least passing, the questions silent, implied, innumerable and so, numinous. As we sit at the Passover table topped with the yomtov tablecloth as yet unstained and the polished silver and the plate with the bone and the egg boiled hard in its mother’s own water, observe, the youngest among us should ask the oldest the following: how is this night different from all other nights? And how, for that matter, are nights different from Night? Not anymore they’re not. Have you been outside lately, you better believe it for yourself.

Then, the oldest should ask the youngest thusly: which son are you, and which not? I don’t know, all of them, none. Never again a time for resolutions. Never to begin anew. They should ask the youngest Him, which son will you be…and then—are you the One who doesn’t even know how to ask…what is a question? How to answer. Will you be at all. Or will you opt out. Don’t you want to be. When you’re all grown up to dead. Their seder to be interrupted—libelous, the matzah weeps blood. The seat at the head of the table is empty and will be forever, you’ll get used to it, I’m hoping. Think on it, Ben, my boy, my boychick, knowing that to think’s to remember, just as much. In the beginning, they died, them and their questions with them, and now they’re to begin dying again. When does it end? How? Never why. Who’s able to answer let alone think anymore with such moony racket? Remember me kindly when I’m gone.

It’s a spring in which nothing’s in season. Plant the ice, reap a frost. Unless we hoard hope, we’ll go hungry come the winter of winter. Ravenously, we’ll eat crow. Then God shall drink the air from thy mouth. A going within to go without drash…that’s the best we can expect: an exhortation to introspection, an offer soulsearching, tasked to the spirit; a custom, a commandment, a mitzvah…a recipe even, we’ll take what we’re given, we’re served—to go down into the barest cupboard in the deepest recess of the emptiest heart, to slop around for what, for mealy meaning, a pareve purpose hosted under this willfull, whirlwind moon; this lunation of denial, of limitation, waxed with worshipful privation, waned of empty reflection, empty of reflection…and so, where does that leave us?

Tonight, it’s the first of the first month, or of the seventh, depends on how you keep up, if and to what end. As this season features the fast of the firstborns, in memory of the dead kinder of Mitzraim, which was Egypt, and so of its Pharaoh and his sun, one day and its night in memoriam, tenthplagued, the FBs—young and old as if they still have a survival to prove; stepspooked, careful around the mirrored corners, migrained desperate, weak already, emptied—they fast almost the entire month, though not alone: in flagrantly mundane disregard of the law prohibiting excessive fasting, which archaic rabbinic ruling holds that such action serves only to lessen the holy, a new law is proposed, a ruling terrestrially lesser voted upon and approved with astonishing haste, which in its unanimity and the rarity of its passing speed seems as if made with the tacit approval of the Divine in us all; every day this month—which is known by the name of Nisan, meaning First Fruits in a language lost—is designated as a national fast day, as optional as life, as proclaimed by President Shade in an address from the Capitol to a joint session of Congress, which is now per an earlier ruling to be referred to as the Sanhedrin, exclusively and with all due respect: Der at one flank, the Doctors Tweiss become the Soygens General behind; this in support of UN (United Nudniks, it’s witzed) Resolution number doesn’t matter, appreciatively drafted then proposed by one Mohammed Arbas, the new delegate from the reformed State of Palestein, and cousin to its ruling class, the usurping Abulafias; a fast to be observed as per tradition inherited, in deference to religious precedent, from sundown to sunset, with those underage, pregnant, and/or suffering from medical conditions too agonizingly tedious to address personally, those abstaining acting on the advice of their personal physicians on the dole, and those who just don’t want to go hungry the whole month exempted, of course, forbidden from the option of indulging in the restrictive holy. Supermarkets are swept, mopped, then shuttered, themerestaurants shut, their burners cooled, fryers shushed; lonesome servicestations and truckstops since last moon their windows festooned with grabs of plastic grapes infused with Xmas lights aglow, darkened; everything’s unplugged, the water turned off or frozen in the pipes to explode; many take the opportunity to go out of business, invoke for themselves the broke of hope Chapter numbered Eleventh, go boardedup, condemned, especially if not kosher—the price for appropriate certification, a hechsher, being prohibitive due to current lack of a rabbinic council or other administrative body, that and the bribery involved; most everyone wanting to keep up with their friends the Joneses now the Jabotinskys, to look good for the neighbors, setting an example for the Development and their kind, they stay indoors, lock their cabinets, nail up their crannies and nooks, knot up their fridges, chain and bolt ovens and stoves, to feast on this fasting that—as we’re reminded in an address by President Shade, as scripted by Der and Doctor Abuya with the Nachmachen consulting—directs us away from the wants of the body, all those functions corporeal, to focus instead on the needs of the soul; though the knifesharp, teethsharp pangs the President feels later this first day, around 1700, wedgewoodtime, fineboned chinatime, serve only to remind him how famished he truly is, and, too, of the surplus stock hidden amid the basement cubs of his mansion: the store in its recesses, overwebbed like the manifested back of a bill outdated—enough foods, flashfrozen at outlandish taxpayer expense, to last any Shade and his First Family consecutive terms bounteously in excess of the old legal limit.

O, do you feel it—there’ll be bodies on the golfcourse tonight (nine holes)! and heaped upon the diamonds, there to mark the fifty yard line…corpses benched in the piano practicerooms, piled into stacks in the dim of the library’s gym—to be winged away by women in white, first response angels, armandlegging their flock into the backs of covered sleighs, makeshift hearses; blinders on their ferocious horses, icehooved stallions stumbling insatiably across the dark face of the moon. In the Meat Commissary, a few boychicks getting their fill on the eve of the month, piling their plates high in anticipation of a first privation dawn morning, liningup miraculously to their mothers had they been alive for seconds at the saladbar, their imitation bacon bits spilling to the floor in an arrangement that can offer no interpretation…sniveling, pitfisted, prunemouthed and mucosal brats going under and blue then white in the heated pool during Free Swim—at meal, at prayer, at stool, asleep and awake, the Garden’s to be emptied, to be given over to the silent Edenic, a Paradise unpeopled; the Island to be purged of its natives, left for profanation, and that only by memory, a single lit house, the home of His heart. This month, Ben’s not allowed to leave without permission. Housearrest. Domestic murmur. With locks locked from the outside, alarm heavily armed. As of today, no more of His morning wanders, dawn spent rimming the shoreline, His prescribed perimeter exercises to keep down the weight; occasionally testing the ice: two, three tiny tentative steps out to wickworn melt, further, a bow then a crack, a brittle give…arm-in-arm with Steinstein, arm-in-arm their quick retreat. No more afternoon drives, putputt in carts for golf, two friends tempting the dusted roads, skidding into petrified underbrush, lowlying marcescence—ice the skeleton of trees, cage of bush, bone of shrub. No more evening sledding, piggybacked fast into roseate drifts. Smash. Draft. Snow lit from within. Inside seems always so inviting. Though cocoa’s left out hot on the table no longer. Thanks, Ima, same to you. The couches rest on the laps of the sofas. The carpets are the hides of clouds. Homebound, then, and with support staff otherwise occupied, Ben’ll keep the lights blazing past Curfew, candles rendered from the very fat of His boredom…

Illumination the sweep of a lighthouse, the diffuse hoots of tankers…an island of light atop an island of dark. Imposed. Two islands, two dials of a clock, telling the same different times. Trapped within, unable to escape, Ben’s Himself frozen, ossified in youth—as if spring for Him hasn’t yet arrived, and will never, as if He’s been ordered to gestate, remanded to the safety of hibernation, winterized torpor, the otiose sloth. On the radio, they’re airing prayers. And there’s nothing on the screen anymore quite worth it. Electrostatics. Name every flake, from the comfort of the blanket and the sill. Reflect in windowglass. Make to stroke the sky. The fridge, snowwhite, has been emptied, scooped; emergency numbers are still chalked on a blackboard propped against the kitchen wall, leaning away from the phone: sisters exts. 1 through 12, His mother the # key, His father unavailable; when He dials Israel, pressing * for speed, He gets his office message; there’s always a meeting, a mediation, arbitration or deps in the offing—should you have any questions or concerns, please call me, or my paralegal…alongside a calendar, the two ordering nights of the holiday upcoming circled big and dumb in marker, black. Then, a visit to the dentist, a return to the Doctors Tweiss. Occupied. All alone, and still He’s scheduled. Peace now, peace never.

As no God Who would allow a tragedy such as this can exist without a creation to believe in Him, and this despite the ferocity of His wrath; as no mensch can exist and can love without the love of those before him and their women, their salaries and time, they wouldn’t hurt, too; as today is inconceivable without a yesterday whose sins we must suffer the worst for only surviving—for there to be a last, it follows that there must first be a first: those seated in the back, those seated in the front, those standing, those who don’t want to sit, those without any seats left to their urge…the eve of this moon, this the uncovered Rosh Chodesh, which means the Head of the Month in a language no one speaks but everyone’s studying, this year fallen on a Friday night, a Shabbos going unobserved by one Abel Steinstein, cousin to Adam and brother to history, unformed young, smiley and slow—as he’s dead; as persuasive a defense against dereliction as any we’ve known.

Abel who, though? As the news asks around on the questioning wind: whether to bundleup, or stay inside and under the covers—everyone wants to know; they tug coats, they pull ears, beg favors of their connections. They invent, against the polysemic Semitic. Give them pause. Given a chance, they’ll choose fictions over patience if just to keep hold of their sanity, the firstborn of verity and honor. Swaddled in a hat. Suckling bald. Bow your head, particularly. Asking in a whisper, who is this schmuck; importantly, who does he think he is—this usurper, this attentionhog, Abel this singular Steinstein?

O, okay, sure, Ben’ll eventually relent…give Him a cup of coffee, He’s about to break. Sugar in the teeth, jam at the dregs. He knows Abel through Adam, there’s no harm to admit it—on the advice of bunkmate counselors, a parttime mallcop, his partner by day a stayathome broker—knew him through His Steinstein, Adam, you know him…who you sent my way, whom I should hasten to say never liked to spend time with family. Abel wasn’t around much, don’t know if Steinstein ever wanted him around and, anyway, the two of them they look the same around the eyes, especially through Ben’s, poor as they are, they looked, and, let’s be honest for a moment—hope that’s not too much to ask—isn’t one Steinstein enough? Abel this evening the first of the month to end all months, the last night of food to sate them through the difficult fast, this last even on the Shabbos indulgence, seated and as always behaving himself in his assigned seat at his assigned table in the midst of the Meat Commissary (the Dairy’s for the day’s earlier meals)—a squared portion of black bench marked off and stenciled with number in warning yellow paint; Abel just a young, always smiling kid (in the obits and their nightly discussion of them, it’s always mentioned, this smiling, one of those defining details required to humanize, and at the same time, to distance, bury amid the ultimate back page), you never knew what he was thinking, if, with blond hair and twinkling blue ices for eyes and a nose scrunched to mischief, a tinkling laugh, huge ears like wings as if any praise overheard would send him flying to the sky, only after an acknowledgement given from a mouth shaped like a kiss; sitting erect and at attention throughout the initial prayers, that business with the wine and bread, the two loaves of challah, Gardenbaked never enough for the table, his silverware held aloft, how he’s ready to be served and eat, familystyle, the tradition of the Garden; the table’s “father”—rabinically rachitic, a gruff, glassesed mensch with a whitened scrofulous scruff about the taut cheeks and recessive chin—serving first the table’s “mother,” a younger, preternaturally gray mensch, slight, suited and tied, corporately consumptive, made sick through idleness, he can’t digest a thing; then serving the kinder of the table: FBs ranging in age from twentysix to six, Abel one of ten middle kinder, at thirteen the kind most middle, and so used to being passed over in favor of the shining eldest or most demanding youngest, angelic in his stupid patience, old beyond his years; ladled and scooped, fork and knife dripping with sublimated urge, as if the tine and blade are both made mouths connected as continuation of his throat; then, juicy gravy swathing the brute constancy of that smile, bubbly baubles of grease, glistening oil as if planets stilled to slime out of orbit then dribble off into void; his head servedup atop the starved plate, garnished in round whiteness, a newest specialty: a dead, embarrassing grin; “father” collapses in a faint, “mother” throws himself upon his own fork; then the Angels—those matrons wimpled formless in white sheets, with little ineffectual wings attached; flightlessly old and unmarried, lately redeemed from Upstate nunneries found default on their mortgages, ingathered then trained for this very contingency—come quickly, in through the illuminated emergency doors at the end of the unified entrance hallway before the screened part into commissary meat and commissary milk: a rush of booties and rustling habits, without the rattle of harps or distracting halo of sirens.

At the whiny cry of the boy, those in the overheated, underventilated, monthold mayonnaisestained hall drop their soupspoons, their metals falling in a massed tinny skitter to the filth of the oilclothed floor lumped toward the walls in mounds of stale air; clattering dully, silvery rivers winding amid dusky hillocks of industrial blue, then silence. The meal’s evacuated, food’s adjourned, and all are remanded to barracks still hours until Curfew. In the morning the lasting first, rumor’s leaked; gossip’s net hairing down from heads on high, with their gloved hands serving up only the usual expected: that Abel’s only ill, but when he isn’t anywhere around the next day, which is the restless host of Shabbos, by its stars with their shiny palms held to the spiced fire, the constellating cup of inflammatory wine, and the staff of the Infirmary—baldheaded, baldfaced collaborators, is the suspicion—won’t give his next of kin Steinstein, Adam, any information, no indication, visitation rights forget about it, only office redirection of his heartrending, goggleeyed, and altogether trusting inquiry, then last name, first name, middle initial forms to fill out in triplicate, crossed complete with dotted lines upon which to sign away the permission of all meager hope—everyone suspects the truth; though many are sick, fall ill themselves, having without thinking picked up from the filthy, unswept, nevermopped floor the wrong spoons, those of their neighbors and others’, the spoons of their enemies and ever sicker friends, then verily souped and scooped with them the wandering dumplings, the balls of mealed matzah and flotsam of flanken, the jetsam of parsley, and so becoming infected with alien germs, the stock of the foreign, just as their real mothers would’ve warned them, had their womenfolk still lived.

Though initially, the first days of Nisan set in chaos, in crisis, the revelation isn’t so on—sophistication takes its time, its toll; the world might’ve been created in seven days, but who wants to live without electricity or shoes: three, four moons of the same moon into this recreated Garden, only a few fingered months however paradisiacal onIsland—made collaborative to this resurrected refuge experiment, complicit in this solution proposed anew—and not everyone’s accounted for yet: the who, where, when not yet established, made record; the problem, not everyone’s been ID’d. Passions settle themselves, by name and number into an agenda, the minutes of their meeting a wayfarer along the low road to the west. A tongue reigns from the heavens, a meteor’s gloss. By night, an inquiry’s established: a chamber not of torture but the throne of the already painfully confessed, not barebulbed but luxuriously outfitted with every amenity to be desired by even the most outlandish of imaginations; impaneled in panels, beset by committees, resounding with oversight, how perceptive. Unspun, unedited, unasked to sit down first before being broken the news recently made in headlines that would strangle a God, a scar lamed upon the neck of the leg—truth is, one of them’s died again, made familial to the future, cousin to the world to come, allow me to extend my condolences but not myself, not by much. An order’s given to mourn—officially, on condition of the anonymous record—while behind the chambers’ doors, which are never entirely opened and yet never entirely closed, only perpetually drafted, left halfwise if only to suspect the air of transparency, accountability with its paranoid pointed fingers and gnawedupon nails, the order’s to question, to ask; to flap the lips as if doors themselves, wavering from any gust that might answer. Which Abel was Abel? To establish the identity of the decedent beyond any measure of shadowing doubt. Who’s able to identify which Abel this Abel was? Having no distinguishing marks, no tracking implants, collars or bracelets that beep (early on, those measures had been nixed by these very powers inquiring as too extremely unfree—not too invasive, merely an unwarranted expense), it’s a process of reduction, winnowing, the chaff from the chaff, of taking and examining testimony, crossexamining, then striking both, instructing to ignore. To begin all over again, it keeps them afraid. On their toes if still seated. All rise. Place a hand on your—Bible, and repeat after me. Let your other hand be its commentary. Sign over your mouth. I don’t swear to God, it’s against my tradition. Speak up, please, we can’t hear you.

For the Record, then: this dead Abel isn’t Abel Bernstein (alias “Feel the Burnstein,” AKA “The Burnt Teen”); no, he’s still among us, still sniffling around, waiting for his father of blessed assets to come back to life, to resurrect his reputation from the vault that’s the grave for the sole purpose of helping his son make headway into the business, as he’d always promised; that indefinite media career: publishing, music, or film—he’d had the contacts, you name it, he’ll make it, facetime, a conference call with the dead; the kid always thought opportunity like weather fell from the sky, that money grew evergreen on trees; if not that, then still waiting for his inheritance to come through, to get processed, always, tied up in litigation’s the delusion maintained—cheap chintz visor stuck on his head even when sunset permits eating and at stool, leaving the bared to premature bald for the yarmulke he’s forced to—enumerating his windfall, accounting wildly, fingering the interest and dividends, even in his satisfied sleep oblivious, dreaming through every denial; unable to admit to himself and his bunkmates who once they find him alive continue to rib him, to haze and harass, that Der had, or is, already spent or spending it all—the whole bubonic cancerous lump sum of it on his own room and board, along with its waste upon a host of other if they’re necessarily more clandestine interests, offshore investments the particulars of which, even their most vague sheltering structures, Garden, Inc.’s accounting would never divulge: imminent Messiah perks, (re)Affiliated infrastructure (privatizing the public schools, revising curricula, contracting, too, with dispersed hospitals and clinics), securing the oil reserves, the water supply—just name it, it’s true. Many think it’s Abel Eckstein, until they realize he’s not dead, just introspective, reflective, modest, quiet and sad, still mourning his mother who’d always said she loved him so much she could die, which she eventually did, leaving her son to slink around the Garden, spending idle mooning hours in the showering facility (known as the Shof, if you’re a regular, winkwinking), gutter-to-gutter, hopping its drains on one foot in an attempt to cope or cop a mope; consecrating his mornings to the sin of Onan, which is masturbation, spilling seed, lathering his nether putz when he doesn’t suspect anyone’s spying, hundreds of FBs at a time shoved in together too close to know, to want to know his hard as slippery as wetted soap. And then the rumor has it as Abel Nagstein, which is ridiculous if you asked around, an eminence of thinking wishful: the Nag’s always shtepping everyone as to his presence; taking up space, precious air, exploiting, too, his position as a disgraced lab employee slash janitor, trying to sell premium fresh urine that’d pass any test to anyone who’d offer their favor, lording his gainful over the unemployed mass of FBprofessionals: lifeinsurance salesmenschs finding no takers for their policies offered in monthly installments growing easier and more affordable by the day, letting them go for less than a kiss, a hug’s discount embrace, or only a word in kind; lawyers mourning their billables ticking by, plotting late night tort suits v. Garden, Inc. and its CEO Der if we could just remember his former, Unaffiliated name; codefendants in a class of actionable all to themselves, they’re naming everyone: the government, higherups in the Administration, President Shade, even God It or Himself, despite being an unknowable entity, if existing, surely One of a limitless liability; doctors pining away for their bonebroke skichalets, half paidoff, shedding tears to freeze in the eye of the mind into virgin slopes trickled down the nose; moguls without moguls, briefs without a leg to stand on; architects and developers dreaming what they’d do were this Island to be privatized to any of their own concerns, what they’d put up here and why; remember the malls, like irradiant jewels in settings of parkinglot tar…the Great Hall a rejuvenating lifestyle spa, with residential space up top past the sun, or a hotel pent above three stars, lavish barracks through the clouds—luxurious condominiums ranging higher than a heaven in which none of them can still believe.

No, as Adam Steinstein reminds everyone—in his rage ennobled, matured, barmitzvah or no a mensch already, canny and strong, he’s toughened—it’s me who’s suffering, it’s me who’s down and out, left all alone, me and not you…that the Abel who died had been his cousin, his and not yours, yours and not theirs: Abel obituaried and eulogized, who’d enjoyed the sport of princes, which is pingpong, and the sport of kings, too, which is pinball, an A student who’d hoped one day earlier to find the cure for the cancer that’d killed his grandparents before his parents would’ve died of it themselves, only to die from what at the peak of their health, at the height of that late and perpetually latening winter—to find that cure perhaps under the fluff of his pillow, vialed alongside the fallen blood of a pearly tooth; Abel who’d left no parent behind to be proud of his prodigious intelligence—you’ll excuse, please, a schmeck of exaggeration postmortem, won’t you, hab rachmones, pity, pity, shalt thou pursue. Abel who’s dead, which is sure, that much can be said, through the wind and snow and the dark and ice that freezes in the air the echoes of familial howl; the calls in and warm, the calls home, officially motherly exhortations, ostensibly fatherly threats; inscrutable Cain the distanced shadow of the deceased, beckoned through the wilderness of the city to the Island to meet his brother, to become there his murderer and his heir. Abel’s face smote down in his meat his plated anger, a sacrifice atop an altar of brisketcuts, the table’s least desirable, the most fatty of them their tips welldone, overcooked dry, brisket blacked to char in its own blood that no one here will ever eat again, you can’t hold it against them—blutbeef sopped with a gravy the organic aspirations of which are, let’s be honest, fooling no one; served up with the plump of dumplings, alongside just defrosted, coldcored mixed vegetables, which are harder than teeth though just as filling. Eat up. Fast down.

With no news of infirmity let alone of recovery, of survival, with no news at all, an impromptu vigil’s candlelit into mass mourning, barefoot on concrete around Steinstein’s—Adam’s—stripped mattress hundreds of beds bunked south of his cousin’s, empty now forever; a Shiva extended, FBs flocking to the appropriate barracks to pay their respects, their tribute though who knows him—to pay memorial donations of sweater lint and good will to a fund established in anyone’s name; there to trip through the formulas of condolence, offer sentiment, apologize; Nilesized baskets arrive at all hours from without, cosigned cards and wreathes and cooperative gifts: Mail Call’s siren signaling the arrival of carepackages sent by interests wholly charitable and only partially specialinterested, concerned not with wellbeing or appetite but with the states of their forsaken souls; the FBs showing with weeds thawed and tied with grass into bouquets, a bulrush on cattails to wrap, papyrus; foods stolen from the commissaries, pocketed for a present to the bereaved: forget this fasting; you’ve already been punished, might as well go forth and sin. A gathering staying up late, refusing to disperse at Curfew, don’t mind me stands in the dark. Steinstein sleeps under the sag of his bunk, on the floor, which is barren, cement clumped with dust, a position mandated by tradition for those in mourning, those who find themselves exhausted while down on their knees, praying their search for a lost pair of shoes. A rabbinate in attendance, a few thousand of them resident from Rabbi to Rebbe on down to fallen Rav—everydenominational like the mint they would’ve been charging had this tragedy been graven upon the past, a prior season; ordained up to their ears, their solicitous eyes, their lips pursed in an Amen before their mourner blesses grief—here to assist Steinstein with whatever his spirit’s unable to bear. Since his upper bunkmate native to Moscow, or Odessa maybe he’s saying, doesn’t speak his language yet, this tongue native to and predominant in the Garden (rather, the earhaired, nattily suited mensch knows his Russian, a mouthful of scatological Yiddish), he’s rotated out, switched the second night of Shiva, which means To sit with a rabbi who’d known—by his own admission, perhaps a bintel briefed too forthcoming especially when in front of the microphones and cameras—a friend of Steinstein’s, Adam’s, father’s roommate through two years of medicalschool from which the rabbi then not yet had been expelled for worrying experimentation, try offprescription abuse, trying out a host of psychopharmacologic solutions upon the person of his future wife, the rebbetzin. Rabbi and Steinstein sleep near one another on the floor, freshface buried in beard—late night struggling, early morning tensed, limbs aching, with toes exposed freezing, they’re shivering but nervously, too; hot, wandering palms stroking shush…

Witness, too, the perhaps anapocryphal Powers that Are sitting around a table topped in glass, rung with the orbits of sloshing coffee cups, water glasses, and the dew of their pitcher, scattered with stray tobacco, ashtrays overflowing with gray; overtired, occipitally headached and parched, they’re ringing galaxies of smoke around this room underground through the night into morning: Der and the Doctors Tweiss, seated alongside the theological legation of Abuya and the Nachmachen, a rowdy gang of insourced maturation experts, too, adjustment authorities, enablement profs, armchaired academicians roused from their laureate sleep, tenured doze, summoned away from tomes or midnight weaknesses for string quartets, pipe tamps, and whiskey snifts, vaunted pundits syndicated out the mouth, payper politicos, image consultants, brand managers, then an entire jury of Goldenberg Esq.s their dictaphones infundibularized in the flowers of their lapels, a stenographer and a notary public; they’re desperate to be anything but desperate, how now anything goes: gaudily attired gypsies, lisping mediums, psychics, séancers, crystalballers, and tablerappers…Ben’s at home still, sleepless in His bed and alone again after His nightly sister’s left, left Him and herself as His sister—too shockdistracted, onedge at threshold, wasted afraid with the door halfopened, halfshut and with the nightlight glowworm on; nothing to do but keep awake, which means you’re alive, living to grieve again another day. At who knows when too early, redrimmed moon the morning, a hulkingly anachronistic darkness enters the house, a trespass intruder with its own set of starry keys—it has to be a golem, it’s silent. It’s palming a flashlight, he is, its taped shem of a nametag indicating ownership, Steinstein; its small spot of light comes sweeping over the kitchen, illuminating scurried forms, the escape of loosed household pests, roaches on the tails of mice being swallowed by rats, imported from Manhattan…the tables, the chairs, the blinding door of the fridge, the breakable junk, the broken; a viscous mountain of trashbags not yet curbed to the enclosure to the west of the house. He makes his deliberate way to the stairs, past the dim footlockers arranged at the foot: Hanna’s packingcrates, with dishes never to basement; then up the stairs, down the halls with their mirrors still draped past the sisterly rooms their doors shut and locked, sidestepping the mudtaint, soiled snow tracked in without wiping feet, desquamated foreskins and scaly foodwrappers and single sheets of toiletpaper trailing to the end to ply its door, Ben’s, which could’ve been shut and locked, too—though not to them, nothing is.

Hamm taps the flashlight on His head and says it sounds something like downstairs, softly, get dressed…at least put on some pants.

I won’t beg—you’re coming with me.

A rousing, rustling later with Hamm waiting downstairs out of respect for modesty and even that that’s naked shame, atop a couch with his legs held apart widely and the flashlight between them ranging idly over the brick of the fireplace and the formica of the kitchen’s overhanging counters—a messmassive clattering of feet atop foil, snared on wrappers with a swish and a crunch, Ben hulking down the hall to the stairhead, trippingover the wash folded and stacked into its hamper thanks to He thinks Rubina, wasn’t there this morning…Him tumbling tush over head down the stairs, which are slotted, aired and so He’s rolling almost deliberately down them, His girth sticking Him in the spaces between each step, to bulge out from the slots, bringing Him to landing slowly, as if a gear turned upon the tooth of its paunch—clockwork, any mechanism of the darkened house, or yet another nightly appliance who knows what it does, reset. Landing reached, He raises a hand and gropes at the newel for support, misses and so leans on air to fall the descending remainder. Aright, Ben stands, tucks Himself in under His shirt, cinches His robe, which was His mother’s, over the bump, to face Hamm risen to stand at the foot.

About time, he’s holding out to Him His shoes, then dropping them on the floor and kneeling to His, genug.

I’ll help you with the laces.

What we’re really getting at is this…to Ben still a stranger now doing the talking, in an interrogation room of the Great Hall to which His escort’s been firm, but anxiously kind—a weird wrinkly shrivel of a monkey, and an egghead uncle to as well, at this hour of night marshaled in the appropriate constellations of clank, all these honors and that of his acquaintance, too, this goy whose bland and bald face He would meet in framed and encouragingly unretouched reproductions hung upon, now that He’s reminded, every available wall, and whose voice He would sleep through every morning, greeting reveille in windy echo over the PA. What exactly—he’s saying, Der—was your relationship to the deceased, with him, this Abel boy, I mean? Think hard. Take your time. Answer only when you’re sure.

Here they’re buried graves underground, strata down, amid a network dug from bedrock, retiform tunnels once used for the store of munitions, back when this Island had been a fort for the protection of those already alive and busy living in the city; an area still kept official, Gardenmaintained secure and offlimits, for emergency use only, as evacuation, escape, bunkers for the salvation of only essential personnel, vital support staff plus One, contingency adjoining the rumor of a Treasury—this hallway hewed and lit in trim leading under the ice and out into Midtown, the rising Temple-in-the-Park. What I mean is, Der squints, what’s the nature? and he knuckles his head. How would you define it? Acquaintanceship. Casual. Bestfriend forever. Closer even. Don’t tell me. I’m not sure I want to know.

Postmortems, interrogations about interrogations, investigations of investigations regarding, follows up and through, therapists to ask their own questions about the questions Der asks and the answers He on His own recognizance provides, which have been, as it’s suspected, in turn, provided to Him, but by whom—surveillance from within, an affair of the utmost internal, heartsick, spleeny. Below the hosting clock at table, amid the chairs, the glasses and pitcher (water only, though anything else can be requested, they tell Ben, in return for answers they want to hear, those they don’t yet know they want to hear—here they are, already), the Doctors Tweiss lean in to listen; their collars unbuttoned, same with their pants, with both sets of cuffs rolled up; they wipe their hands on their neckties undone, lick their nibs, flip blank pages on sloppy legal tablets, begin again. To stick their pens into their wrists, suck in a measure of blood. Weak ink, even ichor would be. The Nachmachen crosses his legs, Abuya uncrosses his. And then, the Nachmachen crosses to the other. How to know this would be so serious. His mother would’ve said, would’ve been right. He should’ve put on a suit, at least a jacket and matching slacks she’d called them.

Abel? Ben says, I’d have to think about that. Officially hard to place, I’m getting a name but no face. Off the record, I’m not quite sure. On the record, I’m even less. Better to keep quiet, which is the best ignorance. Maintain silence, hold fast. Open your mouth only to ask for a lawyer, a loan of a Goldenberg, Esq. O to have retained His father as counsel! Showtrial and error then purge, which is to say, to lie, to perjure: “I don’t know Him from Adam,” and so they go ahead and give Him His options—Adam Arnofski or Adam Arnofsky, Adam Borowitz or Borovitz, Cohen or Cahn? Whoski, Whatsky, Wherenik, Whenwitz, Whykrantz, & Howfarb, Attorneys-At-Law?

Maybe a hint. Sounds like, perhaps.

Steinstein—alright, He says, sitting in a foldingchair uncomfortably un-cushioned, Abel’s a friend of mine. Was. More like an acquaintance. How’s that you called him, casual. Just this kid I knew from around. When you live on an Island, who has the luxury of being estranged? He was cousins with Adam, first cousins, I think, and Adam’s a friend, a good friend, but—he’d been seated a table down from Abel when he passed, or so he told me, and when Abel hit the plate, this I heard from…you know, I’m still eating at home.

Apparently, Adam got a little gravy splash on the one shirt he has for Shabbos. Veggie stains on his good pants. Wanted me to ask when they’re back from the cleaners.

Yes, says Der, we’ve already spoken with your Adam…

He stands alongside sitting Ben, almost tonguing His ear—whispers being the encryption of memory; the softer he’s speaking’s the thought, the better lies He’ll calm down to tell.

But you can’t think why anyone would want to hurt him, can you? Did Abel have any enemies, anyone with a pretext, even the merest inkless inkle of a text—did he leave you a note, I’m saying, or a letter with Adam? Anyone with a bitter chip, a grudge. Held against. A hatred, seething. You hear anything, you see anything? unstoppable Der’s shrieking. As if to say, it’s fine by us to fink, to inform, to rat and rodent around—after all, we’re all old friends here, aren’t we? Chaverim, habibi. Ben springs from His chair. Metal clatters to the floor, uneven concrete, negligently poured.

I don’t know anything! He’s yelling, nothing. What are you talking about? I wasn’t there, Adam was, and he’s my friend, mine and not yours, you wanted him to be, for us, I mean…mumbling, bends over His gut to retrieve the chair, unfolds the rust to sit down again, tilting the metal against the rocky wall—and as long as we’re here, I should ask you about my mother’s cooking; it’s gone downhill, and fast. If it’s not being poisoned, it’s either horrible or humbling.

Don’t avoid! and Der paces, strokes at his lip with a gunkgorged nail. What have we told you, Ben, haven’t we warned you? They haven’t. And anyway, who’s we is what He wants to say. Friends, Der says, they’re probably not the best idea. Especially now, what with the…he hesitates, this incident.

He adjusts an epaulet hanging askew; his medals clink like chains, binding him to his tone, his speech, this public life; he squints, always squinting, as if this incomprehension’s the fault of the without, not the failure of his within, anyone but him; then, making sure his chin’s still around to think with, to think from the mouth above, he exhaustedly sighs, begins in on Ben again.

Contradiction, babble, tripletalk.

Keep your distance, hold your tongue. Rub your stomach then pat your head.

It’ll make it easier for everyone, dismissed.

A referendum has been held, the table has been readied. Places have been laid. The guests have yet to be chosen. Our diningroom, the room with the longest and widest table, is still. Our island sinks deeper into borrowed creation, other time. As the fixed becomes unfixed, is given over to the fixed again, as one life in death is usurped by another, its mourning, the comfort found in concentration recedes—what once was community now is cramped, brotherhood gives way to resentment. Mistrust. Furtive eyes, with hands in pockets often not their own they stand apart. Picking them and noses. Against this insanity of existence, the exigencies of a situation out of all pockets and out of all hands, the clock still ticks—the sun’s face, blank and cold, setting behind the Great Hall, between immovable porticoes. Against the mystic absolute, the mundane must be strengthened. Despite death, it’s life we’re after. Its necessities. Becoming amenities. The schedule reigns. There’s work to be done. There is no chair at the head of the table, and so there is no head. To be left alone, one must first become oriented.

To the north, dim puffy women, former prostitutes and the metropolitan destitute dressed in tarnished overalls of pigskin emerge slowly from their lowslung, falling down cabins of corrugated tin, heaps, impediments to wind held up by the luck of a miracle; with hands gloved they wield their axes handled in bone, their blades sharpened on the sky. They’ve fallen the last trees of Staten Island, its Greenbelt, Moses Mountain high above the dump, having already deforested much of Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx, and Manhattan’s Park in advance of the Temple, for its timber hard and dead, too frozen to degrade. Then, with measuringsticks held between their teeth, one holds the nails the other hammers, banging slabs into coffins, sixpointed, sixsided, skidding them out onto the ice offIsland, where they’re stacked for future use: stored empty, topless; filling up with the burial of snow.

To the south, workers are bound, constrained; the Garden’s tailors turning out piecework, new uniforms to be grown into, to death; needle and thread-folk sewn themselves into excessive bolts of cloth as protection from the elements: straightjacketed against the wind and fall, they’re swathed totally, windingsheets wound of sheet and human—they’re completely enshrouded, restrained, except for their hands, which have been left bare, exposed, to tailor free from any distraction, to work without the diversion of the other senses. They work in a tented gallery of burlap patched to canvas, stretched tightly just over the larval stoop of their forms, pegged with rope to spikes frozen to the ground. Beyond the flaps laps a fire (without a chimney, there are no other slits in the cloth, which is impenetrable; the smoke gathers, bellows, chokes), over which hunch their odd, shadowy forms, at their whirring machines, with panting foot ridiculously pedaling out their stitching, trimming and hemming, their taking in and letting out—shrouded themselves, they’re making shrouds, each monogrammed at the nape of the neck. They pile their finished products, as light and white as a whisper, in hulking bins of weathered hailresounding metal quartered at the edge of their encampment, once emptied of coal for inside heating—without the hindrance of meals or peers, bundled together against the cold in the warm they’ll eventually die in.

To the sanctifying east, which is the cardinality most consecrated, the olden orientation of the holy—down the singlelane, twoway access road rearing the Great Hall with its turreted vistas offering glary views over the ice to Governor’s, clear past the freeze as if one eye goes slipping as the other eye goes sliding across the slick to Red Hook, then north to Fort Greene, which like this Island is no longer a fort but only a plot of earth left indefensible as named; and between, the taut sinews of the Brooklyn Bridge, the delicate intestinal suspended to waver over the water, white and high and alone—there’s a tremendous cavern, secreted in a mound of ice, carved out roughly, its entrance blocked by a boulder that has to be rolled away every morning, an ordeal requiring the work of three of them, or that of any number with the strength altogether of three. It’s ritual by now; each to their own task: one mops pools stagnant to ice inside that first have to be pulverized with the handle of the broom used to sweep the floor littered with slop, old newspapers and plain brownpaper wrap, while another hoses down then wipes with rag the lavers clean, as yet another is tasked with the sacred office of examining then sharpening the knives kept stowed overhead, sharpdown amid a rash of bulbous and cankered tenderizing stones hung in their slings from racks and hooks, rusted, resembling to many of their visitors—the kashrut inspectors, assorted efficiency experts, the Commissary chefs—nothing less than the timeworn utensils of unenlightened torture. Then, to begin with the work of the day, which is slaughtering, the killing of meat, the knifing of it into product, into cuts as numerously diverse as appetites, and as grossly disarticulated, irreconcilable: these eyes of round allseeing, beeves in crosscuts, sirloins and tender-loins, rear rounds, roasts of flank and shank, brisket and chuck, butterflychops flitting through the dim, evading the chop of blades swung high to scalp, held as long and disjointedly sharp as the teeth of a starveling God; they’d cater also with chicken, with turkey, and innocent lamb: leg and rack, buffetworthy centerloin, neck slices alongside wings hacked flightless, breasts, thighs, legs and wholes, seething raw, porged, trabored, then soaked with salt—the carcasses even seeming to breathe and pant with the exhaustion of being sectioned and sold here, in the whirlwindy din of their slaughterhouse out at the edge of the Garden with a view from the top of its mound to the Battery and Brooklyn Herself; its partially underground vault a sepulcher of shrieks, snorts, and staggering animals with their throats slit lolling a roll of heads to death, its echoic expanse tolling thickly with the pitiless procedure of fast, mass execution; cleavers dull on meat, shattering to bone, to spew into the heavy moist air ringlings of sinew and vein as if the made flesh last gasp of an unfortunate fatling, death throes these scraps of gristle to garnish silence—the noise, though, stored within this facility as hermetically as if within one of the oversized masonjars stacked on the shelves that line the space, stocked with organs and glands.

These faithful surviving, they’re the staff butchers, the Garden’s onsite ritual slaughterers, their profession in their olden lives as well as that in these their new, not for long—though Shochets is the term they prefer, just as their fathers had preferred it and their fathers before them, on forever. Strictly glatt, lately they’ve been slaughtering as never before, in a blind and crazy, heedless, needless rage, as if their work, which is never finished—there will always be carcasses to carve—would serve, but how, to postpone the imminence of their own death; as if by providing sustenance to their kind, they themselves would be sustained, would outlive those they’ve lived to feed. As if by exacting the punishment that is the animal, they would be spared its fate. As if by killing, they would not be killed. Here in their matching aprons, retrieved on arrival from an unlaundered drape on hanger steaks, their paunches swaddled underneath them, hanging from the ribs like swollen tears, they work in a frenzied lust. Despite the fast—meat their life, the making of meat from death their only purpose: trimming fat stored upon the soul for lean years until last Xmas, its ingathering to the Island and this, their privileged employment, their slitting of throats to painless end. Butchers as their fathers before them were butchers, they might be brothers, too—fraternal in their flaw, which is only the quorum of their flaws, a bloody congregation. And though it’s impossible to ascertain just how many of them there are: they’re always coming and going, schlepping and slicing and slitting and bestially blooding—our sages hold that it takes all of them, however many of them there are, or were, to constitute what we would regard as one whole, intact person: as each is deformed, if grossly, lamentably, is mutilated, if only slightly, in his or its own way, uniquely and that, it’s interpreted, it might be this very mutilation that makes them family, that renders relationship to loss, conferring kinship upon such senseless blemish. Unsightly, but they can’t hear you. One’s missing a thumb, another a forefinger, another a middle, another a ring, yet another a pinkie; a knife dropped from up on high severs a thumb toe, a cleaver fallen middle toes, a band or circular saw deprives the foot of pinkies; one’s missing a right hand entire, another still a left, both hackedoff at the wrists, scarred purple and without hair. Occupational hazards. Condolence them not, though, they’re suitably insured. One’s missing an arm to the elbow, the stump of a stub, another to the nubby shoulder, a missing arm entire; one’s without a nose, in the way of risen sever, another lacks an upper lip to lick in concentration on the following blow, his other then, poorer a lower; two have eyes poked out in the disposition of one and one, workplace sacrifices, spurts over the low counters and cases hewn from ice. Know, also, our scholars say, that they cooperate, make do. That the one who’s missing his righthand works alongside the other that’s missing his left; that that other without an ear works alongside another lacking the ear opposite—more than each compensating for the other, for yet another, collaborative in their sin. It’s that they work, ultimately, as one organ, as a unified entity, a mass of single mind and purpose: a huge monstrous slaughterer, murdering away for the sake of the multitude; working despite the horror and hurt as routinely, as placidly, as the carcasses hang from their pitiless hooks, as if pendulums to clocks, swinging their bloods out of the bursting walkthrough—outside: an overflow freezer laid to leak its hold onto the Hudson’s ice, red currents flowing out to slake the bay.

And then, to the west, which is the secular directional, the way of the fallen, out at the furthest edge of the Island, marking the nearest, anchoring preserve of our float from the vale of Joysey and its rim of oncegreenery—the State Park blanketed by ash, hacked picnictables scavenged by locals for their wood: the fuel of Hoboken the fences of Weehawken…portapotties toppled, swingsets mournfully rusted, the playgrounds’ hanging ropes noosed, twisted into hideous knots, their worn tires the nests of malevolent storks—the view from Ben’s house, His parent’s, His bedroom above.

On the third of the newest month, Feigenbaum sits, downstairs still, has survived.

On the toilet, in its spare bathroom down the hall to the door to the garage and subsisting this entire time on breath. Only groans. Noises that hallway to Ben on the wind…these singly plyed moans being questions, how to answer: Dad, where are you, how are you, Israel, Yisroel, Aba Aleichem. He resists, and is silent, makes instead to follow the origin of the echo, its whispering that ends in the blackened brick of the fake fireplace with shuttered flue, in the familyroom, unknobbed from the speakers of the screen; a voice in the livingroom, from the den, as if the words spoken—words that sound to Him like names, His Aba’s, Ima, sisters, PopPop, DadDad, Zeyde, Saba—are only the manifestation of prophetic delusion; as if they’re the words and names and memories only these links in weedy, rusted chains, sent out to bind, tongued to noose around His neck and legs and arms to drag Him down, submission—don’t look for me, an origin, a source…the chain says hissing its way around His waist and around again to knot at navel, as navel, you’d better not if you know what’s good.

Are you God? He asks.

Are you?

To be drug by the voice out of the kitchen then to the stairs, hesitation whether up to the bedrooms, or down to the basement: how Ben fears being taken down there, despite the assurance of any bind, curiosity’s hogtie—down there who wants to know. It’s always beyond, though, this mourning, as if otherly dimensional, a hidden call coming from the stairs and further left past the porch with its brittle wicker, two rockingchairs without cushion out of season, a low table topped with shells Liv’d found at the beach that summer once, and a sofa, which now all seem made of braided strands of flowingly immobile ice, screens for the windows to be put up to give air to spring still propped against the furniture as if windows in the negative, unyielding nothingnesses, hard voids as black as holes; then, at the end of the hallway the door stripped of stain, the welcome mat, Shalom, the entrance to the triplewide garage. Three doors along the hallway to the right. To open one a linen closet, the folded cloths, the deaths of moth, clean and bright and fresh. Another, further along the hall the closet of dirty linens, balled placemats and coverings, heaps of messy drools. And then, to try the door to the last right against the wall and the end of the hall with its descent three steps down to parking. A static shock, it’s locked. Jigglejiggle, knockknockknock.

It’s not my fault, the voice says as if softer and further away than ever…I’m sorry.

I asked to stay here…I told them, it’s better for my condition.

First floor last bathroom, his accidental discovery that Sabbath, that Shabbos, the last and just in time, tenks Gott…an emergency, and to think of what could have been: a trickly blush upon his crotch, Felice his wife Israel’d always forget her name would have said a shame, he’d have said a Shanda; an embarrassment: to have spilled his filial fill to further arabesque a plush rug of the Orient warming the tiles of the hall. Here, Feigenbaum lives as if he’d asked for it. Too late for remorse, turned to rage in the full flush of his senility: possibly depressed, though lacking clinical confirmation, he squats. Woodpaneled, lilymirrored, hung with a kitschily antiquarian map of Jerusalem framed in metal, purchased by Hanna at an auction to benefit charity, the synagogue: kinder without stomachs, cancer of the conscience, the birth defect that is guilt, converted to regret. Feigenbaum, he hadn’t even wanted to accept the invitation, standing, the welcome openarmed, but didn’t know how to say No, which naming word was first spoken on the eighth day of Creation—Eve to Adam, God to…

I was born, came over here, you wouldn’t understand, no one ever does…worked selling luggage, suitcases, trunks out on Orchard Street, I made what I made then married and got old. After I smashed my hips, my wife moved us down here to a facility, relocated was what she’d say. I went to a shul, I went there to daven, you say synagogue and pray; Shalom’s its name I forget, Anshei Bergen County, my wife liked to sit up front where she could see the rabbi, hear the cantor, the chazzan I’d’ve said if he hadn’t been so terrible, but me I stood in back. One night, this stranger comes over to me and asks if I have a meal, I say no but he insists. I come, I sit, I go to the toilet, the bathroom, here…an intention just to visit, to stop in, say Shabbat Shalom then quiet, let his wife do all the talking. His wife, if he couldn’t please her better to become a chair and die of splinter. From her, how he became habituated to keeping not only the seat down but the lid as well, his head. Felice, she’s the one they came to like—the Israeliens inviting her back week in week out with him lugged along as baggage, furniture delivery. Felice, the one they liked to ess a fress with, to talk hands with and to; the one they always asked to stay later whenever he would ask to leave. And how every day here since has felt like Shabbos, this bathroom more and more like home. His last how he knows it, feels it deep among his issues both various and vascular. A sit eternal, with the feet already dead: ten corpses cold in ragged socks heavied with his shvitz. A rack of tortured washcloths, a counter with a sink, brightened with flowers, who knows what brand they’re called; a mirror draped in towels. To find nothing new under the overhead light: floors are white, shoescuffled. In appearance, he thinks, this bathroom the same as it’d been previous to its recreation, its resurrection, always, though how different in its feel: othered, unsettling. It’s not the fanned air, the pressure required to relieve; neither the worry for an emergency of tissue—amply stocked under the sink, twoply as if earth and sky, like waters; anyway, there’s nothing yet to clean, no need for Ben to haul down to the basement for any rolls of more, chaperoned only by His fear—the hum of the ventilation as sudbued as ever, pitched as dulcetly as its previous whirr; the same gurgle of the tank; the light, unobtrusive. It’s that he’s been revealed, or so it appears, a voice, a visitation—whoever that is with the footsteps flatly thudding. Feigenbaum sits with his elbows on his knees. Mortification, a birthright—and such a pain in his bowels, his head lapped in his hands.

O Felice! how fare the toilets of thy heaven; enlighten me as to the quality of the thrones of my Father—are they not warmed by the breath of stillborn babes? is the paper not pressed of the wings of angels? is their flush not the flow of the rivers of Eden—the Pishon and Gihon, the Tigris and the Euphrates, the Hudson and the East? Why not accustomed to such by now, this life lived in hide, a locking squat, this hurt on pain of passing, the unsettled intestinal of his punished gut, the lower glower the inheritance of generations of persecutory kashrut since wiped from the tush of the earth. That and he’s hemorrhoidal, too, yet another intolerance (impotence), incontinence once even, never again, you name it, ever since he’d been weaned from his mother—out of the womb and into the toilet, a stallguest, to become an intimate of a leftover world. But it’s more than that or revelation by unnamed others, the rebuke of footsteps, and their thumping voice—it’s what they have to say: hot air up from under the draft of door, word whispered around of a plague returned, more virulent than ever, and adapted to resistance, and so resistant to resistance, strained into power, mutated beyond all conscience, made only to destroy; the gossip of a Steinstein dead, corroborated by the loud cries and whimperings of a lately disconsolate host—enough worry to rip a hole in the silvery lining of even the ironmost stomach, tract life through then grunt. Heavy figs of hairy branch and bough dangle over the edge of the seat. Feigenbaum scratches at what itches. He shifts, restless, unease, a tense, and almost…there are limits, breathe there must be. To think—a thing this large through a thing this small, this you didn’t have to tell Ben’s mother, you don’t have to tell his wife, they know from passing, dead down below: forget heaven and follow the pipes. Almost…but why still this pishy push and pull, what could be left inside: empty, he feels, he’s nothing, the ash of ash and tired, sustained only upon the shoedust and that overhead light. Partibirth. Stale air. Stillshat. He’s passing his innards, must be—his drecky, wasteworn soul.

Promise me…it’s the mumbling fan, you’ll never seek me out.

Promise, humbling, and I’ll remember to you whatever you want.

Ben sits on a sofa in a room His mother called one room and His father another, couched alongside the telephone set atop its table of wood legged fickly ever since He’d stood on it to rip the intercom’s unit from the face of the wall. At the sound now—she knew how to cook, how to compliment, she loved you very much, Feigenbaum says, I want you to know we all did—He knows not to answer, to provoke; give the voice its privacy, a room of its own, the gut of the house and the hallway, it’s a throat. Where’s the head, it knows what a week it’s been…Feigenbaum unsteady, lubricated from the shvitz of his sit, cracks toes, uncomfortable upon this dumb tooth of bowl, chomping him, consuming. A stack of magazines to his left on the ledge, having been blown under the door by way of looser lips, and so a sister to thank, a drafty girl who might’ve called him uncle, alongside yellowing, wetmoldy newspapers, expanded editions for Shabbos, featuring the Arts and Stocks, now with full death statistics, please turn to page D1: a record skimmed for the past, scanned for the present, headlines at his feet he hasn’t yet lived down but through; pages upon pages wetted to harden thick into tablets kicked to the corner to crumble into kibble. Fluffy seatcover itches, a poor pillow. To scratch, to sleep deep in the wounds he itches out, there to never wake, to live within your hurt is to never be hurt again…it’s that as much as frightened. Old enough to know better, old enough not to care he does, or that he should, it’s this insanity, also, this mania recurring when it’s not a fixation, perpetual, digestively always; having been trained to the toilet late, in that flat waterheated, a tenement smokewindowed, shared with a hundred others, a hundred hundred, an entire family encamped in a crack of the bowl, urging him to pish, to get done soon, get it over; the night of his tush, eclipsing the day of his flush—all the days and nights of his sit, unrisen. It wasn’t a family down there, it’d been the apples his mother had sold, or his father, the apples his mother would sell to his father who’d then sell them out on the streets for rent and heat and light and water; bobbing, kept cold in the tank, corefresh. And then the snake, it would slither up the pipes, the pipe, winding up and through the crumbling bowels, three, four, five walkupflights stooped up the plumbing up past the rust and rot; shedding skin as it surfaces, half submerged, to coil in the bowl, which is so white and gleamingly pure that it feels, now, to be made of bone, jointed to his squat; this serpent swallowing itself, tightly, coldblooded and yet warmly, a scaly quivering turd, just waiting, to bite him in the tush as he sits himself to lighten, two marks, one for each cheek turned, poisons, or even worse: to crawl up into him, corkscrewy the hisser to wriggle up Feigenbaum’s puckered hole, to eat his fever from the inside out; intestines as a newest, shedless skin, to poison his vitals then out again, trailing from its tail his bile through any convenient membrane, maybe its head forking a tongue out one nostril, its tail flailing out the other; with his failing breath Feigenbaum to grasp at the never spooled, never started, and yet almost finished roll, to poorly wipe away the venous venom: his two hands wrapped in tissue as if they’re bandaged, absorbent wounds incurred in the intensity of his grip; an iron vise holding fast the ring of the seat, steadying the spin of the planet diseased within, his own stormy dungheaped heart.

To die, then, atop this modest throne, the toilet of the bathroom he’d chanced upon that mortal night, firstfloor. Return to seat, to bony sit, with even his discomposed decomposing now, the only thing left such cobble from his cheeks. He faces the mirror sprayed with errant soap and mold, green oxidate, takes in the hurt flushed deep amid the black basement septic of his eyes: bowlfleck, basinfilth; the wrinkles of his age twisted into horrible bolts: a burn of lightning, though the thunder comes up from the gut, a great whirring racket, his innards wheezingly wracked as if an obsolete technology. His hunch, too, and that he’s still in his hat. Even his nipples have fallen asleep. In the mirror he mouths to his mouth—a hallway desecrated, intestines rawthroated, hoarse. To go beyond the cry, nothing else to say. Borborygmus, borborygmi. Feigenbaum leans to open the cabinet under the sink: emergency rolls stored damply, ten of them he counts, once replenished by Wanda by the week, contingency for the pants caught down. Each square, a shroud for a soul. As if the page of the prayer required, he unfurls a quiet ply.

I’m sick in here, he thinks a sus, a murm.

He rocks himself, the baby of his pain, sets teeth, bites tongue and what…I’m sick, in bathroom or in body.

A moment of scrotal tingle, gastric fizz—his teeth tear lips, loosing proliferant perforations in his flesh…Felice, honey, his wife long dead unkaddished, I’ll be out, assurance, any moment now and then, another onslaught: gnash gulp hic and, finally—there’s a give, a slow slip, it’s first a rumbling, then a slick licking of insides clean, the bared mirror of the soul. Feigenbaum mouths a tongue of dreck, snakes himself a distended turd out from the tightwad of his pucker, passing whole as if—fear—it’s his own tongue he’d bitten without chewing, then swallowed down the throat, as the throat and out, digestion forsaken; this bullock’s tongue, bulrushed past reeds of pubic hair, in a stream hissing steam—his water turned to blood.

Can you keep it down in there?

A shout from the sofa.

Maybe I can’t—who wants to know?

Ben’s questioning voice, intercoming distant over the squeak of Feigenbaum’s shoes on tile, which won’t be shattered, no matter the footing. A lull, as flakes accumulate, a dusting of paper pills, dead skin, to go searching for coins under the cushions, worthless anymore. To make all our eyes into knees, then knuckle. Clasp and bow for prayer. Feigenbaum righting himself into a gag, then grubbing at the tank as his other hand armed with dignity—which are fingers kept with nails that’ve kept their neatness, despite attempts to fist himself to pure—gathers in the crumpled tissue desperate wisps of blood; stinging, lancinate…still seated, trembles, then with last honor unbends himself upright to gather his slacks to belt, cinches pinching—blood gushes down his chin, rushing out the hole, to gather thick amid the stubble. As if he’d cut himself from shaving, bum a wipe to wad it up. With a heave, he throws himself against the tank, flushes with his elbow, with his shoulder jiggles once the handle, twice; it’s locked…it’s clogged, he plunges with a shimmy of his sit, then with his fallen head; tosses his body entire into the bowl of waste, up and down again and up the suction, to flail again at flushing; it won’t, not yet; hurls himself full upon the mess, his face and mouths what word, what name, deep into that rising filth, the font fouled, a rabid stoup. He tries to say but can’t, his own mouth clogged, blood and gums and what teeth left are only dentures loosed: hardened hunks to texture stool, as if to solidify, to make material while around his head, what manner of watery dispersal; showered pissy and soglogged paper: fills his ears, his nose, and eyes, overflows his form, which is erected now with the force of plunge and suck—is finally stuffed up then straight down into the toilet’s hole, his feet kicking for the fixture, the sconce a step above his shoe; to dim discomfiture, the mothflown, heelsnapped glass. His mouth sucks blood, suckles bone…and then, an impossible mass floods up, erupts him from his shallow, to spit him out limp to the tile, grouted amid waves of putrescent wake rolling out and under the crack, to crash a floor beyond the threshold—the draft, its door, then out onto the parquet and down the hallway just polished by a sister, which…down all halls and all stairs leaky through their slots; out the doors and windows and the drains of the sinks onto, then, the scurryrattling rodents’ tail gutters, to foul the Island proper; to come, soon, to a calming tide, lapping gently at the sewered edge of the Hudson’s ice, which hardens it to death.

Feigenbaum lies small on the floor. Withered trees around His house shake, shiver, then still, their roots soaking in the rippled, dreckdappled reek…life renewing always; trunks wrapped a waste in leafy paper stained with fruit, moldy, spoiled. Feigenbaum, their shriveled fig, left sprawled for the avid plucking in an ocean of his juice, a dark milk without a wake: flooding past the closets for winter clothes and past the closets for spring clothes and the closets, the parquet to the rug, Hanna’s favorite, absorbent blue, colorfast and manufactured stainresistant, or so holds its hidden tag; flowing ambit to the frontdoor, then out it, engulfing the mat that says Shalom, down the stoop, down Nitz’s walk then, to pool around the slate islands of that path, past the dead grass and frozen sprinklerheads, the little stretch of sidewalk poured and its tiny curb of one block long if that, the limits of His recreation; up the halls to the familyroom, the halls to the livingroom, and the halls to rooms, for laundry, for guests, for company and brunch—up to lap His toes; Ben ensconced atop a couch, its cushions drenched to stuffing—to float the furnishings amid the room that would have been the den, at the height of the middle mullion of the windows. He reaches a worried hand over to the bobbing, wetly creaking endtable, to gather up the phone from its cradle; to rock to a reassuring tone; the sympathy of the directline…what to say, He dials nothing—the only call He can make, guess who pays the bills.

To report, what now…a disaster in progress, natural or not, a flood fatidic, another postdiluvial deluge: not the tenth plague, but the first before the first, Ur unnumbered because unknown as plague to now—ten generations after the Adam before His Adam, with the world begun already destroyed; no rainbow shall assuage. Then, days and nights to soften…the furniture soggy, sagging, broken: credenza floating tchotchkes, snoglobes and mugs, glasses and lamps of glass, coffeetable buoy sloshing with milk and sugar and coffee, books of photographs, albums, and books; oceanically unpaid bills, appliance warranties and instruction sheets, catalogs and magalogs; an operator’s His mother onduty, holds the unit from her ear, to save herself from the whispered fearsome kvetch—pitching into a scold’s geshray; then, informing Him with excessive patience, forced maternal reassurance, that assistance should be arriving momentarily, that grownups are on their way she means and, maybe, He should attempt to find a mop. Like it would be helpful. That, or perhaps you could bail yourself out with your mouth. But where would a mop be. If I were a mop. Ben flails across the room in thought. A broomcloset, or laundryroom, apparently. Who would’ve thought, which hall. Though such situation requires plumbing not a polish. His sisters arrive shortly thereafter—just here to cleanup, don’t mind us—which is discombobulatingly risky because all this’d been Wanda’s job. Her responsibility, this swabbing, and would’ve been this bailing with buckets out windows. Angels arrive a wing’s breath later, to remove the body; floating the corpse, in a wet procession, each to a steering limb and then, his head, guiding Feigenbaum out the opened door, and with them every sip of filth remaining, stopped, to tide: their fall down the stoop, to drain the house to dry.

And so it might be appropriate, with everything relative and all Einsteins now dead, to engage in what’s been called the pilpulistic: to pull on our beards, to tug at our locks, to split hairs as befitting us lesser creations, sundering God Himself, Who parted the Sea of Reeds only for us to cross over into the wilderness, still barren of our freedom. They’ve begun their dying, their relentless death, of all days on the Sabbath, the first day of this the first moon, which is known to us as Nisan, the moon of the night of the death of Abel Steinstein: a night different from all other nights, as it’s said, and yet, at least according to official Garden recommendations, to be kept distinct from Night, too, which is the capitalized end of Creation, dawning upon the destruction of the entire darkened world. Over the mornings ensuing, the issue of days as generations stillborn from the womb that is Shabbos, the toll rises to the rarified pitch of the sky, a hollow bell that is the sky, resounding its storm across the ice—crescent-tongued the moon, then convex, gibbous—as death echoes in the last words and loves of families, ingathers in sighs whole dynasties and denominations, hoards entire congregations and communities, Landsmannschaften, landsleit, kretchma, klaus and klatsch, neighborhood groups, benevolent societies and synagogue boards; their lives pile up, are piled, a copse of corpses, menschs with their kinder stacked a perch higher than the stripped remains of the Garden’s last orchards, its appletrees only bare boughs become so thoroughly diseased they’ve been rejected for use even as coffin stock, which frozen, freezing malady, as if Scriptural, too old to be known, hasn’t spared them from being uprooted anyway, sawed then snapped, suitable for kindling, firewood only, landscaped in neat rows at the westernmost perimeter of the Garden, in the Island’s backyard of His house atop the grave of the sandbox, amid the rusted remnants of the swingset, and the twisted knotted slide.

A final flush, then, and the bathroom’s left empty…its door shut, locked forever forgotten, struck from the blueprints, forbidden from memory: offlimits, closed for the cleaning, slippery when even thought of, if—Feigenbaum among the one’s too many lost upon the altared third of the month, those thousands of them, these tens, the hundreds losing their daily shadows and with them, their nightly lives, to the lighting then darkening of this moon passing through, this moon passing over, waxwaning its judgment, as if a selfeclipse; the remnant crescent of his body remanded first to the (easterly) Morgue, for processing: the cataloging of his personals, not much, blood drained and body cleaned to corpse, his photograph’s taken, his prints inked, and name entered into a ledger; only then, he’s hauled over the ice for commendation to the waters below. Feigenbaum, Fink, Finkel, Fischel, Fishl, Freud, Freund, and Friedland…

But before our loss can be massed, given one face and voice, any name representation, an inviolate symbol—we’re asking you, wait up, langsam just a moment, will you, shtum: we all must stand ourselves, alive, aware, out on the far ice to reflect above the tide. Namely, that it’s the destiny of every individual, of even the symbol, even the ultimate, to think their time the end, to think their world the last—and this especially today, especially fastdeadly, with everything In the beginning again at the already begun, history eternally returning as always, as eternally as ever but rather quickly, evermore and more quickly now, with a precipitate urgency, an Apocalyptic insistence. Now the time in which you live the time to end all times and Time; now the Never again. In mourning, standing atop the furthest spur of frost above the deep, they mourn themselves, a little soon: their failure, their ill luck, the ruinous stars above with their frustrated mazel. It’s understood, which means it’s itself mourned, our knowing hope, our dreaming: how we can’t all be prophets, we can’t all be priests, we can’t all be kings; that despite what the scholars once believed, there’s only one Moses; that despite what the sages once bowed down to, there’s only our God; thinking, too, if everyone’s their own Messiah, what’s that worth, what’s in it for me. Better to unify, best to hold One indivisible. Nowadays, there’s no why to wonder who, admit it, who’ll make it, whose testimony, whose witness—that’s been long worked out and over, it’s suspected; already taken care of, chosen long before any of us were ever born to live down any death. A statement is forthcoming.

Officially, anything still undecided is beyond any notion of help, of emergency response, beyond even a call to account. Rather, it’s an attempt to define innocence, to safeguard assets from liability, to prevent position, meaning Authority, from assault, that being held responsible narrischkeit, this blood on whose hands mishegas—the Administration to vouch for the water supply, the air quality, middlemanager magi seers at the National Weather Service through an order from President Shade reporting directly to the Garden, which issues its own releases on every bandwith unsunned, givingout the assurance of what lately passes for expected: only the cold and the coldly dark, a steel frost, an iron ice; but there’s a break on the horizon, they’re sure to be assured…there’s bound to be, promised, a covenant fulfilled, just don’t ask us date or time. Nail what down—it’s excruciating, this call for exactitude, not a pleasant cross to bear. Though it’s important to remember, at least the FBs do, are reminding each other on their wandering whispering walks back from ice’s edge to the bunks of their barracks for Curfew, that of all people, organizations, or governments, Der has the most to gain from their loss, from ours of us; Garden, Inc., the very venture that ostensibly protects them, the party that would stand to make the most from their annihilation, as a total loss would make official, perpetually irrevocable, the reversion of assets, the manifold increase of the Island’s holdings in a wax: from obscurity, the mere lighting of a moon; an inheritance disinherited, to inheritance again. Not that any Authority more mortal is pleased, not at all, at least not publicly confirmed. No comment. As gossip becomes rumor becomes rule of Law, then eventually discredited, dismissed, overturned, it’s difficult to know what to do besides stand aside, sleep our dreams, wake, walk, and whisper, monger our gossip into rumors, while letting the course of events inhuman enact whatever punishment it is that might appease the anger of a God; render unto and all that—let the Lord exact the Almighty’s retribution, take enough suffering to satisfy them both, then make wing for day.

A mensch long of age, he seems older than three fathers and their fores. Brownsville, he’d been a Pitkin Avenue boy. He’d sold shoes, first as an assistant, as an employee of his own father, then, after his father’s death from being stepped on then walked all over one too many times by the local women and their creditor sons, as a small business owner—a prominent member of the local community, who’d had his own seat at the shul. A congregation. If you wanted decent shoes, you went to him. And when he said they were good, they were good. He was good to his wife, and he always thought he would live long because he gave to charity. If you gave to charity you would live a long life, because it says so in the books. But he never made the time to read them; his eyes were always tired, now the color of the cold. Seeking only a semblance of routine, the unexceptionally daily, he’s sitting a respite from the death of late, having his last pair of overstock salvaged shined by the new cobbler here who only last wax had been the lowly shiner, an assistant of sorts, an employee, if unsalaried, to the old cobbler recently dead who just a wane ago had reconditioned for this mensch the left heel on his issued pair, a limp. They both enjoyed whitefish sandwiches with coffee. Demoted. Left alone. How the polish is smeared, rubbed, elbowgreased, a shoulder’s put into it; the rag snaps, pops, the mensch slumps, the menschs—what’s reflected in the sheen of tongues are just their empty eyes. One gray the other dead, white and red and glasses. Another sits just as patriarchally, high up in the barbering chair, his cheeks receive a shave, he’s snipped, scissors’ tips to root around in the ears and up the upturned nose; locks are strengths, curls are bonds; a brush bristles his Adam’s apple, the stropped blade’s brought to neck, but even before the flick of wrist the mensch can give no blood—and neither can the barber, who until his promotion yesterday once swept the floors here, occasionally answered the phone, scheduled appointments, was allowed to work the register when slow. And yet another, this mensch nothing but a boy, a boychick he’s called, chubby, fat: wenwambly purses hanging from his limbs, sullenly pale suffused everywhere with a rosy rash, blushy in front of his bunkmates even in the sleeping dark he strips for the night and instead of wadding up his clothes as usual is reminded by the loneliness of his mother, their maid, then goes to fold his shirt and slacks, and before he can place them in his cubby—again and again, and the boy’s father, too, who’d been firstborn and had died before his own firstborn, three nights before, it’d been in the middle of a story for his bedtime. Once upon a, forgotten. Against tradition, against the Law, they’re using pyres once the coffins bottom out. In this weather, a lame and flailing flame. Millions shorn to hundreds of thousands, tens, tons then thousands on their own, fleshing out the world beyond, cremation’s cinder darkening, shadowing clouds to seed new storms. Witness strength given over to numbers, abated to dates, left as scraps of fact and figure for the gleaning of our widows dead, and yet on the wind, inconsolable; life left over to history, the inexorable future of posterity, inherited to memorious record, revelation of a mission they’ll force Him to accept, an identity we’ll force Him to force back on us, Ben, down our throats: talk and popularize, please, yak it up and smile, will you…go all God on them, on us, the whole Job job, prophetmode, jeremiad from the Rocky mountaintop, to the valley of dry bones and silicon clay, promote, protest, debunk, decry, anathematize and, Jeez; may you bless when you intend to curse, and may you curse if you intend to bless; always, though, be in the world, be of the world, be sure of that, be warned; remain in an orbit of sorts, in a perpetual flee, fleeing even from flight, to be a refugee from refugees from self, a survivor, a testimony, a witness to all this made so loud and so fervent, so vehement and righteous that your witness becomes this, that your witness becomes itself the tragedy, which then must be forever itself witnessed by your generations, if any, that ensue.

Midnight, the house’s second floor. Upstairs-upstairs, Ben’s standing on the deck. In a robe, with nothing underneath, and slippers, His mother’s. He’s facing the ice, toward the flame, a fiery pillar, a piling pyre. He feels at the rickety railing: a suicide, He’s thinking, up and over the edge, why not…dayeinu, which means Enough, His father would say, I’ve had enough, throwing up his hands, I’ve had it up to here, His mother would have said, then she’d raise a palm to her neck as if to slit herself to peace, a knife she’d been halving recipes with, a stirring spoon with which to scoop out the pregnancy of her stomach: suicide…an idea, He’s thinking nights now the only idea, like Masada, that windowless mountain out across the ocean, a last stand against the unsighted; the Island pushed up by tectonic pressure, tidal force, risen to a rock towering above the barren city; Ben atop, the FBs, too, waiting out their day a breath below the sun, a last gasp below the blade of the moon…days casting the lots of an earlier season, sharpening their own daggers on the summit, fasting themselves into heart, and sleepless, they’re starving, thirsty, lonelier than dead; the stars toll, the PA sounds from behind the clouds, the house’s intercom quakes the foundations of the sky: Curfew…them to plummet down the slope, to break the fast of their bones. Atop the deck opposite Liberty, one of two givingout from the room of His parents high above the house and the Island, He’s fixated on the flaming horizon, and there on an assembly of forms in every color never His: black, brown, beige, yellow a migrant red, the Kush just following their orders, as always, but now issuing them, as well, as if a Law given over to themselves in a million languages echoing equally to Him as they all mean the same, which is nothing—work; they’re rolling the dead out over the freeze, gathering them into shrouds of massive white, snowballing corpses turned over and around again in a wheelingly reeling processional over the ice thin and thinning thanks to their fire out to melt the furthest shore, a flame of bodies cracking the freeze under its heat, the funereal weight, crushed under the gigantically cyclical, cycling roll of disposal, to fall them hard into sharding spring, dispersing, down into the depths.

A slight splash—call it a clock, a serving plate once kindergarten art & crafted by Judith with hands and with twelve numerals, then hung upon the wall of the one and only kitchen; a clepsydra, the hollow drip of His parent’s whirpool Israel said as Hanna’d said jacuzzi: each hour, every minute, twice a second a burned body’s dropped through the ice as ash, its noiseless plash marking a slight on time…call it a calendar: the bodies daily stacked in a bonfire like the blackened boxes on the page of the month hung on the kitchen’s wall below that white plate’s shadow, which is round and without end. As has become tradition, an official count will be given come morning: a mechanically whistling voice, distorted, distorting; what souls remain stumble to inspection, of themselves, by themselves, from awake nights worrisome to fumbling to feet, with a pretense to having slept an optimistic dream—for appearances, their own sanities, calm, what sake not or better; they try to wake their neighbors, their bunkmates, the stricken barracks. Sons and stepsons and grandsons, SonSons, halfbrothers and nephewcousins. Attention, good morning, there are now X of you left. Why. Zzz. Have a nice day, you thousands, you hundreds, you holy tens. Pleasanries, don’t mention. Attention, there are now only a handful of your kind left alive. A thumb that makes a mensch. A prophesizing finger pointing fault down the throat, to belch up a burning answer: who didn’t know me, who wouldn’t. Have a great weekend. Shabbat Shalom.

With death returned and all the preparations that accompany it like a mother that follows guardingly, witnessing, a step behind her son only to outlive him (to wash his body, to keep watch over the corpse, the smashing of a wombgrave, into the warmly unfathomed ice), Garden employees and Island staff, many of them insourced into this insanity—Mishegas, again, being the term currently preferred, though the Nachmachen might hold by Narrischkeit—from municipal jobs sectored private and exclusive in the wake of the disaster, they’re spending so much time burning and burying that things begin falling apart, melting, giving way, incredulously’s the joke, even more than they already are; the Schedule erodes, though in implementation only, as nothing can banish the record, the rule: security becomes lax; journalists infiltrate the perimeter under the passage of night, toss the gloss of their magazines and the folds and Shabbos inserts of their newspapers up and over the fences, the wires, and climb on over, crawl through tunnels dug through the frozen dirt with their pens, muddydulled nibs, flashbulb smoke the gathering clouds, the zooming lens of the moon; what they report back to the mainland makes no matter, it’s all entertainment: death as distraction, diversion, from more lasting change, meaningful purpose, the future’s promise of evermore destructive upheaval; sentries have abandoned their posts, guardtowers forsaken, circumcised without barb; the patrols late on their sweeps if they make them at all; nightly meals are even served irregularly, often pass skipped by the staff, never by the survivors, who wait whole hours for their feed, only to go hungry again at the appropriate time; unofficially forgotten about, their beds lie unmade, without maid, their linen dirty, shvitzed to filth; their laundry’s never taken out, if taken out then never returned; the FBs are eventually allowed to sleep in; soon, lights are never turned off, if turned off then never turned on; the Schedule still exists if only as idea, idealized but not implemented, extant but only as concept, countenanced only, recognized, to be sure, but within that recognizance lying only the negation of any power it’d had: this Law imposed now just a way to live, another imposition, one of many, merely a way to die, something we once knew, and occasionally remember, another world, that, theirs, another desert and its generation dead, deserted. Those who aren’t burying are already buried, or are burned and burying themselves, weather permitting: everyone from the longtoothed, shortorder cooks to the shippingclerks, the nurses and pursers to the valets of the latter, those who’d once been conscripted to care for the living, to indulge them—repurposed, made complicit with the cause’s discard, occupied with hiding not the evidence (as there is none: only healthy, successful people, provided for and pleasured, happified and fat), which as it doesn’t exist cannot be kept secret even from their God, but with hiding the evidence of the evidence inextant, the fallen, droppeddead rational, the then alive, now burnt, unexplained—all of them, that is, save the high staff, led by Doctor Abuya and the Nachmachen, who’ve been charged with taking care of PR: sounding out what this means, why it’s not bad because divine. Understand, there will always be those serious people—goys placid, imperturbable, without pleasures, kept around to take care of business, to make arrangements, organize futures; the lots cast delayed from last season to covert the plans, preparations, massing, assemblage, underground, in the tunnels, amid the earth revulsed and gray…President Shade and partners striking ironclad deals, hot and molten, plotting spin for when the globe holds its own.

And then there are seventytwo, then fifty of them, and then only thirtysix of them left living: it’s that fast, death, and that remorseless…three minyans they make, six menschs just hanging around, wondering what you want with them. Hope not much, may ye expect even less. A legacy: each of the lasting survivors now has effectually unlimited resources, all to themselves…more beds than bedheads than sleeping nights, mattresses numbering into the tens of thousands per survivor, a surplus supplied with hundreds of thousands of pillows, each having been stuffed with the dreams of and fluffed to a head slumbering elsewhere, eternally if they so believe, and they don’t, generally speaking (Garden psychologists have decided not to relocate the FBs any closer to one another, have decided not to allow them to relocate themselves—their beds are their beds, to remain in their areas, disheveled and empty once departed, never remade). As always, routine, the survivors wake to wash in the Shof, in the thousands of sinks made available, under thousands of faucets steeped deep in a million rituals of leak; this perpetual gaseous drip throughout morning and night, its sound the only noising, to be clouded over by a mass of flatulent snoring come Curfew; hundreds of thousands of towels per head hang like flayed skins from their racks, each monogrammed for the Garden, an initial tattoo; then, once showered, groomed and perfumed, it’s out into day: to their meals, if they’re served, activities, if they haven’t been cancelled, to their prayers preempting, which are still foreign to most but becoming less and less fervently doubted with each passing service; thanks to the laundry, clothes are claimed ever newer; never to be caught dead in the same outfit twice, is what; designers are traded, accessories are bargained for, namebrands coveted at premium theft; once neatly arranged, folded and stacked within the cubbies of the departed, any forfeiture’s heaped around the barracks in wrinkling mounds, each article still individually labeled. It’s these labels that prove the most disturbing; names, last name first—as if in answer to the writing on the stalls, the wallscrawl, the questioning messages, disembodied echoes of the graffiti that’d accumulated on their cubbies, also, and on their bedframes, amid the rafters, where not: nicknames, endearments and obscenities dead, Sascha, nie vergessen, demain, Someone wuz here, Someone luvs another, NAC, TAC, AUS, SCH, the initials on excess undergarments, boxerbriefs not quite clean, not quite white, the wrong size; on garments freshly washed and pressed to the unmitigated approval of any mother, though never worn due to lack of proper occasion, or a looting of irregular cut: labels tugged from tags on swimwear elastic, tongued from the mouths of undershirt collars, on bright polyester pullovers, on fleece and flannel, on woolen sweaters infested with moth and lint, elbows as bald as an uncle emeritus, on threadbare cardigans the color of dog vomit, on promotional clothing courtesy of insurance concerns and pharmaceutical companies defunct, their fluorescent logos fading, faded, on pants with bare crotches, suitslacks with frayed cuffs, crusty socks, shoes without soles; these labels personalizing a universe of their private tchotchkes as well, on the little they’ve been allowed to keep, small stakes they’ve managed to secrete and preserve: on the inside covers of books reread and on radios alleared, on cups and mugs and on bowls mouthed and lipped a spoon, on sunscreen, on insect repellent and on medications prescription and non, on lamps lit and unlit and on violins who knows how to play those clarinets, on housekeys, carkeys, on wives’ brooches and breastyjeweled rings—slopped atop to bunk the beds of the departed in vast junked pyramids, falling to the floor overnight, to be scavenged by any who’ll wake to know morning.

Here, in the blocks of barracks, an exhaustion sprawls itself over time, a silence snores oppression…anything uttered, maybe only thought, echoes for what wastes like forever, longer than they’d ever have: maunders and murmurs, invocations and prayers, bargaining begged of rage, incriminations, passing through the emptying wings, the connecting classrooms and clinics, canteen, and mail depot; even the lounges vacant except for the puttering of a mensch his name’s Abe, or so he says, thinlipped, deepdimpled, and grave, he’s in a shiny vest and pants to a powder blue suit never his, a shtikel of black necktie, his hair’s parted in the middle; he’s stacking the roomful of foldingchairs to pass the time, foldingup battered cardtables to while away the hours; never a line anymore for pingpong, never a wait for pinball that’s the line that’s passed around—the other survivors remain in their designated areas, not laughing. And these are those thirtysix that remain: a butcher, who would sell meat to a baker, who would sell two challahs weekly to a chandelier salesmensch who did door-to-door, who was neighbors nextdoor in Forest Hills if you know it with a retired professor of history, who was uncle to nothing more than a pizza deliverer, who was boyfriend though to a daughter of a mailorder magnate, who was brother-inlaw to a woman who was the cousin of a maid to a lighting fixtures wholesaler, who once for fraud had to go in front of a judge here, who had once presided over the proceedings of a plaintiff here and a defendant here, too (though in separate cases), who was a brother to a mensch who he once worked for a producer here, who had an accountant here, whose mother knew a woman who was sister to three menschs here who’re no longer holding out to become accountants, one of whom was the husband of a daughter of a hotelier here, whose other son-inlaw’s friend was an HR representative here, who once had an uncle whose rabbi had fathered three attorneys here, one of whose secretaries had been friends with a maid who’d slept with two doctors here, one of whose mothers had a friend whose son was both a doctor and a lawyer here, his own, whose son’s friend’s friend’s squashpartner here had once failed both the bar and the boards on seven occasions under five identities (not all of them) different, whose uncle’s exwife’s new husband now widowed here was a stayathome father, whose third cousin once removed was roommates in college NYU with the son of the bridgepartner of a mother of a stockbroker broke here, whose proctologist had a dermatologist here, whose lawyer had an accountant here, whose accountant’s brother’s friend’s sister’s boyfriend’s father was a disgraced pharmacist here, who had an acquaintance of his father’s sister’s exhusband’s brother here who’d gone into hock for his numismatic obsession, whose father had grown up with this mensch who once ten years ago now though he doesn’t remember it had Shabbos dinner by the Friedmans the Roslyn Friedmans if you know them with a funeralhome director here, who once buried the sister of a friend of the thirdgrade teacher of a jeweler here, whose cousin’s boss once bought a car off a car dealer who also sold a van to the wife of a mensch whose mistress was also the lover of a realestate agent here, whose brother and sister-inlaw’s travelagent once met at the Mintz wedding the pilot here, whose plane once brought the family of Steinstein here to an uncle’s Panamanian funeral two years ago I think it was on a flight for them complaining blacked out from bereavement fare…Steinstein whose mother’s Hadassah President’s cancer support group leader’s integral yoga instructor’s cousin twice removed had one considered buying either the lot below or house above that Ben here was born into, which was then uprooted and removed here, recreated and kept locked now with Him inside to protect Him from this plague—Ben relieved only by hourly visits by the butcher here, to daub a bit more blood upon the door, until he doesn’t visit one morning with Ben waiting for him inside, and the jamb runs dry, and the stain remains.

And, too, the mezuzah.

And then there are twelve, as it’s announced loudly to sound above the civic mass mourning, Wall Street north to Union Square and furthered Manhattan, the outtagrave boroughs…a proclamation accompanied by a great galvanic gnashing of teeth, Tweisswhitened (because they’ll do that, too, anything)—Mada and Hamm fresh from supervising the rending of hundreds no thousands of garments, shrinkwrapped blue & white warehoused shrouds (extra blankets from a defunct Palesteinian aeroline, it’s said), intended for those who’d died too quickly to be scheduled into the ritual of burial, no time for the fitting and so, abandoned. Robbed of a hole. As for Der, he’s mostly kept from the statistics—preventing him from tearing out what hair he has left, which isn’t much around the ears and nose, slight brows bowed above the mouthoff, dreckdead eyes; instead, he’s focusing himself on the aftermath, what’s next; how to spend the money that’ll revert, how to exploit a survivor if any. Different commissions, Shadesponsored from out of the Library’s welfared minions, he has to do something, show some signs of interest, governance, I’m on top of it shtick are hauled in hebdomadally, arranged up on old YMHA daises, nameplated, glasses of water to soothe the throat, their microphones antennæ topped with huge foaming tumors. Independent experts anything but either of those epithets, they have their questions to ask: survivors are seated with nervous feet, numbed in hardbacked chairs, after having been interrogated earlier, individually, before this event that’s open to all media, in windowless reportedly subterranean rooms mauve halls off the taupe hall, the main passageway underneath the Great Hall, whitewashed cells soon bespattered, scuffed and bled and bare, if only on the initiative of those voluntarily sequestered there against their better counsel, physicians’ sought advice: again if chambers of torture then torture of a neurotic, indifferent kind, its survivors ignobly, though unintentionally, deprived of hot food and that icewater infused with lemon for whole quarterhours, barkeddown by overtimed detectives losing their faces, goys with no minds to spare; frowsed in cheap black suits and loosened doubleknit neckwear, they’re pacing the floors, with their coffee concussions and donut guts, ash on their pants, their sleeves rolled up to raw elbows, they’re screaming at the assembled under bare bulbs of extreme wattage. Not just them, though, it’s the public, too, that wants to know, needs to, demanding it, especially as they’ve been forbidden, regrettably, by decree both official and ostensibly divine, from the selection of personal survivors, those or One Whom they’d like to have emerge from this mess, a chosen representation, a symbol to call their very own; if not made for them then at least of them, by them for Shabbos, a known. And so as much to identify as to bide time their profiles are commissioned, interviews come on the heels of debriefings: who exactly are the twelve, being the question?

Are they selfappointed evangelists, selfevangelized appointees, selfanointed anointers, anointed selfanointers, apostate apostles, apostle apostates, pathologically agnostic, atheists or just lazy? Are they eating, we all want to know, and/or are they feeling well, please, eating and/or feeling enough is it, just; were they overmothered and underfathered, or maybe it’s the other way around; how do they like their odds; have any regrets; who are your heroes; favorite book, color, or food…do they like their crusts sliced just right and how, are they given or refused milk, do they want it or no; answer me, goddamn it; what occurred prior to their permanent records; you’re gonna answer me; if you survive, what are your plans, your platform; one of us is gonna leave here with a mild headache, and it ain’t gonna be me, friend; what marks them save nothing special; what makes you think you have what it takes; you suffering from a bad case of silence, son, tardiloquence and yadda; what do you think of the President, what do you think of your fame…every outlet officially conceivable, from national radio to periodicals of record and note and of none or both, wiring in their requests, tap tap tactlessly tapping wanting to know who, needling we’re on deadline here; priests possible, to-be’s in-training; datelining the GARDEN (Rooters), you wanna talk deadline…

Auslander, Dattelstrauch, Hymen-Slutsky, Israelien, Jakov-Jablovsky, Lipschitz, Osterthal, de Quadros, Rothweißblau, Steinstein, Witznitz, ben Zona; Levitansky, McJohnson, Normal, Oppenstrauss, Putzl (though those answering aren’t the twelve answerable, not most of the time, anyway; rather, they’re impostors employed to provide a semblance of reassurance to the public, hand-holding while the real waste away, counting days on the calendars of their fingers, sequestered in Tweisstwinning psychological interviews ideationally intended to mitigate the trauma of Shade’s inquiry, subsequent interrogations, really interrogations about interrogations, dumped to the Garden’s files; their representatives, presented to the public as wistful, nostalgic, resigned, having been ordered to a certain number of responses created to ensure satisfactory variance among them: yes, no, black, white, anything but gray; I was a father of three, a restaurateur, a farmer, a famous television personality myself, if you don’t remember); of them, then, how many can most accurately be described as far-shtink-en-er, merely fer-shlug-gin-er; are you terrified or just settling; ready or not; please keep your answers as brief as possible, as briefed; are they up to the job, talk to me here—we want qualifications, a program, resume and references, too; all questions though in truth One, which would be the twin father of any survivor: are they prepared, any of them, to assume the mantle, to bear the crown—constitutionally; able to direct the maternally heavy flows of power, to overlord the hierarchies of delegating angels, arrayed beneath the thronewomb, birthwrought of living fame: supplication arriving on the Friday late, put off until next Monday, late afternoon at that, winged lazily around the meeting room that is Heaven, which is stocked with a hundred different salvations, alphabetized how in portfolios iconoclastically embossed with amulets, accessible only to those who know how to invoke the proper memoranda prayer; and we all say, let there be strategy, and there is, and it’s damn—passable. Leave it be.

And then there are ten…who—in the spirit of the season, it’s said—are to be destroyed by the Angel of Death, that killed the butchers that slew the ox, that drank the water that quenched the fire, that burned the stick that beat the dog, that bit the cat that ate the kid our Father the Holy One Blessed Be He had bought for two zuzim, the first zuz and the last zuz as it’s been said, then drunkly sung since for lifetimes…a quorum in wild ferment, a destroyed slain drunk wet and burnt beaten bitten eaten then bought minyan, survivors barking and clawing their prayer now unto the Holy One Whosoever He is, or was, praying for their lives in nasalized whinnies and whines, without words, as they’re unknown to them, have been forgotten, but it’s the thought that has to matter in this mess, isn’t it, is the matter, the alephbet stammer, the heartword beginning with yod hey vav hey…only the most superlative of intentions—to make peace with ignorance; settling down on coffin pews to daven their mincha, silently, a ma’ariv for the night of their souls oseh shalom to you, too. Ten menschs, full grown almost to death, tripping over the straps of their phylacteries, tangling in the filigreed knots of their fringes, tying more out of superstition, worry, holding their siddurim upside down then holding them right side up but opening from the wrong end to mispronounce their words if only in their mindful hope left to right to left, with blind fingers and mute palms destroying the spines of the books, and their own, too, in their abject, groveling shuckle; mourning to themselves that there’s not even a rabbi among them, none to slam shtender, keep order, no more; as if they would have listened to one had he been still, even she. Auslander, Dattelstrauch, Israelien, Jakov-Jablovsky, Lipschitz, de Quadros, Rothweißblau, Steinstein, Witznitz, ben Zona; Babel, Masterson, Nitzwitz, Yarmolinsky…

And then there are nine, and then the nine of them are not: Abe Weisenheimer who he owned his own business selling socks, a mensch who rented office space to the mensch who owned his own business selling socks, a mensch who ran the company that employed the mensch who rented officespace and storagespace to the mensch who owned and operated his own business selling socks, a mensch whose conglomerate owned the company that employed the mensch who rented officespace and storagespace and even furniture to the mensch who owned and operated his own business selling socks, a mensch whose bank gave a loan to the mensch whose conglomerate that it also had interests in footwear and ladies’ hosiery owned the company that employed the mensch who rented officespace and storagespace and furniture and other equipment/supplies to the mensch who owned and operated his own business selling socks, a mensch whose bank owned the bank and other banks too it took over that gave a loan at low interest to the mensch whose conglomerate into footwear and ladies’ hosiery and mittens and gloves too and hats owned the rental company that employed the mensch on commission who rented officespace and storagespace and other equipment/supplies and supplied even temp workers to the mensch who owned and operated his own business selling socks, a mensch whose governmental organization bailed out the mensch whose bank owned the bank and other banks too it took over and investment firms and brokerage houses that gave a loan at the lowest possible interest rate to the mensch whose conglomerate into footwear and ladies’ hosiery and mittens and gloves too and hats and plastic toys made in Asia and various electronic hygienic devices owned the rent to own company that employed the mensch on low commission who rented officespace and storagespace and other equipment/supplies and supplied even temp workers and maintenance illegals to the mensch who owned and operated his own business selling socks, a mensch whose governmental department confirmed the appointment of the mensch whose governmental organization bailed out the mensch whose bank owned the bank and many other banks too it took over and investment firms and brokerage houses and a company that affiliated a consortium of independent traders that gave an enormous loan at the lowest possible interest rate to the mensch whose conglomerate into footwear and ladies’ hosiery and mittens and gloves too and hats and tiny plastic toys made in Asia and various electronic hygienic devices and kitchen bathroom closetarrangement solutions owned the rent to own company that employed the mensch on no salary and the lowest commission who rented officespace and storagespace and other equipment/supplies and supplied even temp workers and maintenance illegals and tech support too to the mensch who owned and operated his own business selling socks, a mensch whose wife was sleeping with the mensch whose governmental department confirmed the appointment of the mensch whose governmental organization bailed out the mensch whose bank owned the bank and many other banks too it took over and investment firms and brokerage houses and a company that affiliated a consortium of independent traders to limit risk in speculation in India that gave an enormous loan at the lowest possible interest to the mensch whose conglomerate into footwear and ladies’ hosiery and mittens and gloves too and hats and little tiny plastic toys made in Asia and various electronic hygienic devices and kitchen bathroom closetarrangement solutions and replacement car parts and sheet metal and pitabaking and even seltzerwater bottling owned the rent to own company that employed the mensch on no salary and the lowest commission and without a phone or office of his own who rented officespace and storagespace and other equipment/supplies and supplied even temp workers and maintenance illegals and tech support and his daughter as a cashier too to the mensch who owned and operated his own business selling socks, who had employed in addition to that daughter as cashier, inefficient, possibly dishonest, two poor, perpetually underpaid when they’re not just unpaid salesmenschs dead, too, one of them known as Hill, the other as Shy of whom it’s been said he was anything but, waiting, just waiting…and then there are seven: a baubiologist and a color healer, then five in a developer of condops, and four his two copreneurs, an equalops equitizer and the poet who’d witnessed his postnup. And then there are three: Steinstein and, his name’s ben Zona…a stale, seedyeyed, bald marketing some hold second others hold third vicepresident for a munitions multinational once headquartered outside Tel Aviv. In the midst of this angst, they’ve given up, surrendered—their kibitzing, kibboshing; inspirational sermons, annulled; with no language in common communicating across the floor of their shared barrack, now the Registry of the Great Hall they’ve commandeered as their own as if in protest of their being avoided, ignored, by way of gestures, stroked hands, thrust fingers; then, forsaking their own beds hauled to opposite quarters of the Registry, ingathering the two together into one bedding down in the middle of the spanse, tucking themselves, each other, in under the same sheets, starched, staunching; then, the next night, which is three from the beginning of Passover they’re forsaking, too, for the comfort of only their blanket laid above the floor, and then the night after that, sleeping on the floor itself, naked without blanket: the other beds and their bedding having been auctioned off to other concerns—the Abulafias’ Palesteinian hotels, fivestarred it’s said as to rates they’re astronomical—have to make out, get out with as little loss as possible; they’re bundled near, lying far from the radiators, the thrones of warmth and the footstools of heat, exposed free from recreant shadows in the very middle of the Registry’s hulking arch, to huddle, tucked around one another, limbs intertwining, they’re moaning gums, problematic sinuses, sand on the tongue, stillborn dreams, until dawn, when only one’s woken. Attention! in an explosionary fuzz, and the boy turns over, farts his own announcement; feels his companion’s not there, that he’s alone and Godless with his mazel—which is to be consoled only in the company of guilt.

Ben, the son of a friend. Of the family.

And then there are two. Here to pay His respects, this a mitzvah in an hour of need. As much that binds them, cleaves; there’s an entire liturgy between the two, underspoken, unspoken, an understanding tacit, granted, taken; what’s to say, who would listen, who else would know to understand…and so they waste themselves and air and time, slinging shtick about girls, women, mnema, allowing the little history they have in common, the shared of the last couple moons: they tell jokes, kid, share boasts and bull. As would satisfy any justice, these witnesses are opposites (or it’s easier to represent them to be, now that it’s just them): one skinny and hairless, the other’s fatty and haired; one serious, relatively good with the manners, the other named petty or mean, though the word’s also loquacious; one of them intelligent, and the other not not, just uninspired, unmade or unfinished, not yet healed. Time, there’s still time, there’s stilled time in which to air. A repast reclined but underdone. It’s two days prior to Passover, two settings until Redemption, one for emptied each: they’ve been left alone; the guards have been withdrawn, perhaps on orders of, perhaps negligence, perhaps. Now’s a winged moment of facetime, a scheduled recess peace: a grave shaped like an ear, dug alongside a grave shaped like a mouth…they sit across from one another, fixed to the floor, as if already mourning themselves, what they had

And then the next morning, there are two of them again.

One is Moses and the other’s his brother—to stand at the throne of their Pharaoh, at the footstool and grovel for redemption, though silently, though disinherited again…the staff ’s lost, the tongue’s lamed: there are plagues, there is blood and there is black; nine of them would pass, to reveal the tenth, in which the firstborn are killed, sacrificed upon the altar of a People: the blood, the frogs, the lice, the flies, the hail and locusts and dark and death. Today’s the day all firstborns fast, though it’s only them along with nonessential personnel; and though required on pain of threat, of guilt, the public joins in, too: as the darkness settles in, to fill, to slake, to sate, and finally—to open your mouths, you two, get talking…If you die I get your shoes, if you die I get your hat, if you die I get your socks, if you, if you, your memory. All ears is still two. Remember the time we, once I, do you remember, one time I, and the time we, and then that time. I wasn’t a good friend, I wasn’t a friend, I never was, you were, what’s expected, who expects, what I always wanted was, what you never had was, who I wanted to, always—and, who I’ve become…Steinstein asks, what would your parents be doing right now, and yours, your sisters, how many you had, what did she look like, think I’d have a chance, any I’d’ve had—your brothers, what about them, what would you, wouldn’t you, we’d go to the, we’d sit on the, we’d stand at the, and just, and just, be together—the way Aba he used to, the way Ima she’d, how’d she look, think I’d have had a chance…we used to, would or should have, trips to Theme Parks, State Parks, Historic Battlegrounds, and the movietheater mall, the pretzeljar shoestore, summercamp sissy kissy and Sundayschool sickday blahs with the thermometer dipped into the pits to fever, it would’ve been, what would’ve been, what’s it to you, what’s not. I should have loved my parents more, I should have told them I loved them, more I should’ve more…why’d they die, why get a divorce if you’re just going to die, he worked too much, she worked too hard, I would’ve worked, too: why, if you’re just going to…what I’m saying is—what do you want to hear?

Two witnesses, only one of whom will live to sanctify the new moon: Steinstein across His lap, Ben as if a mother to a son, installed in the Registry’s midst, absolved of illuminated exits. They sit nosing. A heaven either awaits or doesn’t, don’t get me started, already have. Begun, and duly begged. In case of emergency, break the glass of sky.

You have a wonderful lap, Steinstein says to say anything, and what a sense of humor…I’m dying, I’m hungry, I’m thirstily tired—though he’s without suffering, they’re without pain; Steinstein’s only kvetch that of the holy imminent, the though sacred obviousness of oblivion. How I wish there were an afterlife after life, that I could believe. Me, too, like sign me up, put me down for one. Know any newer jokes. Setups. Punchlines with a swine kick to the gut. Or efficacious prayers. Then, a silence they attempt to eternalize by withholding from it breath. And from without, a thunderous whine.

You won, Steinstein finally says, gasping his face lit, no longer the son but the ram that inherited his fire.

His eyes ask, how’s it feel?

No one won, you stupid mamzer.

Don’t give me that stuff everyone’s a winner—that you can save for your fans: it’s crazy, you’re smarter than that, even you…without guards, without guns, no rental medical, no beeping blinking disturbance.

God, he says, the deals, the fame and the Name, anything for the asking, it’s yours, and you get to live—love you, hate you, lucky schmuck, it’s impossible not to…

They rock, until Ben to tell the truth wants to stop, wants to give up on this shuckling but He keeps on despite, goes on in spite, and so they sway together even faster, as if davening in unison, as One—as if in an attempt to merge, through singularity to save themselves from fire, the fiery ice, the Angel of Death…then, tiring and slowing, making lips, lying to eventually sleep, neck lain over neck and wounding with a kiss—to be sundered apart just past midnight. Paschal silence, lightning from the furthest white of the eye. Outside there are stormings of glass. As has become the practice of every eve plagued with their survival, the blood of imported lambs has been daubed upon the doorjambs, dripping a redemptive red from the mezuzahs why not, who’s it hurting. The welcomemat a puddle.

Ben’s borne through the fence’s gate, up the winding slates to His house, on an Infirmary stretcher turned litter, sagging overhead; carried away by the Kush in a leaving difficult for all involved save the left for dead. Steinstein’s Angeled away to Tweiss autopsy then storage, iced in the overflow easterly Morgue, the afterlived warehouse of his Father as its only son. Fullup of recent stock, the bodies of the last week or so, inventoried, ritually prepared, have been cleaned out toward a clearing adjacent to the further dock, twelve bodies frozen southward to the tottering shed of the drivingrange, northward to the ravaged putting green, flagged offlimits, limitlessly: body after body atop body, glommed along the fence of His property at Island’s western edge, just inland from the ice’s slip to the shattered hole, its water and the oceanfloor, the fundament of shadows—the descent of the last before the last, the first before the last, the birthing of an end: spring’s, winter’s, winter’s winter, theirs and as theirs, ours; even panic having been displaced, with Ben left alone in, of all rooms and voiding spaces, the basement no longer to be feared.

To need a rooting now, this firmness, to know His place at the footing of things, with nothing left to dread. Quickpoured black concrete. And so His mooning around these left boxes and trunks, these tapes and unscissored twines: Hanna’s forks shedding tines, knives dulling mirrors, spoons bearing bowls flattened to tables, handles rooting out so far as to become unknowable in whatever their useful, drawerward ends; heirloom sederplate emptied of egg and shank, of green and salt dipped twice, an order confused in this exodus, this exile to the Pharaohnic storehouse, Ramses’ granary holding as its only ware the sand of our Joseph’s dream; the World to Come up from the basement to save us from famine, from desert’s thirst, the privations of this, our latest diaspora, failed in that it was only temporary, seasonal though skimped on light and heat—the sun’s illumination coming in through the windows set at the rise of the earth’s backyard lighting the beneath from its always dark into a dim known that can only disappoint, a worrying mundane…this Passover also bringing the last guests of the Island’s guests to crowd the sky: their cold smoke from daytime’s cremains, from the snuffing of an ever stranger night.

O spring! on whose unfledged leaves it is verily writteneth, ribbed on rib this prayer: All who art hungry, I forget—let them eat us, maybe; let them come and sit and belch and bench upon nothingness both savory and sweet; the table uprooted, the candlesticks barren, spare chairs down here the waterlogged lees of huge diseased cedars; the whole room—basement unfinished, partially unfinished perpetually, diningroom of the forgotten, recliningroom of the unreclinable and unimaged, the subterranean Heaven of heavens—revealed to Ben in mold, maggoty shag, walls mossed luminously, goatbearded, in iridescent filaments of morning…the entire house, even halflit, wildly en-gardened; strangled in vines as wide as halls, seeping reaches of rooms of one dew’s duration, to be effaced by clouds on the evening, wisped away, rustled forgotten, everything to be gotten rid of, junked, yarded and sold, storage unsorted, cycled to waste: cupboards to be bared to space upstairs, pantry left annulled…Ben bereaved. No different set of dishes wreathed in season, breakables and chipware, to be hauled in from the oilroiling air of the garage, down from the attic encrusted in barnacles to gather breath, entombed in their trunks and boxes of board, nailed and ducttaped, at the dawned rug of the stairhead, atop the carpet, wall-to-wall verdure of dust and mold for Hanna to vacuum no more: the rumbling in the distance the motor, the units of the baseboard heating, the basement’s hotwater heater, more like the final echo of the final storm—for today; a tumult of noise, of life woken and doing, a whirr all around, preparation’s stir gathering its pitch at the vault of the sky that arches, restless, never resting…His house itself now a vacuum, a limit of nothingness, a container of nullity, containment of the nil; the bag of the dispossessed to be gathered up at middle night with death at the door, knocking fists; His sole dispossessed possession, a mound of His father’s old briefcases here in a heap, along with Hanna’s purses, brokenclasped, out of favor, without the succor of candy or coin—essential inheritances, emptied of essentials. A stomach, a mind. Expectations of death dead themselves, voided, though their loss, which is the loss of their promise, is not quite as saddening; to be mourned, but mourned humbly: the idea that ritual couldn’t quite make it conscious enough, or explicit, that a year from winter to winter no divine would ever allow or oblige; anniversary desecrated, deprived in advance; the holy random reaffirming its faith in fate while destroying, debasing, our own; how the cycle couldn’t quite get the packaging right—not a bag, calfskin briefcase, or purse, but a nice neat little bundle of empty, wrapped in skin and tied with hair, left forgotten in a basement corner…Him turning the place upsidedown, insideout, and for nothing; Him searching, setting aside, in a fit, a maddened raising of heirloom dust. This basement eternally unfinished, this basement eternalizing the unfinished—its lowliest beetles and spiders and worms, its annelids dumb, search through the abandoned for meaning, night and day; day and night, making their ways through whatever remains. To seek out any prophecy left to rot by the rotted—to mourn a future frustrated in the retrospection of our death.

O God of Mercy, God of Joysey, Protector of the stopsigns, Maintainer of the sidewalks, Guardian of the dumps, we commend ourselves to the charity of Thy asphalt, that Thou shalt grant us rest amid the rarest emissions of Thy firmament; and now let us open wide and say A then let us say Men, and then shut our mouth and its dark globe and be gone from this earth as were Thou those thousands of years ago upon its first Friday and our making. A funeral’s held at the eastern edge of the Island, the rim of the ice backlit with ocean, tainted by city: the cruciferous spires of the Church of Wall Street, the irreligious iron surrounding the hush of the Battery, there a thin slip of trafficked gray, a glimpse unremarkable, you’ll miss it if not careful: Whitehall Street, site of the first settlement of the Affiliated upon these shores…a swath of flowers, irises and roses still tastefully arranged but wilting their dyes, albescent purples, and blues hued whiter; wreathes are sulking, plasticine hollies and firs, evergreen like money, twisted then bent into hearts and circling circular voids, their silence; the sun with its moon the ghost of a ghost to the west and the birds, which fly low and sated, circle overhead lazily and heavied lower in the bowel, preparing to swoop down and peck Him to weeping. As the only one who might officiate, Ben officially demurs, has been advised to, then ordered; leave this to the professionals, son, and get busy regretting, crank out those tears.

In a bad yarmulke, Ben nods His head along with the Service, under His veil under the veil of the sky, dully gray and webbed in fog—to trap the clouds to be sucked of their wet, then left for empty, a sunset’s clearing. As for the veil, it’s not for the stench of death, which has been frozen, but for the mystery, for the delectation of the assembled, the coverage columns fallen wide, a tumbled pantheon of typefaces jumbled, an edifice imposing of hype to raze; and to discourage invited paparazzi kept penned to the rear. Him, He’s perfunctory, disengaged. It hasn’t yet sunk in, and neither them. Without doubt, something must have been offered, some eulogy delivered, memories shared, a sermon, a drash, remarks if not extemporaneous then just scripted to sound; all have agreed, a Kaddish must’ve been said. V’imru, a new translation. Doctor Abuya stands unbowed atop the pulpit of piled coffins, comforted by the Nachmachen armbanded, hooded in black. Der mourns to their left, alongside the Mayor and the President and their wives and the swollen lips of their mistress’ eyes. Ben nods through the lull, the incessant lapping of the wake on the ice, the slow dumb thud thud dulling insensate thud, then the fierce rabid white withdrawal back into the swelled body to flow on amid floes and on further, among the floating glaciers and bluewhite golden bergs that don’t seem to receive or take the light of heaven but hold it, or emanate it, as if they’re but the fallen cooling and cooled flesh of the sun on a flank of the moon. Against this restless ebb, this wake endless, endlessly hazarded with icicled sharps, a slough of badeggy, brownblack pickleweed and sick saltgrass, decomposed phragmite, starvelimbed spartina, and trash above the enabling sink of the previous dead, two Kush attired in the deceased’s ripped, tattered black judges’ robes arise from their chairs, which are seats that’ve been hewed from ice by workers wielding picks at the dawn, and proceed to the bier of coffins stacked low before the coffined pulpit, stoop together toward the white, bend at the knees to bow, to lift the topmost casket: Steinstein small in a cold cocoon. A band plays on a barge far out freed in the open water, so southerly gone that no one hears its music, which has been programmed funereal, joyously sad: accordionwind, flutefog, sounding brass, timbrel with tinkling cymbal. A mandolin plink, the call of birds without sky. That’s no butterfly, He thinks, that’s only winded trash. A leaflet engraved by weather, denoting the agenda of the morning. Rest assured, there will be memorials. Blown city trash. An invitation to a light buffet. This is no metamorphosis. There will be no emergence. This, for however long, is an end.

Dark servants uniformed in old law robes blacker than a blotting sentence struck without names and proceeding somberly, the Kush in lockstep, lock and step, lockstep, flagbearers follow raising their standards, then the drums and fifes with which to taunt the gulls that whirl above in their own private, griefstruck revolutions: each, they test each step, every weighted forward, fraught, to test the ice whether it’ll hold their fall heading out by south, over the veining, the ice crackling like locusts underfoot and on fire, extinguished by the boot; they walk the body out, to freeze; then, at giving edge, the sinking vale, they go to heave, to throw this poor huddled Steinstein in an arc, like a white wished coin to plash down deep, to plop atop the sunken flesh, the last body atop this mass of limbs and hearts and minds, bobbing then bobbing then sinking forever sinking down, never to decay. A great clap, a crack and crumble, a final fall—the ice gives way, hot floes are let out loose and the Kush, they’re separated, the two flagbearers, each to their own floating island, iceislands enough for one; a wailing, then silent gesturing, as they float out beyond the ceremony’s appeal, their black robes billowing as if sails set for nowhere, if only off, far beyond the crusty barge, the marshy glut, their flags to merge with the horizon into a band of color colorless below the flag of dawning night. And then as if intended, too, He follows, as if pulled out, tuggingly towed who knows, Ben making His way seemingly somnambulant, a vessel Himself, out to the newest holding edge. As ordered, to honor tradition, He digs in the lone slit pocket of His new funeral suit for a handful of dirt, crystalline with frost, to toss to float atop the bare skin of the ocean—to scar. And then, when He turns around from His husky fling, the entire crowd’s dispersed; their backs are turned to Him, they’re making for the press conference already, for its warm buffet of unleavened bread, which is matzah, and boiled eggs and shank, bitterherbs to dip in water made bitter with their tears; the funerary sleigh’s retired to blocks of ice; the pulpit’s disassembled for future use; in an Islandround queue to the Great Hall, the invitees—as if on cue—stand mute, and bored; as they wait they use their programs to mop their icy shvitz, wring out print, headlines lined to forehead, Gothic wrinkles; they consult their watches unwound, hands clasped in pity then wrung in shame. He turns from them toward the ocean again and untucks His shirt, which is white and dressy and replete with a million, starnumbered tiny buttons too small for the bumble of His clumsy thumbs, exposes His navel, the proof of His humanity and the little stone He’s stored there. A lower, harder heart. A solitary island of floating ice; a lone white square of the ocean’s game; a souvenir yarmulke gusted from the head of a visitor then turned loose as litter upon the face of the deep; a tombstone estranged from its Steinstein, just one Stein of many lately, too many latter days. Pinching His pants at the knee, stooping over the open atop the thinning wick, then tweaking the stone from the gape of His navel, a mute name, an empty filling. Palming the pebble, the gravelet, He sets it gently atop the ice, purses lips and cherubically exhales, to blow the tiny island out, passing an offering to the horizon, eventually of the horizon, on this day passing over, this night—this Exodusk. A kiss as if in thanks for His fortune, the wetted recompense of lips. How He’s been saved, redeemed, what have you. On a merit He cannot claim, in favor of the dead who was a friend. Deal with it, why so sad. It’s that I maybe wasn’t worthy. Am not, perhaps. Condemned, to have been freed.

Tonight’s the night of the Second Seder, which is the justification for the first, a lately seconding assent—an evening’s afterlife of ritual, too much the forgotten night, and as such often slept through, ignored, its reputation that of mere repetition, the Law’s reinforcement intended only for the dense or pedantic, the masochistically foolish—to be conducted with and served to the visiting dignitaries and press inside the Registry of the Great Hall, check your coats and remember, save your stubs. Who gets served first, the question numbered after the fourth never asked by the kinder dead, and what—an incomparable dish, what else the final course, savored only as the last. After its plates are cleared and silverware stolen, what’s left’s only the Blessed art Thou. Disordered. Art Thou Blessed. The Seder desedered, desecrated. Thou art Blessed. A table leavened, lately risen so high that anything served atop it would be beyond anyone’s appetite. Stomachs eyeing swollen. That and there aren’t enough chairs. My condolences.

Ben turns, staggers palms to foot the ice, falling to His knees, He rights Himself onIsland, to His house and weeping freely. Teary as the way’s uphill: snow drifted to the edges, the fringe toward Joysey a precipitate pack. Not alone, He’s escorted home by His newest lookalikes—flanked by Mada, and a novice whitebread operative known de novo as Frank Gelt—past the lingering smoke, lightning flashes, the bulby horns of moonmade beasts; constellating fame lost in darkness encroaching, just a plague or two too late; the lens of sky shattering at the sight, the spectacle, believe it. To the shore of Joysey and, across the Island, to that of Manhattan and further, the uninviteds, the hangerson, fans, and the citified curious disperse homeward on skis and snowshoes, across ice salted, ice sanded; those who’d hoped for a miracle, say, a resurrection, are frustrated—it would’ve only disappointed, or so they promise themselves, assure, their newest rabbis agree, they always do, we’re sure; them sloughing off slowly, laggardly, diasporating, together, apart, into a diasporation further, unnamed, without number, into futures individual as purposemade, exiles none of them could ever hope to understand.

Which, nu, doesn’t rule out Submission.

Steinstein, says an approved mourner here with the appropriate pass inside the Great Hall, a weeper who’s on every list—now, he was golden. A blank check. This Israelien, He’s difficult, a tough sell. Doesn’t know how to do a soundbyte. Unquotable! Unphotogenic! Or if not Him, His decoys—how much they make an hour? Anyway, there’s not much to like about Him, you know? Hard to relate to. Too strange. Never know what that schmuck is thinking.

Doesn’t matter what He looks like, says his plus one pewmate, what He smells or sounds like, what He feels or even tastes like—I wish the kid had ten hundred, ten thousand fingers to sell off. As relics, you follow? They’re going to make a killing!

Hymn, if nothing kills Him first.

In His house, Ben lies atop the table He was born on, in the diningroom, flopped on a shard of dark tablecloth slipping from its top; then upstairs He’s embedded, upstairs-upstairs, on the decks’ deterioration, a mattress perched aslant a pitch of snowsuccumbing roof—what the media characterizes as “a period of recovery” calming soon, a sobless nap, a little healing schlaf.

For seven nights through Shiva, Ben’s dead to the world. And, too, to dreams, which despite our ignorance of any revelation they might offer to interpretation couldn’t be more terrible than what passes for His life, what’s passedoff to Him as life passedover, the unlivable liveddown, the divine decree of un-lovable fame as proclaimed by prevailing silence. The sun dawns day through the windows, Manhattan nights without phosphor or fuss—everything having been declared dimmed for the mourning, His and theirs. His sisters gather around the table, calling to stall, while unfolding fresh accommodations of cloth and pad, edible inveiglements, sexplay suasions—but no one can reach Him, nothing can talk Him down. The moon remains through the mornings, the evenings find that ancient ancestral plate, cut by its silver, as empty as ever, while the window between it and the polished tabletop on which He rests becomes as a shroud veiled over the most dire vision imaginable—unthinkable, tomorrow; to frustrate even the most adept prophet, whose rest’s given over to the workings of His unimaged God.

Morning after Shiva’s sat out Ben’s woken—rolled from the table of His room off the tables of the upper floors, forced back downstairs, to its waking life, the business of His state. He’s ushered atop a scale that eighth afternoon, unearthed from a cabinet in Feigenbaum’s bathroom for His weighing, a procedure to be done daily on orders, to regulate His gain, moderate appearance; this to focus Him on the public, His image, a girth even greater—to be worth His weight in gold; polished with publicity, the shine imparted with appropriate alchemy and management. No mourning, says Doctor Tweiss, that’s for Shiva’s sequel…starting tonight—people enjoyed it so much it’s been heldover, popular demand. Stand still, says the other doctor: don’t lean on the tables, you’re no leaner on the walls; stand straight. Stop that sobbing, each tear weighs a ton. And then we’ll do it naked. He weeps enough salt to deaden a sea. All who art thirsty, let them sip from His eyes. Their brows being plucked, their lashes slickly licked to flirt. Arrow the finger pointed, sucked to wipe from His face a smeared tear, a point of schmutz—it wobbles, steadies, wavers, shakes, the dial spins His sighs. Jesus, you’d think we were fattening you for the slaughter. That’s a joke. That, too. Please and thank you nice to meet you, good Sabbath a guten Shabbos. Shake. A fitting for the new more casual clothes to supplement the suit. And, thrown in as if a towel, a fresher, drier, veil. His number gotten, sized, He’s sent to His room again—to fling through the scripts received, proposals, projects, telegrams and letters. No one survives, they only inherit a different life. To be a star means this, to disinherit the darkness of the sky.

And then there is One. Me. Who else, who better. Ben, the son of sons. Uniqueness, a quality universally prized…rather, our universal constant itself: one hard breath amid the ether, through laughter or tears, I know, I know. One sun that wakes Him. An alarm, which functions in the time of the Messiah. Ringing. Tell the resurrected it’s time to tick to work. Stillborns off to school. Then, one moon that sleeps Him without dream. Between, one brunchplate, hosting a single bagel of a widening hole. In the afternoon, the larger of the last two knishes He knoshes, knowing his interlocutor’s respectful enough to have selected the smaller one anyway, in anticipation. Are you feeling well, are you feeling. One mountain in the distance, a singular pyramid of stone sheetrocked, it’s said. An oneway track ripped up under the progress of the train relentless, farflung out from behind the rear broughtup, the caboose He’ll hobo on, when soon. Give Him space and time and parents. After all, His people gave such ideas existence. That and the Temple, citybound—hosting one marble pedestal and its frayed vein itself hosting the infinite universe, its vaster gods. They couldn’t be here but they send their regards. And vengeance. One like the nation, under His invisible God indivisible, with liberty and justice for whom. As it’s said and never known. One as in chosen over the other, singled out but by whom and for what. Is the question begged. Because He’s unattached, a singlemon, an eligible match, maybe—meet my son, the Messiah, He’s free most Friday nights. Or, one like the Substance of Spinoza, the nugatorily negating immutable, the ineffably annulling…

Or else, He’s—heresy—just like everyone else…is everyone else. A multitude of mensch, and their achievements: Joseph the dreamer dreaming Joseph the interpreter interpreting Joseph the prophet; the brother who hides the cup, Benjamin fated unconscious to steal it, prophesized together again, reunited forever in Him. Like the chance of that choice, how many lives you’re allotted, how many eyes and mouths and noses—O does He pick! The fraternity’s mascot, the tribal runt. Alone again alone. I sit on my bed and ask it, are you my bed? And because it doesn’t answer me I’ll never know and sleep. A pillow. And its whiter dream. One as in one. One meaning one. One one. It’s you, everyone’s telling me, it’s your life, so many options, and with so much support, what don’t you understand, your problem—I want to say, it’s me. One in the same, as in the emotions of Pain and Hope, as defined by Spinoza; as in the ideas of perfection and reality as Spinoza once set out. As I’ve been told, I’m telling. One as in God Himself. As in His son, but let’s not go there…He remains upstairs. No one does. Upstairs-upstairs. I sit on my floor, a mockery of mourning—its carpet of stains, hall’s wood bemoaning in trodden groans its scratches and the rug. A fundament of doubt. There’s a noise from below, a spirited banging of the ceiling with ladles and with brooms. They say, intensely private. Sequestered, they say. Appreciates His quiet. I say…Alone. An entire house at His disposal. And make no mistake, it is disposal. Unable to leave, He isn’t allowed to, and He doesn’t allow Himself, not even His possessions—to leave an intimacy just lying about. As the only permanent of this exorbitant house—as Mister & Misses Israel Israelien, Homemachers, Copresidents of the Board for life of this singularly shingled siding—this dwelling good for an immodest family of tens, and fine, too, to house at least a hundred others, certainly, in relative comfort, a thousandplus under refugee conditions; as the only survivor of this plot, He still feels like the youngest son and as such, infinitely old in His loneliness, banished to His room, containment policies pursued, to keep His dirt there, never to infiltrate or taint. Their expectations. And their painful hopes. His mess is His, roomed. I sit amid laundry and wrappers and cartons and cans, lightbulbs and hoarded spoons, foreskins shed, tight shoes. I wait until I am called, and when I am called I will call that call temptation, and live out the rest of my days against it, which is only waiting. Or so I say, unsaid. At the door, an official knock, a bell. Downstairs, demons surge. It’s time for Him to wash, to dress. Their whispers jar the window. Into the pockets of the pants He steps into go whatever’s around. Mementos. A pocket is the room of a room. And over that He shrugs on, against all advice, which are orders, a fond found shroud that’d been His mother’s, a blustery blouse, Hanna’s maternity let out in pleats.

At the end of Shiva prolonged twice the traditional span to accommodate the sitting of all these mourners, those who’d known a goy who’d known a goy who’d gotten them a foot in the mouthing door, Jonathans come lately and not come directly without pity wrought across their faces that isn’t merely makeup for the edification of the press over wardrobe, which is black as if the secretion of their nightly and mutual heart, with the Marys as hostesses, sisters and mother appealing, attending to the nervous network of guests, their needs of food, drink, and of memory providing, at the end of eating, drinking, talking, and the occasionally mispronounced prayer—davening—misery commiserated then calmed in that order again reborn, after the last guest leaves, forgets his coat then comes back and retrieves it from a Hanna disapproving with an amusedly severe if distracted glare for whoever at the threshold on the last night of official mourning sat out, it’s this knocking, then a ring on the bell, which sounds one tone long and loud and harsh. As if a final siren. Answered by himself with his own key, it’s Gelt, with a leavened chin and selfmade buzzcut, arrived only to whisk Ben away, in an open sleigh parked at the fence at the foot of the path since slated for preservation (the house registered a landmark, not just to His life or theirs, or as an excellent historical example of high exurbiated living—but to the Garden’s prophetic project, how well and thoroughly they’ve divined, recreated a past into a materiality that is both monument and future), bells a’jingle hollowly, wild dogs frothing a dash down the foamy, toothy spur, their tongues straining over the hillocks of drift and pile, whips of hitched and harnessed tails, up to the Great Hall and therein to Ben’s private wing, quarters established amid the remains of the Registry’s Seder. He shouldn’t be left alone any more than He already is, this on the recommendation of His employer/disciples, His meisterminders and mother. A chandelier weeping crystal. Floors marble, or marbled. Dust mounded against the walls, dereliction, the lapse that makes a Tel—and then the windows, which if undraped would give out onto the further scape of gloss and glass and metal: Manhattan; a coming world, beyond.

To leave His home is to leave a boy behind, what He once was in a house handmedowned. The shroud of rooms and the embalming windings of the halls to be borne now, forever, upon another body…the new baby in its blush and chub, the newest affection, at her age, Hanna’s, an affectation with fists the size of tears, never to come swiftly crawling toddling walking a raw knee felled down the stairs then straight into the hallwayed arms of its mother, who once was His, had been—love for Ben cooling like Saturday’s soup, which is cholent sopped with the crusts of stale bread still bagged, storebought, which, too, had been the challah of Friday, the errant second loaf. Promise only vouches you so far, so distant, until old, unemotional, and moldy with mind: to grow up awkward and isolated, pimpled and alone, made witness to the probable stuff of youth, the toy guns and knives and other playthings never had, never allowed as inappropriate, unsafe, the tricycles and bicycles coming around in cycles, balls and blocks of wood and plastic and of plastic like wood with alphabets, presumptive—revived in the life of another, the objects themselves scuffed and dulled to dead now newly shined, once given son and so suddenly appealing again, attractive, put to fresh uses, fun He’d never imagined could be had, they could’ve had together: Os of wholesome cereal strung on the strands of His mother’s hair bewigged and dyed above but below as dark as milk, across the room living, family, or den, stuffedanimals strangled in the ties of His father arranged around the brunch table, perched atop chairs to referendum on the issues of the day, the fate of the family, punishments for Rubina’s pubescent misery…miniature houses of leaves and twigs and moss and nests assembled in the driveway, to be brought to collapse when Israel pulls out the Merc the next morning so early it’s almost still night, for work; he’s always working—the Israelien house left vacant, abandoned to what could’ve been. To be made Present Resident of the last house on Easy Street, taking into Manhattan the gravied train, the commuter’s heartquick circulation. Ben never to darken His own doorway again, to be humiliated a fumble at its lock, with the day’s close its shadow drafting reductive, immature. Feed for Him the fish we flushed long ago; water the houseplants, the weeping ferns of Babylon-by-the-bay. Do me a favor, and silence. An intercom hiss, the fuzzed tongue of the stairs. To sleep atop the sheets of His conception, with sisters He calls His own…

Across the Island He sits in the Registry, on a suitcase His father had once bought in Miami at the aeroport as extra luggage for the souvenirs he’d bring them home, anything he’d buy on impulse come his boarding: the blizzards of snoglobe, postcards never to send, that poseable pink flamingo. Here mourning the hold defiled, laid to waste in the process of such heldover His head nightly grief—which is talking, dining, praying in necessity’s urgent order, the priorities of the overscheduled martyr: slipcovers as if they’re flayed scholar-skin hanging from the arms of the sofas set with recliner matching, stuffing-spilled pillows slipped irretrievably into cracks behind couches against the paperpeeling walls, the chairs upended, unseated, the upstairs beds and even Wanda’s tousled by guests too drunk and Amenfed to have made it home alone, their smokes smote atop the carpet and, also, as black clouds upon the ceiling, the arms of the overhead fan broken, the emptied glasses smashed, plates pooled in a bronze sea of oil crossed by Shiva’s knives—bloodblunted, gristly, twisted in hands shook poorer of their nerve; protective plasticwrap smoothed and saved for nothing, foiled, with the drawers hanging open; to what would’ve been Hanna’s horror, no one’s bothered to cleanup.

Enough.

O, if only His parents would have died! It would have been enough.

If only His parents and His sisters would have died, it would have been enough.

If only His parents and His sisters and His PopPop would have died, it would have been enough.

If only His parents and His sisters and His PopPop and then all of Them, except the firstborn, would have died, it would have been enough.

If only His parents and His sisters and His PopPop then all of Them, save the firstborns, and then even Them, and then even the saved firstborns they die, dayeinu, Gottenyu, it would have been enough…to say, this’ll probably futz you scarred for life, what did Israel call Him, boychick, and then would say along with Hanna, this hurts us more than it hurts—nu, you’re thanked then praised, almightily. And not just that and living and unharmed, which are as lentils flung to the spring’s harsh wind, the lost half of the afikomen sharded small in the light of His parents and people dead, it’s that He’s safer now than ever, emerged bathed clean, roofslept, and with His fortune secured, the return’s reward, the birthright collecting interest…enough to say, stop that kvetch, but me no buts, I’ve had enough of all your whine. This geshray and bitch bemoan. That nothing’s enough. Nothing’s good enough for you. An only son, how He’s an only Messiah, too, and whether false or not no matter as so far unopposed—hymn, He’s thinking, and that’s supposed to be a pass, a snowday, a Florida vacation taken off from the mind and its daily duty. What an overprivileged pisher. Taking each breath for granted curse. You’re never satisfied. Impossible to please. But this, it’s not His fault He was faulted this way. Brought up to expect so much more of Himself that He rages that better others fail. Responsible, that’s how He’s raised, that’s how He would’ve been at least then college, career, a wife with kinder of their love, themselves to be bathed clean, roofed, and sleeping rich in a house of their own that didn’t have to be recreated as consciously as here, as He would’ve bought that way, they would’ve. Nextdoor with weekly suppers simple. And then adjacent plots with matching stones, opposite His parents, her having taken the Israelien name, the veil of His mother that is the oven’s hood. Graves visited monthly and wellmaintained, we’re talking. Again, remembered with a rock.

As the prophets always say, He’s not getting off that easy…

Above the Hall’s portico, Ben stands facing the islands offIsland, the city to come, over the railing reclining into weather. In the freeze, a squint of reflected moon. Out there, it’s quiet, corpsed in hush: all five boroughs and the sixth of the ice pierced with regret, with even Joysey in mourning, from the beaches up through the pines and the smokestacked clouds; businesses have been shuttered; minds have been closed; churches lie smoldering, rubble neglecting even to fall…Manhattan, a cincture of cinder. Shiva, once its success has been proven over an extended engagement at the Israelien household, is taken national, then worldwide, spends itself from hurst to wood to burg, to glen to city, yadda, each discharging its public rites, the performance of municipal ablution with media assured; solidarity, shtum. All ends on a Sunday, the day of the rising, of Hosanna and olden unction…the Sunday of palms holding its day weeks prior to Easter, which’s been forgotten, too, as if a gust’s direction, its windy directive, Easter, go Easter and Easter—weeks more waxed a wane down through their days, inked through the boxes of the calendar, ticked off nick by prick upon the face of the stovetop, its timer and that of the microwave deprogrammed and unplugged, to what once had been that fake or falsest of days if with true intention, marketed for the honoring of Mothers. O Hanna, He’s forgotten your Hallmark, your slippers over the rugs soft and sinking, your heels on the hardwood tapping impatience, anger, displeasure with yourself the punishment of rage—the weight of your approach, the force of your presence, your warm and sucky flesh; knows only the posthumous linger, the cold breath of your skirts and your blouses in the closet once mirrored in Him, that smell of perfume #5 you’d shpritz to your wrist; how the sweetened flowers—last year’s irises—would’ve been delivered with a card signed with Israel’s name to wilt then die in a vase in a hall, now shattered, glued, reglued, and then shattered again; Wanda would’ve made sure, Wanda who never forgets, marks the boxes on her own calendar a recreation of the one hanging from a loosened tack upstairs at the wall scuffed by the slammed opening of the frontdoor, the archivists and the historical maids, such experts; watches the clock an eye for an eye, watches her watch, which was a gift given to her by Israel and Hanna for a holiday she didn’t observe; on break, how she reminds Israel an entire Friday before; gives him a second call at the office, notice ample like breasts, following up urgently with his secretary, a final warning, get her a gift, who, your wife, whoever you might’ve married While You Were Out, as it’s dated, timed, a slipping pink, a scribble; Loreta running off a form, a replicate, yet another rejectable settlement in triplicate, and demanded ASAP, puts her on hold while she waits for the feed, then through to his extension, his voice; Hello, you’ve reached Israel Israelien, I’m not able to take your call, but if you would please—leaves a message, hangs up.

Inroit an end. The calendar leaves wilting to blotches of ink, blatt blowing off and away on a wind from the west; the hands of the clocking watch on the wrist slowing to stasis, clasping each other at dawn and dusk, then at every other time between—the freezing of the tide and its moon of one face, turnedcheek lune with its modest blush; opposite the sun, resting its house-warming, retiring to the reflection of Miami behind the clouds to putter about at an altitude no sky could ever scrape, highrisen amid the greatest lot ever vacant. Though it’s been worthless since day one, which was day never, obsolete since forever, time is presently asserting its purpose, its fundamental truth: as a nothingness, against which to measure death. A height marked short at the doorjamb, hinges tall and growing. Noon is lunch. Dinner means six. Linner and dunch indulging between. Hunched, tired, icesalted. Sandy Hook hikes its pants over the waist of the state. Newark exhales. Bereaved, bereft, weakened. Were it another time, if one could exist, if there might be two species of nothingness and those both existing concurrently, the city might invite this: lying elder and willow at the foot of the ass kicked through the gates, which are located, it’s said, on both sides of the Tunnel. As for its rider, it’s been said He’d preach, too: withholding, limitation…no new taxes, He’d promise, better health care and schools for our kinder—before ascending, then forgetting everything, every promise, every preachment unpracticed and then everyone, as well, that’d ever helped Him, who got Him where and who he is, today—to the Temple. Then trashing it as badly as His house shall require our cleaning. Tzedakah’s always welcome, then with admission you are, too—reservations not required; how the people don’t even need to be reminded anymore, informed as to what they’re ignoring, what they’ve forgotten, what’s forsaken, no—more like what or Who they’re supposed to be venerating next. A given up given over, a negative lent. An altar stood on its head.

Palm Sunday proves a lesser passing: in silence, without ceremony, host to no circumstance; lashes stay in without pomp or parade; the people dressed down sit at their tables and cry; station to station it’s static, the mating call of snow…empty avenues and streets, the underground tunnels of the trains stilled in rust; Staten Island stranded in a lawn of ice, which is fenced in by concrete, which is cemented to earth that’s ungated; Midtown a block abandoned even by shadows; no one’s seen: eyes cast out like stones at their feet they can’t even see each other, or won’t; no sound’s heard beyond the weather: their ears have become cold, and listen only within; how they’re all inside, they’re interiorized, palms in their palms not knowing what to do: discussing, debating, planning for which to prepare. Ben remains inside the Registry to which His room’s been transferred, its furniture, His filthy heap entire: the bed, the chest of drawers intact and rumpled with the lamp atop unlit. He yawns. Idle hands, idler palms. He undoes His robe, extracts. Verily, at the gates of His loneliness, which are His legs, His thighs with their hindquarters lamed, by an angel named I’m curious, as if to prevent escape, postpone His flee, Him lazily limping—He lays down His loads, unburdens Himself of skin. Upon this Sunday, which is the outdated, outmoded Sabbath, He lashes Himself with His palms. Fast then slow and shvitzy. A Garden without a tree to damn Him whether with shade or fruit, He’ll seed Himself alone. As if to mark the stations of an inheritance unshed.

0800: left sock, held damp in His mouth,

0848: right sock, a different pair and still in bed,

1102: left sock, again, but this once turned insideout,

1333: on the Registry’s wall, half upon a portrait of Himself unframed,

1400: in the Registry again, all over the tiled floor, over the railing of the balcony to sully the remainder of His image,

1407: into His scapular, known as tzitzit, whose quartered fringes will become bound together, drying hard, into one knot who could worry free,

1454: and then smeared with thumb into His mother’s robe’s low hem—fisted quickly, but ruminantingly rubbed—which will cleave to His tzitzit still worn below and wet,

And what did these socks look like? asks Doctor Tweiss, though he’s staring at them preserved for exhibit in plastic.

One was black, the other blue; I’d slip them over my…myself; then stroke the sock proper, like so.

As if a second foreskin, the other doctor says, an auxilary prepuce, if you will…

Though only a suggestion, He feels He’s contractually bound to nod—the gesture of His hand.

1502: now…begun in a waitingroom, then continued in the next, finished here in this office, underneath the gowned covers atop the analysand’s couch, with His feet up in stirrups and a blush choking at His neck.

To sprout from these seeds: all a question of interpretion, a matter of blemish, a blot on the mind…a whole host of Hims in motile miniature: hurtling spermatozoa, with their own yarmulkes, grown spiraling payos already and curly beards that snare them into stains.

What seems to be the problem? asks which doctor, is the problem. Adolescence. Anything I can do about it?

I can pay today in cash.

1628: in the front seat of the limousine,

1748: and then again in the limo’s rear as He’s returning,

1856: in the widest hallway of the Great Hall on the way to do this in the toilet,

2035: then, while breaking bread in the Commissary enormous and alone, Him indulging singlehandedly,

2205: and then again between the pages of His only evening prayerbook, Arvit it’s called while faking its devotion,

2337: into His own yarmulke, finally it’s late, and thankfully white, which He replaces atop His head then, to sleep another day…

And for all these sins and for many more, O so many more of them unto sheer unaccountability—for these sins unto even the omissions therein, and then for all of their sins obtaining, too, You should forgive Him, Thou shalt, O so pleased with yourself, do us all a favor, will you, please…forgive.

Forgive Him for His

Apathy.

Forgive Him for His

B        .

Forgive Him His

C        .

Forgive Him His

D        .

Forgive Him for His

E        .

Forgive Him His

F        .

Forgive Him for His

G        .

Forgive Him for His

H        .

Forgive Him His

I        .

Forgive Him His

J        .

His Jealousies, say…as petty as they are—as he had excellent shower-slippers, which won’t fit, and then neither will his hat: Steinstein’s personals stacked to the side, under the desk made a tiny pile, cinched with a snippet of his belt…

And TEN (10) is the number of the toes on His feet. And NINE is the number of the pimples on His knees. And EIGHT is the number of the wens on His thighs.

Forgive Him His

Ken, kenosis, keptstatus…

Forgive Him for His

Laxity, laziness…lists.

Forgive Him for His

Machinations…

And SEVEN is the number of the foreskins He’s shed today alone. And SIX is the number of the hairs encircling His navel. And FIVE is the number of the hairs encircling each one of His nipples.

Forgive him O Lord of Hosts,

Thou Horde of Losts our forgiver forever…

Forgive Him for His Necrophilia, though latent—practiced exclusively with incarnations of His sisters, and His mother, which only occasionally, when and if He asks them to, fool Him.

Forgive Him His

Onanism.

Forgive Him His

Persnicketyness…as to which

pleasure’s which.

And FOUR is the number of the whiteheads on His neck. And THREE is the number of the blackheads on His nose. And TWO is the number of the ulcers in His eyes.

Forgive Him His

Q .

Forgive Him His

R .

Forgive Him for His

S .

silence…

Forgive Him for His

T .

Forgive Him His

U .

Forgive Him for His

V .

Forgive Him His

W .

Forgive Him His

X .

xenophobia,

what else in the X’s?

Forgive Him for His

Y .

Forgive Him for the sake of His

Zion.

And ONE…

O forgive Him our Horde of Hosts,

Thou Lord of Losts,

Who art in Leaven—

O let us be risen, too!

And let us say,

AMEN!

2

IV

A miasma of gray puff and cloud congestion, an exhaustion overhanging the water, which is ice…everything that’s not burning has already burnt. Ash has fled the air under the headcovering of night.

It’s earliest morning, and through its darkness waning an apparition comes forward, anomalous because it’s dark itself amid dawn; it comes starkly, with unrelenting drive, with pitiless force, as if the blackest god in the sky; it pierces the cloudbank, a ray of negative light, then screeches sideways, hisses, honks, comes to rest at Ben’s feet. It’s a limousine, a new one or the Joysey old repaired. Frank Gelt emerges from the gloom, holding open its door. Hamm lumbers from behind, bows for Ben His head and stumbles Him inside, choking, barely breathing from the fume. He’s veiled, still; He can’t use His eyes, His lids give only black. Again with the veil, it’s precautionary, not that it doesn’t also make for laudable mystery, suspenseful. A thing. Doors shut, lock. And then the limo, a refitted chariot charred with sunrise’s flame gone out, wheels around, heads to return in the direction of its arrival: straight ahead, star-bound, fading at a falling skid out over the ice without yield, hurtling offIsland, unstoppably fast, deathbringing, leadenfooted out over the sand over the ice then over the slick skin of tar.

Ben presses His veil up against the window tinted with weather, which passes for air thickly viscid, the limo passing through clouds, muscled intestines giving way to the cranial gray, bloodied iron, lifecold steel, metal limbs this rusted meat…the city once dead just now being reborn, hulking in the effort of its breaths ever higher above the grossest of streets: glaring heights of lipidic marrow, vertical artery, glassy and gelatinous organs peeking through insatiable tumult; fogflecked the digestive din, pulsing penetralia oozing light…the neon clot of billboard and sign; the mucilaginous asphalt, the strut, truss, and trestle; millions of links to the chain around Manhattan, binding this island of the Island in coils of burbling, gurgling cloud the limo bursts into air, as mere puffery, nothing.

Welcome, Ben. New York, it’s about time. This is what you’ve been missing, what you’re missing still, blind to all this, witless. The city of the windows of the house, the city of dreams and day, the world He’s been waiting for through glass and air for days and nights, and still denied Him, the city incarnated previously only through glimpsed Garden views and bunkbedded gossip, the memories of surviving FBs then dying, now dead; this city the repository of all dreams, and of dream itself, a holy of holies, a blessed covenantal ark of two of every kind and more, too many—each, though, an unknowable island unto itself, floating purl in the air on the sea on the earth itself floating within an emptiness, an Island alone in the universe as cause of its own belief, belied, its wisdom shrouded in distance, remove, exile, cloudbank, smoke and ice: each one of us is an Island, nothing too original about that, but each of one us is an Island with a city atop, building a city atop; a mensch building his city ever higher and forever, a huge high world of a city in the head of every one of us, shored in with skin and wharved with bone. All the lanes and towers and scrapers and panes, their scale’s been known, has been registered, at least suspected, of nights and days immemorial and insomniac through the windows of the bedroom of His parents—O but the people, Other people, their lives, that doing going life, that’s what’s worth it, that’s what would’ve riveted: people wanting and needing and loving and losing; it’s noble, this wanton heedless loss; it’s incredible, this loveless need. Though they seem not people but animals, hopeful beasts, hoofing and snouting out their crude existences, stuck in the mud of their own minds, their mindlessness, seeking only to satisfy the barest, the basest—survival: the awareness that they are, they recognize that, and that they must be—that, too; and then, that their purpose is that they must keep on being until, and in the face of it All, which is a thousandeyed, a millionmouthed, with too many ears to pierce into servitude, and too many feet to knowingly toe. It’s amazing to some, how humbling, debasing, destructive if one isn’t strong; others think it grand, life in this bestial city, that it’s exciting, ennobling, inspirational even. God bless them, God save them and keep them—they know not what they do; they know not who they are, only if. For them, for now, that’s enough.

Animals, mewling punching kicking beasts and curs. Animals, but animals with beards, suddenly with sidelocks, animals adorned in fringes, clothed in black, in new boots and hats and wigs, which are black, too, and even laundered; their hides the purest snow. Without, everything’s slushy, sullied, trashed. Horse dropping desecration. Old oil on the quivering gelled surface of the eye. Lenses smudged in ember, whorled fingerprints of ash. Gray burrows into drifts of boot and cart. Filling letter slots, mailboxes, even mouths to stut and spit, silence, then, as if in a renewed language, an attempt to expound again. Arguments batter every corner. These animals never relent. As the limousine takes turns, rights lefts, makes drastic swerves, turnarounds, Us and loopdloops, it passes packs of seething envy, parts resentful mobs to leave them in its wake exhaust to breathe on—the window cracks, a stone’s been thrown, or has fallen as hail, be charitable. The city has chosen, it’s changing: bodies dumped to bump drifts of fall long cleared; apartments have been repainted, appliances replaced on warranty usurped. Restoration’s in the air, He’s sensing even without a face…Ben’s limousine swerving as if driven by the quick pitiful flicks of His searching head, His form, Him an entrapped wounded mammal attempting only to window a view through the veil. They hurl into embankments, stagger around in skid to seek a throughstreet, a shoveled path, a route alternate if wild: maps are useless, fit for kindling, to stuff into shoes for warmth. Understand, there have been casualties, with service down if not delayed: the numbers have been unordered, readdressed, the grid has come undone. Junk juts up from pilings midstreet, mounds of sooty clump, dark humps of tar macled with ice in glittery brilliance. The limo takes a wide turn, cuts across meaningless lanes to curve into a straightaway, pacing itself against the Parkside sprawl, lined with streetlamps that’ve wilted from the crooks of bishops into logs obstructing, laid frozen across Fifth Avenue from sidewalk to the sewer. The Park’s overgrown in icicle fang, a flank of clods and butts bearded in white, rising to overflow the walls that stand to stop the spill from threatening the lane: walls of fieldstone, filthed, themselves walled with heaps of trash. Ben hauls over to the window facing, collapses against its blind: Uptown, the arching arctic crests and crowns, the dusted trails with the Reservoir rinked; low gusts winding frost along the floor of the Park, through tunnels, over bridges, then across its lawns, their bushes and shrubs snowed as if to cool and blameless monuments, freshly flush with light. Untrafficked, it’s this pure polarity by day, a golden pale suffused by latter dusk—with a strange and utterly clear crystal coddled deep and cold within.

Through the mist, this hulking ice preserve—a sudden spurt of metal, then the estrangingly sunsanded stones of Jerusalem: here, a towering assemblage of brute rock arrayed in courtyards, gated in blocks of ice never to melt, everlasting, or so it’s said. This, the once and future Temple, to be risen Solo-monaic in its particular design, Scriptural in its general layout, and updated to modernity in every other amenity known to mensch and God alike. At the foot of its stairs and their twin plinths makeshifted with fiberglass fronds, twin lions prowl starving, guarding only their own skeletons: they’re joined to the stairhead by links of ice in a chain of ice, frozen around their manes. From this ascent, an upward airing—spires to lance the sky, to thrust their wound and drag the heavens down: banks of clouds fallen, dispersed into the Temple’s wings to be nested on all sides in courtyards of their snow, circling ever more sacred, to be centered evermore holy, ringing around the steaming freeze of the altars and lavers. All here, within, however, is of this other substance, this openness divinely synthetic whether of glass or weather, this material that is both of them at once, and neither—in that the inmost walls of the Temple are not walls but screens or scrims of this wondrous transparency; a thoughtless clarity, though as solid as study, and as thick as its books; walls through which any supplicant—speeding to the site, His limo heading into the Park on the sole access road to park itself wide at the very foot of the edifice, unfinished—could gaze his or her prayer directly into the middle of the structure, through each circumambulating courtyard, tripping, slipping, past every barrier of the sacred and then, beyond; walls, though, through which only the one true supplicant, it’s been said, Ben, could find His way beyond all mist, the mystifying freeze, straight into its generative core, the coldest inner sanctum: a block or cube of this icy substance; some say hollow, others say not, but a block nonetheless—the barren womb of the Temple’s heart, the seed to this total husk. As Mada comes quickly official down the stairs to greet, a mass of surrounding workers in their blue reflectored hardhats and whiteblue parkas drop their picks and shovels and make to restrain the raving lions, which lunge weakly to take nips and nibbles, only to soon tire, quiet, and muzzle themselves with nuzzles of the limo’s tires smoking, sniffing, licking, then lying down against the heated hull asleep.

The Park—a world Hanna had freshly laundered, laid upon the table of Manhattan, a cloth usually reserved for festive use, for company, now here without guests for the glorification of its centerpiece, the Temple. A towering worship of Babeling chutzpah. Ben’s escorted up its steps, almost slips, regains the landing, a mustering for workers and supply, stands small before the freeze. A threat to melt with the rise of any morning’s sun: GrecoRoman pediments topped with gilded domes, minarets held up by columns their canopies heaped hectic with frozen fruit; styles melting into the style of styles, into a pure if meaningless grand, nonsensical, less complex than merely complicated, more interests, many inputs: hundreds of commentaries have been going into its construction, are still, and there are even more designs to come; melting into each other, into themselves, and away, in a pomposity of rubble, alternately modestly plain, and ostentatiously ornate: a construction out of every century, and of none at all, in appearance an albino or transparent roach grown gigantically ancient in the sky; a monster, then, or its fossil, set with unimaginable cubits of inaccessible chamber, gates that give out onto portals, which give out unto walls, its entire phenomenon overwhelming by committee, with apparently infinite seemingly only ornamental pediments and plinths suspending emptiness over trembling void, its buttresses not buttressing but bowing, not flying but falling to porticoes, which are being lined with a statuary that to remain permissible must retain facelessness, as if a gallery of the disappeared, the dispossessed, as if niches and arcades for the unformed and unknown; the structure entire and the hope its unfinished implies a mess of every style that’s ever occurred to money, every style ever evident, possible, and especially attractive, to wealth and associated intimations of posterity potential on the agendum of its legion backers and benefactors, its myriad donors and trustees, whose exalted names—those of revivified Palestein, the Abulafias, illustrious above the others—would have been carved in fiery gold upon the cornerstone, had anyone thought to lay one.

Ben’s escorted up, through the excessive doors, which have to be edged open by the harnessed tug of a unionized team who pause every exertion or so to mob Him and His massing twelve bodyguards unveiled, Ben’s rebuffing lookalikes accompanying, for autographs they won’t grant, and miracles He can’t. His breath comes short and private. Up a flare, as if a tongue on fire, a redcarpet leading into the outermost courtyard that feels as if it might melt under His stride—is already melting, squishing underneath with each step, a seepage; the entire space behind Him, in front, under and above, hewn of that outlandishly modified ice that seems as if it, too, must return to a form of water, of air, to nothingness, forgotten, only to pour out new histories to be decided upon the next hardening, the cycle coming—a world destroyed with its faithful then flowing only to solidify all over again, reformed. Ben’s led with His hands out in front of Him, to touch, to feel, to mold: Him to grope through openings forever made and unmade, perpetually unfixed, past walls hung with the fresh flayed skins of test sacrifices, flapping animal tatters, dampened imageless coverings and curtains in a knotted wash, a fraying whorl: through halls left unfinished in holy negligence, secreting the odd ornament or gingerwork, molding, swirls, whirls and flumes, flows and risen waves, Him flailing past candleboats, votivelike buoys, copper basins, casks and flasks and censers, then at the far reach of an inner courtyard, a tarp-shrouded, twinesecured package resting upon a wooden pallet—the Ark of the Covenant, on permanent loan from the Vatican, courtesy of the Pope, Pius Zeppelini. It feels as if this whole edifice around Him, behind Him, in front, above, below, is about to collapse with His progress, to drain away in His passage, swirling Him filthy as profane, profaning, toward the gutter and the sewers, to gurgle out to ocean. Dizzying. And inspiring of guilt that His presence might signal such disaster. A shofar blast, an avalanche. Three short toots followed by one long moot, a tekiah to sound destruction. Ben tries not to breathe, concentrating Himself on following the carpet. Through another momentary gateway, He’s entering the Innermost Courtyard: full of drift, a vastly unsullied spanse—expansively fictile, a world of snow and flake, of gusting dust, germing in white and clearer, to a bluish glassiness, suffusing…the weather here, as it appears this enclosure has its own, is not fall but the scrim of fall, its skin’s fall, this sheer air paling, and then again vivid, revelatory in changing skies, prismatic but always pellucid, like a piacular rainbow whose only color is light in every shade. Set against the furthest wall, another set of doors, also steel though these significantly smaller than those of His initial entrance, now requiring His stoop slid down a flight of stairs—there, under the ice, Der stands decorous, impeccably impatient, leaning against the arch leading to the Holiest of Holies.

Inside’s laidout like a synagogue, a frozen shul grand and heavened with a divinity of outside light, sun and moon; its arched entranceway a soar, then the stadiumed sanctuary tapering, fluming itself intimately, into a modest front: a raised platform topped with pulpitry twinned at opposite ends, facto-rynew still in their swaddles. Between the pulpits, there’s an iron bank vault with combination lock, coming covered with a veil of its own, the ark of the Ark, the hold of the Law. A ruck of work rattles this holiness; it’s whisperish, hurried—this quick, cool chatter of labor, indistinct, as if a weather holding words inside its womb; such air keeping of secrets, freezing them, stilling Ben’s own tongue, to lick silently at His veil. Der escorts Him down the stairs past tiers of pews presently halfinstalled, their auxiliary aisles filled with scrap, cedarwood planks and troughs of coruscant nails. Upon the walls of the shul, scribes aloft in slings from scaffolds and with picks and hammers are rapping into that forgiving substance the names of the Affiliated dead—those of New York’s greater metropolitan region—to eventually, annularly, wind their way around the space, from floor to limitless sky: a miraculous racket, in that it doesn’t bring the house to fall, and they’re only on the B’s…

A hunch rises from a middle pew, a rare woman, if old and dumpy—she’s a yenta, a matchmaker, don’t hold it against her.

There’s silence, as the offer’s His or Der’s—she’s been kept waiting for over an hour.

It’s about time. Who would say this, if not her?

How long were you going to make me wait? Or this?

Hanna, for one, if she hadn’t been dead, her weight leaned up against the ovenunit, the rangy stove with its four burners crisping curiosity atop while her son, her only son in older age if ever He’d make it He’s in for the weekend, just visiting, doubling up on a family reunion with an amorphous sort of business conference He won’t talk about, He shouldn’t, just sitting at a table in a kitchen in a house that once was His, no longer, at His size sitting around the table, sitting around the house with that laugh even younger than Him by now, grayaged and wrinkled, He’s worlded down, ground meat into a miser, miserable amid the dust, a loser and filthy still, morose and fatter than ever, dissatisfied with even His more rewarding dissatisfactions, His attainment to mediocrity, employment/maritalstatus; until, this sour older barren bitch as thin as a spine He’s too ashamed of her to bring her home who’d guilted Him into a commitment while it’s He who should be committed—into the minimum compatibility of a ring that’ll tarnish her finger upon the morning and a ceremony inviting at least the two of them, a rabbi and then her only friend whom He hates who hates Him worse; entirely unhappy, lifeless though unfortunately still alive, interested in nothing save what He’s forking away at, whatever Hanna’s served Him, leftovers foiled and heated then blown upon cooling, better than anything He could ever make, than even she the new she knows how to, neither can cook, He’ll never get past the microwave, the defrost stage, flashes of 12:00, the toaster and just add milk…

It’s about time, Hanna’s friends would have said that, too, echoes up from the voids crenate between the whitened teeth, a chorus of caloriecounters, carbohydratecharters, when she’d tell them the news, whether over the phone immediately after He’d told her, let it slip, coughed into conversation, confessed or else, if Hanna could contain herself a day or two, probably not, then at their weekly brunch and bookclub, their planningcommittee or schoolboard meeting—tonight at eight, don’t forget.

How long was He going to make us wait? Congratulations. Mazel. Mazl. Mzl.

No, I’m off apples for the time being, it’s the acids and plus they’re a sugar, and no more pumpernickel for me that’s a starch, trying to stay away from them, what were you saying: Edy Koenigsburg, whose own marriage was by her own admission less than Eden.

It’s about time. How old is He now? And she? Ask miscellaneous shop assistants, the secretary to the investment mamzer, even her travelagent, frizzily flushed, in pants of spandex overstretched.

How long was He going to make me wait? Which means, now I can die in peace. Says Hanna to Israel later that night. Israel who might disagree with his son’s choice, but are you crazy not in front of the wife.

Anyway, it’s moot—an opportunity will never arise.

About time, and marriages are all about time, and about flowers and gifts of jewelry, second mortgages for third homes, according to the neverwid-owed, nevermarried Misses Teitelbaum who’s said to know a thing or two about—among other things—enteitelment (who says? she does)…about time to shep, time to wish a Mazel Tov to His betrothed whomever she may be and to Ben, the ungroomed groom, the unkempt to be kept for perpetuity. Idea is to arrange Him a virgin, a pure Sarah, Rebecca, or Rachel, a Leah but without that veiled business under the canopy, not for her, and anyway it’s called a chuppah. To procure for Him a woman negligibly eligible, a girl ingathered as of late, a convert as recent as any converted; to arrange for Him a mate, for His soul or not, an intended, better be Beshert: a moll for the paparazzi, a face mouthing a name for the press, an escort for the just selected, custompatterned carpet soon to unfurl its purchase eighteen million inheritances per square foot and far beyond the bulbs and smoke, to fundraisers, to rededicated synagogues, here to the Temple Itself three floors up and growing higher by the prayer, the Donor’s Kaddish: the wiring’s to be installed tomorrow; the sconces (ner tamid) on order to illuminate eternal; the pulpits are having their plaques screwed on, one says Rabbi, the other, Cantor…an Eve in the kitchen and a Lilith everywhere else, is what, and whenever it’s needed, demanded, pleased or begged, no matter what Ben might want, who cares. Those becoming converted frown on His sort of dalliance, His perceived inability to obliterate options, desire, lust, send Eros all to hell and just settle—settle down, Ben; earthbound, without choice. His own handlers fan the flames. To be single is to be a scandal. A shame named Shanda after Wanda. Though the Marys will stay, they’ll assure Him, that a mensch needs His occasional leisure, a permanency at least outwardly proper’s required. Then to get her, the press never wants for speculation, the PR’ll be sure to imply, to get whichever her as long as it’s Her as pregnant as Him, soon expecting kinder, those halfbastard quarterbreeds, mutts, intermingled whatevers, some something to propagate the line. Furtherance, the ideal. And a line is a line is a line, though it be weak, adulterated—anything as far as the public’s concerned.

What’s my line? Not to be.

As for this matchmaker, on second look she’s even older but well made up enough, rouged, blushbeaten, mascaramassacred, and lipsmacked haphazardly so that her smile ends just below the hang of her ears, their earrings. A woman of lived years some with love others with less, lately though things not too bad, you know, holding up, nothing bothering save the same old varicosity, not much to complain about, ultimately, not with this recent fame of hers, if maybe she overdoes it a little you can’t hold it against her what with her health and life—her secondcareer celebrity; her premature renown on the renewed West Side of Manhattan, that narrow stretch of upperpark Broadway bordered by liverspotted delis set to reopen, savorystores just under new management, only waiting for their certifications to come through, soon invigorated synagogues about to embark themselves on energetic membership drives and dynamic accounts of outreach initiative; neighborhood, also, of monumental apartments to be rented again above Riverside Drive, columned Classic Sixes furnished with a piano in every fireplace set in walls of more books than could be bound by any tongue; hers a reputation as a shadchaness, a shidducher such as you wouldn’t believe, with references glowing like a superficial venereal disease, a great yenta preceding her, though the impression’s to be honest a bissel mitigated as she goes to pick at any nostril, fivefingered without embarrassment, flicks her snot to the floor while with her other hand extracts six photographs from a shoe under her sock, damp, and slightly mal-odorous, then holds them out of sight atop her swollen knee, a bruised if not chipped patella she don’t whine, thumbs the faces away, as if hoping to rub off the undesirable, you never know, whatever kills a deal: a lazy eye, a limp, a limp hand, she shakes while she limps, a pimpled forehead or cheek lipped with such kiss of death, a chin doubling triple, even flaws invisible, the unexamined, too: money troubles, pending audits, alcoholic uncles, the suspicion of incest, ongoing arson investigations, mild schizophrenia though thought recessive on the mother’s side, these days who can tell, who wants to. Her, prior to her present occupation she’d done the life of the wife herself, having been married for golden years and a night deep enough into the fiftyfirst that she’d rather forget to a developer magnate, an obese slumlord in later years an amateur Luna Park memorabilist and professional stripmaller, who’d owned seven of them statewide long and tall across the suckedin gut of the umpteenth borough, Joysey, who’d died abed with his mistress who she was also his secretary half his age, half her size—if this space hadn’t been so sanctuaried, the Holy of Holiest ground if untenanted as yet, pardon our appearances this inpreparation, she’d hock on its floor, a guttural of phlegm for the undedicated pews. Forgive her the maybe exaggerated gesticulations, forget the tics and bats of eyes a whole teeming winking blinking nation of them she’s just getting used to, trying them out—accessories much like the necklace, stranded fingerthick with pearls like black caviar, the earrings, heavy as her tush and amber as if preservative of an ancient seed, and the glasses, mosquitolidded shockwhiteframing plastic, to match her newfangled Affiliation.

I’ve always loved Them, she says with that tendency to spit.

She glances at Ben, so bashful.

After what happened, I got depressed, I got lonely, couldn’t sleep, that and the business with Bob (that’s the husband), after he died, I moved into a more manageable place…I began studying up on Them, bought a few books, took a class. It all seemed so exotic, They seemed so—happy, you know…and so—she makes with her hands a silent ta-da—this present occupation, the dedication of her retiring years to perpetuating that happiness in an assumed incarnation, a usurped personality; she to her friends a whole new person, always tending to the Other Half, door-to-door making matches, by appointment only matching makers, with machers—and all of it money always aside maybe to compensate, as if to overatone, but for what, spite your curiosity, bite tongue.

And I’d love to be able to help you, she says then settles back in her pew, you especially.

Young and in love, is there anything more…nu, maybe not love just yet, but these days, you can understand. It takes time and wooing effort.

She quiets, lifts the glasses around her neck to her face, glasses without glass, so just those insectual frames she squints through—into the sanctuary, in its incompleteness less sacralizing than unsettling, a making awkward; her less awed by the filigree gilded overhead, by the imposing bulkhead of the, how do they call it…bima, that’s it with its pulpits plaqued and the ark’s vault installed deep between, behind the door of which the scrolls of the Law are said to be stored, rolled around their tablets, then crowned with a mappa, the wing of a wimple, than it’s her unwillingness to begin with their bargaining, to initialize an offer, though she knows she’s expected to, and yet further that she’s also expected to stall, to postpone and grossly mislead; that’s why, she has to suspect, they’re meeting here, privacy aside: how can you profane the House of God with such a risky business?

Aren’t we paying you by the hour? Der asks, and she sighs and with fingers plumped with smoker’s bruise though veined in delicate bone lays the virginal photo on the seat of her pew, facing down, pretends to refresh herself with the information obtainable on the reverse, then flips and keeping her thumb over the face turns with two breasts so imposing they’re cleaved into one to the lip of the pew behind her to hand the photo over.

Who’s she? Der asks.

The One, says the matchmaker.

Why her?

For you, only the finest…she retracts her thumb slowly, leaving a print swirled in shvitz over the blondish blue of the prospect.

Her name?

Now she goes by Frumie, wiping her hands of it on her skirts.

But listen: she’s bright, and beautiful, like you wouldn’t believe—altogether a fabulous young woman, an excellent match…you couldn’t do better even if I’d had a daughter—even if He’d be marrying me.

Which is an option—I look better in my photos than what you see in person.

I was asking her name, and Der tattoos the pew with a hand gloved in pigskin.

Did I mention beautiful and bright…a great catch, if you’ll excuse me—she happens to be the daughter of your monger, Fischelson the Fish King; I don’t need to tell you he’s offering generous.

A pity we’re not offering him.

Though I’d like to hear from the future groom, at least see Him…and she turns to face Ben seated alongside Der; it’s praiseworthy, how committed she is to even the inconvenience of her pose; her straining across a shoulder, she’s rubbernecking to ask, what are you looking for, Mister Israelien, who and why? what qualities are important? tell me about your mother…

Down the center aisle, a team of workers barrow in the Menorah, set it up on the pulpit right, are fored over a little to the left, that’s right and leave it lie with one of them remaining, who takes from a pocket of his parka a rag and tin and begins in with the polish. Casks of oil are being rolled step-by-step, for its illumination. The woman snorts all the waged patience in the world, begs a sigh out of herself it sounds bad like a cancer of convenience, frowns, then flips again through the stack arthritic or only stiffly. Fine, she’s saying, not Fein, no, flips, forward, back, and nextward, and this while bending and otherwise creasing her shots in a system so private as to be inscrutable maybe even to herself, then cuts, shuffles, finally deals; peeling the first from the top of the stack, then slapping it down over her shoulder, not bothering to turn around. Hymn, so how about Hanna? she asks, your mother’s name…a match already made, if not in heaven then at least in Joysey, she’s upstate, firstrate, no kidding—Hanna now Geffen-Weinstein née Heather Vinelli.

Father’s a senator, as you know, recently aligned himself with the faith—for the votes I’m sure you’d say and you might be right, but still, who wouldn’t.

Her grandfather’s the wine magnate, owns and operates Seedlessence, Inc., exclusive importer of table grapes from Palestein.

The wife’s father’s the big baker, I only pinch his loaves—the lightest around, but crusty enough on the outside…they’re just perfect together, you know?

Der waits until she’s finished to finish himself with this shaking his head, begins again the tap with his fingers.

She reaches exasperated into folds of her garments, onion layers disclosing babushka couture, the flap of her burlap camisole unearthing all manner of lapse and widowed slob: halfzware tobacco, dust of paprika, peppermint, a flask of mashke and the lintily mothballed else, exertions exposing, too, the handle of her dead husband’s revolver, its trigger webbed in reassuring spiderwork; it’s usually kept under the pillow, only brought along on risky consultation—her cleaving a cleft deep into her mammary now, to rise the boozy yeast of those two breasts from one, to produce in fits of fingers and rings of sparkling fauxgold this rolled, tattered photograph she attempts to smooth flat with palm and wrist on the reverse of the facing pew.

Pass it along, Der’s almost had it. Ben sits trying to peek under His veil, over the pew and her at the shot she has, bowed by her nails manicured in rainbows. Let’s see it, Der demands again and she says, her, let’s see Her…and she hands the photo over facedown to him greedy, grousing, who holds her image bent near his eyes, then squints to crease his forehead.

Is this who I think it is?

If not, then her mother’s got some explaining.

How recently did they embrace it All? Don’t tell me they’ve gone ger! I was down to meet with him last week and…long enough ago, it’s her turn to interrupt, for it not to cast aspersions—it’s only been a day or two but kosher, real legit. He had his own people officiating. I spoke with him just this morning, he’s keeping it quiet for now, asks that you respect his wishes, knows you will…she dangles her empty frames from a ringfinger, touches her tongue to a wart on her nose understood to be her nose until her sniffly tonguing of it explains the flesh behind it, massed in its support.

Der’s expression as if to say, you were holding out.

What can I say? she asks and says, complain me no complaint, bitch me no bitch, I just wanted to make you shvitz…. what’s that they say, kvetch, whine your misered heart out.

Plus, a boy like yours needs options. Do we have a deal or no? She grabs up the photograph from his hands, flips it over to the reverse’s scrawl, smudged dark in stricken zeroes.

I’m the one laying down the dowry here, is that it? Der nods disappointment. This the price, then? resignation, and he forces a whistle that ends in a kiss, his moustache smeary, pinching.

Insistent, she nods her wig shifty atop the snowdandruffed, icehump of her head to hang over her one good ear as if she doesn’t hear a thing. And not a shekel more or less, she says then shifts her weight, with her feet asleep; finally, gives up humoring the pretense to obeisance, spits a wad to the floor, worriedover mucus.

Our schmuck sure has a pair on him, I’ll tell you, two pairs, but tell me this—why didn’t he come direct? We work together. We talk. I know his wife by name. We have what you’d call a relationship.

You know, she says, I have the impression this used to be easy.

And then saying to Him, at least your future inlaw respects his tradition.

Tradition schma—and Der gathers his uniform pants as he rises from the pew, stands over her with his epaulets raising his shoulders above his head as if altars converted to highflown burden; he’s hunched and raging with his medals clinking as if his station’s brassy tongues; they’re shrieking, he is, flapping out the threats: incarceration, outerborough deportation, worse, assaulting even with his hands her ears and their jewelry, low at the lobes, drooping to the knees…ridiculous, this is extortion, pure and simple, you know it, I know it and, as you say, nu—the President knows it; he thinks this’ll help him at the polls, is that it, but do I have news for him: there are no more polls. I mean kaput. No longer exist. Not soon. Schmuck wants his way with posterity, goes about it like he’s doing me the favor…she’s impassive, as if unimpressed at his fume, takes from a pocket of her skinned she lived with fifty always sick and dying cats housecoat an appointment diary, and tries to go through it inconspicuously, holding it upsidedown between the pleats of her skirts. Still, he’s quieting amid the reverberations of his voice, their repercussions, her flipping—distancing, harmful to the greater cause, what he’d wanted originally come knocking too early to wake him from the surety of his slumbering plans, entombed for private worship in this, his icebound Temple—if that’s how he wants to deal…

Rising to full height herself, all of her five nothing, putting the Tit in Petite as if to remind that though laughably small as if prepackaged for parody she’s also endowed, still indescribably intimidating, a woman of valor, as goes the translation, of valorous proportions, too, and experience (and this despite having had no kinder of her own)…it’s time, she says bookmarking with a cigarette, replacing the diary, I get my onceover. And so Der orders Ben to stand, too, in the pew too narrow, barely accommodating His girth and perhaps the earliest tingle of a tumescent shed. That and with the height, the stadium’s pitch and the air of its arc He feels but can’t glimpse veiled, He’s dizzied. Der straightens that out as he uncrooks all, pulling the slacks’ bunch up and over Ben’s waist almost to His pits, then tucking in His shirt to tail around it feels at toes, a happy wag.

Pardoning around the site’s sparescaffold lumber, steel, meshnets, and paintcans to waddle into their pew, the yenta comes close and feels Him, at His hardening, tugs and twists, she slaps tush, prods gut, handles the excesses of flesh that we call love, squats then rests at her knees padded by the hang of her breasts like two hotwaterbottles with protrusive nipple nozzles, and on the floor makes to examine the generous spread of His pelvis, takes with the calipers of her many thicklywrapped necklaces the circumferences of His lowerlegs and thighs, knocks with a fist at His kneestrength, their spring, that of His youth as she slightly rises without having had the pleasure of the toes, their nails, to scrutinize His hands, His fingers and their nails, sniffing at Him, even unfurling a length of desiccated, keeping her regular prunelike tongue, though instead of licking a wrinkle she says to Der: I want the face, too, the teeth, examine the gums maybe, healthy or not—then to Him…bear with me, Ben, I have to know you’re you.

Impossible, and Der’s unshakable on this, respect it, please, the limits set, the access—it’s nothing personal, know that: it’s for your own protection, ours…I’m sure you understand, what with your confidentials claused: can’t gaze upon the countenance and still expect to live is what we’re going with, our line.

That’s what you’re selling, but that I won’t buy…no way I can, it’s part of the deal—you know, I’m not that foolish…and I’m not that old, still attractive (she’s arranging her poor, demidyed wig in the reflection of the face of her watch, her husband’s dead, the watch, too), at least gentle, and very seasoned, savvy: I have testimonials, I’ve only ever gotten good reviews…maybe even leaving Him alone with me, for the night, no extra fee, just one night, that’s all I ask. Charity. Tell you what, you can deduct it from what I’m owed. Name His price. Soak me on the rates—I’m wet already. Then to Him, in a gassy guttered whisper, with unwashed maxillary denture, you’re interested, aren’t you, Ben…how can you not, tzedakah?

Enough, says Der with a sneer that gives much wingspan to his errant stache, breaking down, initially, this crumble, though its sharding only the sign of a sour impulse to escape…I want you to listen: we’ve got a pending deal to clone one of Them, to make ourselves a female, 100% straight bloodline, how we want her, what we want her, when, and this you can tell the President since you two, you’re such close friends. Now that’s an expensive proposition, you’d say, and risky, and you’d be right, not to mention unsound—(an echo, Shade would agree: forbidden according to law both secular, and the newest sacred)—though it’s an option, keep that in mind in its long and tall, don’t sell us short, genug. He should remember that we’re the only ones with the resources to do it, the money and the skill. Don’t underestimate how determined we are to protect our investment, His and ours, I mean—Him, He’s in agreement. Aren’t you, Ben. Say yes. There, you have it from the mouth. We’re invested too heavily is what, He is, what with the hanging sacs, the shed—don’t think we haven’t thought. Explored. Experimented. We’ve parsed and planned and dreamed. Der thrusts out a gloved numbed hand like put it there, so long…so drop this, won’t you, no hysterics, don’t even try; as if to say, I know all the ruse and female. Do we have a deal or am I milking samples?

You’d never. No one would. They’d be unkosher, inbred.

As if they always weren’t.

Don’t give me that mishegas…giving a sigh perfumed with the odious must of routine, coughed by a wink that rouses her, pumps blood back to feet; her stepping out of the aisle as if to make room, to usher in the close—even though I’ll take it, that’s what you pay me for…and you will pay me today, now, and their money in a week, cash, I get ten percent commission. But just so you know, her family won’t take it; and neither will she, who would: if He’s to be a husband, He has to be a husband, not a Company, a Corporate what have you malfeasance snooze or fake…not the Messiah and no, not a God. No cloning, and no veils, Ben—that thing has to come off sooner or later; I’ll tell you what, we’ll put that in the contract.

Agreed, and Der heads after her up the steps as if to make to shake her down, and maybe her price along with her, how in shaking everything’s negotiable—grubs up her hands into a hug unintended, she presumes, she has to, now keeping near, coming on with shimmy…she suddenly holds him tightly, to nuzzle, as he with elbows and shoulders makes to pry her off with hands engloved shoves her away, back down into the topmost pew. Wonderful, he says straightening himself, patting himself down to find if he’s lost anything, a pocket’s medal or ribbon picked. If you kiss for business you should later count your teeth. Your bridge and crowns. That and his moustache should deter, and hers, peroxide fuzz. Now, if you please, I’ll direct you to deal with my associate, Doctor Abuya—you two have much to discuss, lives to plan…a wedding, too, she says, as she rises and turns to walk through that first pew’s row to the last remnant of the slippery aisle and up it, shuffling—lucky for you my brother’s a caterer, he’ll deal…sidestepping pallets, planks, and moundings of plastic trashed out to the archway and its escort waiting of Abuya, Gelt, Hamm, and Mada, who too gingerly geriatrically arm her out through the courtyards back to the entrance and its lionized stairs, as she harangues them with inquiries, shtepping about their own questionable statuses with regard to love, kinder, how much they make and yadda.

It’s been decided, then: His decisions are theirs, are ours, His life all our lives to do with what we will—whatever we want Him to be, He is, we’re saying: we prick Him, He’s a prick; we bleed Him and He’s bled; we want Him hitched, and abra my aleph a star appears—out of nowhere. To become betrothed, Ben’s affianced, quite possibly refinanced into the bargain, reassured, reinsured, underwritten. A beautiful bride, the matchmaker’s saying while picking through her linner later that evening, off the clocking into a dunch with Doctor Abuya whose price plus tip will be deducted from her commission, in a manner professionally famished at the hottest Midtown couscouserie whose best silver’s been hidden in anticipation of her arrival: a Queen, she’d said, you should be so lucky, and a pianist, too, concert quality or was it the clarinet, and modest, how she’s so modest she no longer thinks her modesty’s a virtue, that and have I mentioned, how she knows from epic poetry and how to select the best cuts of meat and freshest produce, that that will be ripe tomorrow, whenever you want her breads baked presliced, crusts cut and drooly, O the head on her, looks she got and grace, musing graces, a real manner, with not a flaw on her or in her, until Him, maybe, that putz…the best I’ve had to deal with, ever—and I don’t have to tell you about her family.

You have to understand, the Nachmachen’s saying dark later from under the shadow of a modeled hood, the latest sent sample of the Temple’s onorder ecclesiastical robes, these for nominal Levites: talking to the Doctors Tweiss, asking them to get the idea, to delve with him and explore the depths, knowing they won’t but God in Heaven do they ever follow orders (it’s like those scissor-dashes on the flesh they cut by, the particular focus of the eyes, up or down, by which their pads and pens prescribe: happy, or sad, here or there, ready or not, now/then), I want you to make sure He never reproduces, that He’s unaware. And so, another a deceit, like ever, there’s nothing new under that slight of sun, the moon: changing, undressing to underwear, bare pale and sickly skinny in sockless feet and flagpole legs, the Nachmachen standing discourse in the doorway of one of their offices presently slipping into the priests’ holiday vestments to be custom chalked for the tailoring (the tailor, he’s already an hour late; his apologies, though, they’ll leave everyone in stitches), it’s just not a legacy we want to leave, he says…the priestly breatsplate thumped and clanking, urim and thumming, the oracle’s settings left unjeweled as if to keep down the overhead in humble; this interest’s not about posterity, about what we want to leave behind: all returns are in the present, the here and now, today…who knows how long this’ll last, how long we want it to last, you know. The Last One, the right real God’s honest Last One is what makes money, so we’ve heard, we’ve seen—people want what people want. If they know another One’s in the works, then is He still that special, I don’t think so (no one else will either). Doctor Abuya’s collapsed on the analysand’s couch, exhausted from his meeting, its negotiations, subsequent argumentation over an appropriate tip. Nurse de Presser enters with an accentuated bust that’s only a tray of mugs, but then never brings the tea or coffee. Plus, the Nachmachen asks himself or them or who, questions, questions, questions—what’re the ramifications of descendants? How long are we really going to be around? We’re not in this racket forever, especially not with all these recent Affiliations going on. Conversion, it’ll be the death of us. No, we make what we make, then we get out. No need to speculate on kin, they’re just more problems…and of problems they already have enough.

You want we should tie the tubes? the psychoanalyst Tweiss is dying to know.

Knot Him up before He knocks her up? adds Tweiss the mad plastician.

Wouldn’t want any mongrels or mutts running around, stray halfholies, those partichosen bastards…the Nachmachen removing the High Priest’s shading miknefet to bare his bald, gauntgraved face—the line would be muddled along with the Image, he says, the blood and the buck stop here, are we understood? Or, if not, like will you go ahead and blur the balking points, dust away the processes particular, the impetus impotent, and just do your job, what you’re paid and more than you’re worth to get us done: anesthetize, sanitize, sharpen what needs sharpening then slice right in. Make us the Messiah we so terribly deserve: a machermensch, an exilarch—a king who can issue no prince, a God That can manifest no son.

It takes a full lunation to recover from the procedure, from the subsequent infection, then from the infection of the infection, unto health again—which is, at heart diseased and failing, only the ideal of health, its hope and so consoling until the advent of what calamity dawns next—the wound yawning the distance between Ben and His body, its perfection, its willingness to go on; His mind or a mere tremulous semblance of recouped from the croup of medications, side effectual shvitzes and aches and languorous lolls, the lifting of the masked and measured fog, the recuperation of regret after this period of an occupation less fruitful, a surgical measure of selfpity recurring more virulently than ever through a moon of stay, inhome. For recovery, He’s housed in a northeasterly turret of the Great Hall, a towering growth from which you’d rescue a princess, clambering up the cascade of her hair, the platinum ash hung down as a shade from the sills of the windows of the height’s lone room, set with four small Oriental slits allowing incomparable views when the shutters aren’t on; a stay fully insured, it’s assured, Garden’s coverage complete to put His mind at what’ll have to pass with doping drug for ease, and then—once returned to the flush of youth, and it won’t be soon enough, once the ramifications of this operation have been explained, contextualized, psychologically massaged away as vital component of His therapy, then apologized for with sympathy and toys—license is His to shtup with impunity, they’ve promised, without much reservation: something to look forward to, they’ll tell Him something like that, another mutilation, sell Him a new life, just wait, sold, you’ll love what we’ve gone and done—the slice, the peel, the cut and its cauterization, the sutures, then the swelling, the numb dissipating from His waist on down, the extremity’s tingle, His feet, His toes, needling life in resistance to such ascetic anesthetic.

Though as for that heedlessly promissory promiscuity, that happiness is still weeks off, a moon away. An entire lunation spent in rolling moaning wake and dream and sleep, selenitically wasteful in flattened fit atop this luxurious bed commandeered from Long Island’s Hospital Under the Sign of Everything, last belief ’s Health Care Facility of the Year, lyingin state of the art this unit wired for comfort, programmed for calm, a multiadjustable slab, a posteurpedic grave. Demonically idle with the hands not allowed to stray below the navel’s hairy scar…Ben thinking just thinking like, what’s it all worth: with the branch bowed, its line ending with Him, familytree hacked to trunk; when He’ll rise weak in the knees and needs His testes hanging between His stumps like seedless fruit—He opens the shutters west and gazes out the window at the appletrees barren, chopped and stacked, the hollow knot, the cicatrix, barkveined cores, their wither a wrinkle past a sill…Stammbaum reduced to Stammsprout, hacked, hatcheted, axed, downsized to kneehigh and nothing after, uprooted, never to grow again; no, despite the dreaming, despite the time to dream, the opportunity to forget the day as night sleeps through the day only to reveal, if inspired by luck, an inner light, an intuit, a glimmer—He isn’t able to work up any image of a kid; any apparition of any offspring’s of Him, as His own immutable self, pure ego, an infantility incarnated as walking and talking already, fully formed as He was, is Him this taking after Him, showing Him the sand ropes, demonsrative, immersive; initiating Him the Other Him in the most deeply shushed rituals of Sloth, the most lazily hermetic initiatives of Waste, imparting the secret formulæ, the incantations and hidden practice: that Schlemielundshlimazelkeit (Ben’s Ben as an updated Faust, younger, impressionable, irreparably Semitic, handling poorly, making a fool’s trade: Himself for another, an even schlumpier heir of Schelumiel son of Simeon, Numbers II, loser of wars, mensch of schlimm Mazel), that whole brand of pathos, that copywrit inheritance of guilt—managerial, patriarchal, Godlike; after all, what else’s a father for…how would I know?

O Israel, where art thou, hast thou forsaken me and why, what was your price, verily might we splitteth the difference? Was I to become you, if only to becalm you—your soul? Israel, he told me stories at night then sang to me, he would have danced at my wedding, offered a toast, napkined my bride, lipstick from her cheeks, the cake topped with the marzipan coupled, how I loved him, so very much…just answer the question—I loved him. Then why do I still have such guilt? A statement’s given—only to be itself deposed, disposed of; everything we have forsaken has been preliminarily notarized, its memory duly filed. It’s not Israel here, though, not now, not anymore: nu, it’s another lawyer, a mockey just begging to be disbarred for the work he’s doing, about to do and the way he’s billing them for it, a clock’s hand futzed up the tush; it’s a Goldenberg who’s survived, a most senior partner of Israel’s, maybe, who must’ve just been passing for him to still be breathing, walking, talking dictation, briefing and billing, charging to the fullest extent of whichever law might govern both personal comfort and his mortgage. Most of our sages agree…hymn, thanks so much, he’s just thoughtful enough to drop in on Ben, pay a visit paid; I was just in the neigh or no, it’s that there’re still a few matters to deal with, he says with face blurred bright from out of his opened mouth, a goldtoothed aureole, issues outstanding, you understand, little things for Him to sign, a handful…O nothing too important, certainly bubkissoff, nothing much to get worked up about or over, remain calm I’ll collect, it’s just standard stuff, these disclaimers of disclaimer, waiver forms in duplicate, powers of don’t want to hassle you with the details, the small mint unread he’s making uninitialed…Article 136, for example, the riders, the fine party of the first print, the penultimate clause, sanity, with fire and water he sticks it to me, acts of Gee-O-Dee, better not to think, best about it or anything at all, shouldn’t really in your condition, doctors’ orders, no double buts or jeopardize your second chances; like put your faith in ad hock, and just sign here here and here, an X and it’s terminal, the black blip, a flatline dotted: a sheaf of soggy papers rained out of a puffy scuffed pleather valise otherwise empty, save for an apple, halfeaten allrotten. Goldenberg’s borrowed a pen from a guard, he’ll forget to give it back.

Once he’s guided his client’s hand over those lines flatly dotted and straight, crooked and contiguous and both, made limp passes at blanks and bubbles and fields, this Goldenberg takes a seat, makes himself comfortable as if to prove his concern: a heavy groaning settle of unpressed pants and rumpled sportsjacket, in for the long haul on crows’ feet winged with balding elbowpads, his wet fedora hunched down low over his eyes, a black borsalino its brim just a nervous tic too bent, its bow of headband torn to flap in the smudge of gust through the windows; all as if to say however long it takes, I’m here for you, Ben, hineni, chaver, another allnighter, a week, a month; how you’re not just the client, Mister—you’re the boss in charge; he falls asleep, is soon snoring fungus off the walls, the mold and mottled hoar, is woken up only upon termination of visiting hours, never official save that beyond their interruption he begins to make time and a half.

Goldenberg snorts, goes to straighten his tie, then remembers he isn’t wearing one, that his collar’s soiled with the blood of yesterday’s shave. A sleep and its assuring visit interrupted by the disturbance of Ben’s nurse, the livein Mary arrived, costumed in crisp clean whites like a sanitary skin, her stockings in candy stripes an alarming red, with a stethoscope nestled snakelike between the fruit of her breasts juiced forbiddingly within a thin peel of laundry’s starch—though He never catches on, won’t, refuses to, why should He, even when she brings Him a smoky bowl of soup ostensibly medicinal (pale chicken, with halved matzahballs not sinking but bobbing), which tastes to His tongue numbed with narc exactly like Hanna’s, though He’d only had that once, too hot. She’d realized the recipe, thanks, about time, how…His mother His nurse, then—after Goldenberg’s slap to her bended knee, prayered to diaper Him at bedside—to leave with him, His lawyer, arm-in-arm the two of them kissing up to each other, abandoning Him to His soup without bread, not even a slice, without even the crust called an endearment left behind to mark; the sun sets, the clock clocks.

Finally, it’s the morning of the first day of the month known as Iyar, which in Babylonian says blossom and means bloom, don’t ask—used to be May, once named for the Greek goddess Maia, the eldest daughter of the seven Pleiades, protectoress of few remember now and no one cares, believes: a season and its star without worship, made subordinate to a maiden moon. Enough to know that today, feeling strong enough, Ben rises, and stands skyward, throws from His face His veil, throws open the shutters to the windows, too, four of them, one to each direction of the earth. He’s shaky, aching; He feels like Adam, mud-wrought and missing rib. To overlook His newest inheritance, God’s contract become flesh and geographic wild, notarized by Goldenberg or by dream…the cold bay with its skaters, lutzbundled into layers of fur and down, with their flippant taps and twirls, slicing into the ice passages of the Law amid intricate glosses, tripleaxles of responsa ending with a flourish in wondrously interpretive figureseight; cutahole fishers perched atop soapboxes, their wives baiting their hooks, kinder baiting their mothers with fishy words and leers and augers; the remains of swans halffrozen, stilled in a momentary flee; a motorcade of sleighs their runners greased with the fat of premium lambs; frozen hard scows and skiffs upended into igloos, beached upon the driftless ice amid barges stuck to hump the freeze as mountains, abandoned tows peaking high and white over tugs as hills overgrown in frost; a glimpse from the other window of industrial Joysey in rigs and joints and scaffold struts, its warehouses propbridged, their elevators imprisoned by the skeletal char of fireescapes, unhinged; fallen powerlines strangling cranes collapsed atop the light rail spurs, across the transit tracks, the Northeast Corridor and the Gladstone Branch, their signs unlooted symbolic of only rust, and the hissing wind, prophetically monaural: this is a local train, this is not the Long Branch train, forget Hackettstown damn it we’re bound for Trenton…past lots of lost freight, graveyards of boxcar giving way to a forest’s wisps, the far scrub pine; and then, another window, the madness that Manhattans the skyline: the assjawbone’s teethview, the keyedge view, the serrated knifehorizon, hugely brute and crude, and then—occulted within its midst, jutting up from between the rises of scrapers left abandoned, to reap a whirlwind tenanted only by the sky, with their lights off, their sleek sides wounded with panes shattered or just missing…there’s a glint of dome as if a head risen from the depths, unbowed, unbroken, vaulting as gold as a sun is said to be gold, as silver as the moon can be said to be silver, and iced in fulgent light—the highest hunch of the Temple topped with its rude spire, finished with a star left unfinished with three points only to shine themselves above the Park and the island that spills from its winter.

The House of His Father just north of Israel’s old office stooped in its shadow, along with His house, too, in its mirroring—and Ben, He’s enraptured: by it, and by Himself…His first unveiled glimpse of the dwelling within which He’s been fathered to history and now, to air; leaning out over the sill to the Temple’s great reflecting eye, to behold Himself captured in that dome’s lone sloping facet that is the dome, its reflection of an unguarded face…a moment of silence passing for peace, only of Him made relation to the city beyond, married, mated, Him as Himself the city beyond, and then—the door’s knocked into a flood, watery light like gauze, a rippling welter. A front of journalists with cold cameras porting tripods, pens and pads, microphones and lights, fresnels and pars: they’re here for their publicity shots the less posed the more they’ll appeal to the growing ranks of the righteous, it’s supposed; here, too, for His comments, for any, the hurried documentation of a life lived on the record—then, for analysis and observation, scrutinized on slow; Ben an idol stood upon the Record Itself, or if not on it then altared by it, changed from burn to smoke to air; here for their quotes, their content and bracketfiller; for their whiplashed quips, their bytes off more than an earth would swallow down to molten chew. As if punishment for public living even the famous are given graves, and often those they dig themselves with the sharpness of their tongues. As shallow as the rest.

Sit still, they say in one mouth, within one mouth, massed amid its dim…that’s it, hold it, oneeyed—right there, you blinked, you’re beautiful, you’re perfect.

Maybe He should hold some lilies? Or contemplate some busts? Say AlleGory! emPHAsis on the last sylLAble!

Q. do you really think you’re ready for marriage? don’t slouch—do dodge, evade, and lie: a little to the left, to the right, your other right, I mean, that’s right, now suck it up and in, say Dairy!

What do you think of the policies of your future father-inlaw, the President; with your impending marriage to his daughter, do you think you’ll assume a greater role in the decisions of this Administration? Ben, how much involved, how little—depends on what they say; any names, what about the kinder…over here, over there, chins up, chins down, just be yourself, kid, hold it, that’s it, good—and don’t forget to smile!

And so Introit the fuss, the sinuous us! snaredrum rolllllllllll out the rolodex, flog the flak, riff and stretch, sell your soul for a bowl of lentil’s suppering sung, brassbumbudumbudum…krank up the PR machine, will you, and take a propagander at this: ladies and gentilemen, boychicks and goyls, seniors, and the disabled putupon, unborn kinder of all ages, it’s just about that time again, that’s right, so step right up and claim your place in line, in time, your plotzing platz, no spots will be saved, no reservations will be accepted—aliyah yourselves up off those pews and get your tickets early, Operators are standing by. Or they’re sitting, nevermind.

Why, it’s the wet ’n’ wild millenniawide revival of the Wandering Tour, the Eternal Return Tour eternally wandering return to a town near you, close by, your local dorf or major shtetl, picklebarreling through fifty states’ worth of this here contiguous nowhere, pulling legs for a mere ten handfuls of, nu, maybe not so exclusive engagements, onenight standing room to run only: a packed Radio City Musik Hall, two soldout shows at the Spelt Palace, a near riot at the Fillmore, a melee at the Fill Less, oddstastemachers prophesizing serious profits, prime revenue from merchandising tieins, licensing, subsidiary rights, and subsubsidiary yadda, deals bubbling like the gassiest of concessions, available for purchase in the lobby.

O to be on the road…once He gets through rehearsal, that is, if He gets through it—not until the trainer’s totally satisfied He’s making the effort, meeting Him halfway to trusting. As of now—so rumors Page Six and all those other pages, those before it and those after—Ben’s too afraid of the lions, management’s said to be renegotiating the Ring of Fire; insurance adjusters haven’t yet evaluated the locusts; fine the promoters, have them trot their damn riders out to the territory to graze them down to glue, staples, bound at a papering’s clip: one (1) room for Mr. Israelien. This room should comfortably hold twelve (12) people. It should contain the following: two (2) lined trash containers, and room and tables for drinks/catering. This room must also have a clean bathroom and shower facilities with hot and cold running water. Must have four (4) 120 volt AC electrical outlets, if possible (Artist Hospitality Room must be kept kosher at all times—NO OUTSIDE FOOD ALLOWED!); a tour opening upon the anniversary of the giving of the Law, Shavuot’s the name hereafter trademarked, not to be shortened or abbreviated, always spelled and capitalized accordingly and appended with the appropriate copywritten mark (any questions, please refer to our Permissions & Trademark Guidelines for Third Party License, Usage, & Reference): Shavuot™ or Shavuot® we’re still not sure, our lawyers are going over it, a holiday to be observed in session atop the everdistant mountain, its binding contract so long and involved it’s been secretaried onto two tablets, to be signed over in fire, eventually, heldover to when—and scheduled to end upon the eve of the Day of Atonement, with what’s being billed, mannadewly newsed as a Gala Spectacular, morning edition rolled and tossed, rubberbanded at the stoop of the Midtown Temple, which by then, pray, should be up and slaughtering.

In preparation, with per diem schlock slung over one shoulder (the change of costume, the false beard, the spare pair of propprescriptive glasses), Ben’s slungshot around the city, necessary to keep His steps ahead of any pursuit, whether terrestrial or Other: the paparazzi imported from overseas and kept salaried by whom, the Pope, President Shade, Der himself, each of them credentialflashed, carded paranoiac without the knowledge of the others…the hebraized hebephrenia of being followed, too, by assigned hangerson, wholigans, boosters and Bens, Bennies or Bennys, whatever they’re called in whatever rag you’ve been wiping with of late at early toilet, midnight snack, decoys, nearlookalikes (because who could be that huge, normally’s, the suspect), always lumbering near, tripping Him up, stepping on His toes. If He’s a False Messiah, then they’re false False Messiahs, saviors twiceremoved, Redeemers-inlaw shadowing Him from event to affair, from symposium to party, from fundraised to lower underground—in the tunnels of the abandoned subway and there in their own private cars, boroughing irresistibly, until an emergence upon the dawning platform of the El: following Ben shikerred on bronfn, minibar mashke, puffing bummed cigarettes they’re slurry; themselves tailed frayed and splayed in a hot seething animal mass by an assorted host of actresses, latest models and miscellaneous It-maydels, behind whom shade yet another thirtysix, these not standins, nor stunted doubles, but His bodyguards, protection—making their ways down the street of heldover, hungover, morning oneway, at the Downtownmost and further deadend of whichever there’s, finally, shush, inexorable shtum: schlafing it off in whichever luxury hotelroom shining huge under the recommendation of five stars, in whatever glittery metropolis these afternoons early of sleep might hallow Him undead—bedbugged deserts of dream, turneddown oases of however relative ease.

Things, always scheduled as Things unspecificed due to security, being so busy, so crazily scheduled, so hectic and profitable, too, Ben’s being worked now on the Sabbath, hard and kept moving—not that it would matter to Him to desecrate the day we’re reminded to keep holy above six others, just that He doesn’t want to work period, never did whenever, and with who He is, why should He’s the liberating thought. There’s no secret it’s a day of rest. My public takes a holiday, why shouldn’t I? More should be expected of me? Please, no thanks your toil. I’ve paid my dues, completed covenants. Garden, Inc., though, maintains again it’s all for His own safety—believe me, Der’s saying to Him in the limo motorcaded a stretch up the West Side, all this Law merely hampers my ability to protect you, son, ties the old hands. Sidelocks and beard knots and tassle fringe come off it. I don’t understand, it’s ridiculous, especially whatwith…but what weight do I have, what say in the matter. Make light His mission, make money their humorless goal. And not just your mundane kept moving, the gossipy run of the gristmill—He’s On the schmoove: a salty slip of His misspoken live to the networks, duly resurrected as slang for immediate release to the press; Ben baumming around: a newest nature holed up in a tree is the image they’re getting, Parkside if imaginary, Edenic, highswaying above enormity, Him casting down left leaves to float slowly, widening out into headlines grained in green envy, ribs into folds, veins a slopping of copy—His wedding announcement, Israelien–Shade, the cancellation of next baseball season, the rising price of pork—going soggy toward the gutter, the sewering Hudson.

And, too, like any nature, His presence is everywhere, if not the ideal itself then its imaginable made: numinous as omni, the nimious divine—appearances whether in person or name cutting with the dullest rustiest knife to commercial again and again, on the eye of the teevee and over the mouth of the radio, also, Ben borne flaky and weightless upon their flurrying waves; interview the morning after gunkeyed, skunkmouthed, junketed night, this having to put up with: lumpy, lumpensaggy beds just upgraded cots, the patronizingly perky wakeup calls, impertinently polite alarms, and drecky, limited menu roomservice—without privacy to redeem any downtime allotted save that afforded Him by mother and sisters Mary, dizzying, revolving-doored, them following in the livery of a private minivan, metallic pink. Advance family, it’s theirs to prep His suite, pretrash it: filling it with His variegated mementos, babylore, and cheapskate keepsakes, His parent’s tchotchke inheritance already synchronized atop foreign shelves and alien mantels by His delayed ETA: the Messiah has landed; in every stop at nowhere, in every accommodation, they recreate His old room, which is contractually bound through the adjoining to an executive suite, to host Der footing the tab at the head of a hierarchy connective: down the halls doors opening onto doors, into the rooms of His minders Gelt, Mada, Hamm, theirs communicating ever further toward the obstructed, parkinggarage, parkinglot view with those of His others, His entourage whose disciples Ben pretends He doesn’t know, or wouldn’t—like when they dropin plausibly to borrow His bucket for ice or remotecontrol, then try to make professional acquaintance how He just grunts under the eyemask worn over His mouth, ignores them into the womb of the pillow (though it’s not snobbery, it’s just being bored with Himself, with His selves); altogether them a stagparty of shvitzy, hairy fat taking up an entire floor of even the most generous of hotels, bulging the atriums, which are sky-glassed, bursting through the fernfestooned, goldappointed lobbies…

No matter, Der says to Him in the limo up the highway, passing the docks disused, the empty slips and their warehouses warehousing only the inferiorly talmudic, mishnaic, and midrashic effects of the Torahfact dead (that’s where the excess haggadahs went, that’s where the surplus megillot are stored); the asphalt lots surrounding still fenced if lain fallow, for now, cracking, they’re breaking apart from within, furrowed for the lasting plant of the weather—the Sabbath’s always a traveling day, we’ve booked no engagements; you’ll notice, all our Saturday shows begin after sundown.

You’ve booked no engagements because nobody’s going to pay for a show on the Shabbos, haven’t you noticed?

The world’s lost its mind. Everyone wants to be me, except me.

Wait, Der says as the limo drags the slushed and scaled trashy wake of its wide, fishtailing turn into West 72nd, it’s more a question of you than of them…I’m sorry, he has to insist: I’m doing this for you, son. You’ve made, or you have through no fault of your own, plenty of enemies—Ishmael’s, Esau’s, Amalek’s more personal if you want it like that. Offhand—as the limo slips to a stop, with Der sitting scratching what itches, greasing his own palm while averting his eyes to the window, tinted, which he can prophesize out of without anyone peering in: a glimpse of an animally upholstered soul; the beasts who feed on redcarpets, that scopophiliac swarm—I can think of up to eighteen acronyms that want you…quieting as he’s let out from the limo to wait at sidewalk for Ben to be escorted out by the expediter on loan from Secret Service, then all the way around the limo’s trunk to meet him with His pose. Tightlidded, lipped—eighteen why who want me what? Ben’s thinking. Dead, an outsized flicker. Away…under a breath, circumspect one step down the walkway to the revived, relocated Undisclosed Avenue Deli, it’s called: Broadway, Amsterdamned, who knows, the unaddressed location of this recently opened ratnering dive, a katzified joint so premiere and exclusively new it like their refound God doesn’t yet have a name, or a phone, doesn’t take reservations, might never; this a Scripturally themed media insiders party organized by the office of Doctor Abuya, like bring your own Bible and He’ll autograph it for you no problem is the thinking. A Torah torah torah. Reassessed…in another step, hatting His face from the produce and eggs of the salaried protests, then disappearing—the flashes clouding Ben in heavens, the mortal stuff of stars. Redirected, pose, clickclack, who are you wearing, myself, my own wearing skin, Reinterpreted again yet again, with yet another slow step as journalists from the Times, Die Zeit, Le Monde, Il Corriere della Sera, Gazeta Wyborcza, and Pravda among incomprehensible others scribble down that term in our language, soon superseded—with a last step to the door-mensch, Der with an arm around a pole sustaining the sag of the rabinically velvet ropes offers repurposed, rethought…and I would think, Silenced; he smiles flack, crosses the threshold, then and only once inside and safe amid the rank air wafting from the imported grove of ulcerous Jaffa citrus turns a heel to whisper: what would happen—just putting an idea out there, oblige me—what would happen if you God forbid died, Ben…and then what—the ingathered demand refunds, out of my pocket? and he pinches out from the pants of his uniform his own, to air their immaculate linings, softbellied without coin…and in no time it’s a style, a trend, everyone’s doing it, that and those pants of theirs are more and more being bought secondhand, sold door-to-door.

Tonight’s the eve of the eve of Shavuout, also known as the Feast of the Tabernacles, even as we speak being doneup by Properties in granite—the last night of any success to simcha, before tomorrow’s opening at Radio City, for three nights of previews then the road, hitting the stix. And after the well-wishing, the Mazeling gut luck hugs and doubling kisses from the lips of the famous, which never meet veil but always wing at the air at both cheeks, Ben’s returned not to the limousine that’s never left curbside only idled and burnt, at the appointed hour swerving out from the front in its motorcade of ten police up front with ten more down behind and then fire, in the middle the limo warding only a paddedly paid Mexicano double of His, a ruse down Broadway south and into Midtown with a solo helicopter’s whirring moon providing searchlight assistance above—but now out the backdoor, Him through the service entrance and from there crowded through the trash alley and out to the stairwell at corner; its wet descent into the warmer mouth of a metallic smoke snake, the train buried steps below the icy crust of the earth; Heber to limo on, Ben and His minders to travel underground, depths deeper toward down there, Ben suspects where: gehenna, Hell Itself in these the latter days of the subway’s use, His own private transit always express, stopskipping without transfer, no hops to opposite tracks, He’s routed direct even through the outermost boroughs, bridge & tunneling ways toward the ends of the line, terminal termini—the domains of resistance, at Far Rockaway and Ozone Park, is the rumor, at Flushing, Coney Island, and Van Cortlandt, last stops with everyone off the settlements of the unredeemed the gossip goes; or else others hold it’s all a hopeful hoax, that the fix is in if broken, collapsing, and that Der’s just using a threat preexistent, capitalizing on it, creating fear from whatever incentive around; or, he’s been slandered to have set an entire counterrevolutionary consciousness onto the fasttrack, having been behind a Resistance from the very beginning—with his nose to the last cold car with his hands and arms straining, legs taut, and teeth set, to have the system all to his own miscellaneous purposes, once they’ve become clear…don’t mind us, we’ll wait.

Ben riding sitting but jittered, His minders forced to stand, straphanging, leanedup against doors derelict, slouching asleep; them alone together in the frontcar coming down so fanatically fast, snaking the tracks that swallow themselves in an engorgedly warm worming of tunnel, a rodentlike, every-tailed scurry this rush of Him and train like a roach upon the rail of its own vomit…one lone latemodel hurtle if unnumbered, unlettered—now that one train’s givenover to all, every route—turned expressly loose and dullheaded, shrieking senseless on the system entire with everything else stilled, its others last warehoused in a yard boroughed so far Downtown it’s in Brooklyn, which don’t even think about it, too far and dimly imagined, how it only gives a headache to further squint or suspect: the glumsmogged recesses, through the windows—the catacombs; Ben passing here in the tunnels the snuffed candle shadows of saints without cults, the brave without canon, the homeless more beaten than beatified, without legend or enough money to afford for themselves miracles; ragged almost naked, they’re freezing and skeletalstarved, some kneeling to their Savior’s shattered statues, with orders of the secular others disheartened, huddling around their fires, sternoing for themselves icicles, a potable Hudson, taking turns to guard their encampments from the recent patrols—until, a gasp for air upon the Path tracks in Joysey, Exchange Place the stop with Ben’s train surfacing to spit from its rusted mouth a new Caddy, a towncar blackened without motorcade or support from the air, which takes on its own the alternate route ice homeward to the Garden; Heber and the limo to return to the Garden alone, with the escorting police and fire sirening the night with whirlingly guttural flashes, leaving behind a hundred utility vehicles leased on plans as various as they’ve been complicatedly voided: jealousy green bugs and extended sedans, and the yellow thinning ice fear of taxistani cabs both medallion and gypsy honking a sheepish bleat to the edge of the freeze that’ll never hold their gas; exhaust fills the sky; after a time, they turn wide around and skid home, hazards on, empty.

Shalom aleichem or something like that, says the Radio City stage manager who’s gladhanding, gelthandling to haggle around too early the next morning and this, when everything’s long been set out and signed…and how’s everything by you?

Me, it’s like having a heart attack.

We have an hour left to rehearse, Mada says while ignoring the mensch’s shaking all over to root around for his pocketwatch where, in his pocket—and then the press conference, an hour to rest, shower, and eat; we’re back here for soundcheck at—winding it, noon.

Interviews throughout the afternoon, at the sponsoring hotel the Midtown One Season, demoted by three thanks to frost.

Then to Ben, remember, let us do the talking.

All set?

Gelt puts a goy on the boxoffice, why not.

A phalanx of security shall fill the frontrow tonight, retired police and fire will arise to keepsafe the wings. As for the hall without, its lobby’s been hastily whitewashed, overnight, moonlit by unions: a stretch of wall that used to host a vast verdant mural, famous for its artistry forgotten, redone into this pure snowlike swath, obliterating its representation, made to reflect virtuously above the marmoreal floors, polished and shining. The short agitable stage manager spits a mucose hock of morning chaw to the cuspidor at the side of the stagedoor, retreats from his briefing by Mada and Gelt, heading backstage to overlord the Rockettes’ lastminute refittings for long shapeless skirts, modest wigs frayed to frump, setting hems, renegotiating necklines with what he calls upper management that’s probably only his conscience. A rumbling wells, quakes the theater’s vault, diapasonic, shakes draped forms on flutes, flakes goldleaf, rattles mirrorglass foxed in smoke and framed in chrome and cracking: statuesque Eve dropping her marble apple to roll to a doorstop, let in a draft; the sounding not of His stomach, nor that of the grumbling of those waiting out in the weather for their tickets reserved, a kvetch over price, it’s the warmingup of the organ, swelling initially a pillowlike softness, then rising into a dignified pad of a devotional nature, underscoring the fumbling of a handful of His lookalikes, Ben’s bit players, A Pharisee, Sadducee #3…these understudies curtain up and stumbling through staging, which like the streets connecting crosstown and the avenues north and south has been amateurishly blocked, made safe for the public—them klutzy with smashing their irreplaceable props, and persisting, too, in mispronounciating their lines if they don’t just forget them entire.

A night spent on bed’s edge, rawthroated on the lip of the toilet—Ben bowed to gut up what’d been ordered to be the most settling of catering—after a debut that went, He’ll admit, maybe just an encore short of wellreceived, nu, thank you very much despite; and this despite the encouragement, the kudos, kisses and hugs XO again, VSOP the cartons of cigarettes and the chocolate balloons and the flowers they’d brought Him, that bouquet of bouquets composed only of the flowers to which He’s allergic, He thinks though they’re artificial, silled in every shade known to mortification, disaster: yellow, red, pink, deathwhite, paling petals; the clutch of them Mada, Gelt, Hamm, and Him crowded into His turret atop the Great Hall to wait for the morning editions, the mediated response, the silent radio, imageless teevee, any pitch or delivery, for the earliest word of the cheaping bird; Mada calling downstairs to Garden Control every ten minutes with Gelt, too, listening in on the line from the hallway, after any indication, any news breaking late the already broken. Insecure, maybe, hungry for feedback, thirsty for praise. Under the veil, His face an open book: page Doctor Tweiss, then take cover. As wide as any newspaper spread, the next magazine feature or foldout. His ears “are marks of quotation.” His mouth an indiscretion, if still forgivably young.

What are they saying, Ben’s asking, like tell me, what Are they saying, as if they’re saying nothing at all…what are They saying, as if to say who are they to say anything to me, what are they Saying, as if to ask they’re saying That and why—you want they should stick to the script, repeat after me…and the answer Mada gives to Him’s what, don’t worry, no cause for alarm, the baseless threat of your fret—always a hundred different if equally ridiculous things, Ben, listen up, what they’re saying, it’s still much too early to tell…then, with efficient, neat hands Hamm straightens His false hair, elasticized, once pasted, bearded over His bite: Ben’s never changed out of costume. They’ve got a thousand different agendas, is what Mada’s saying, all demanding the same thing in a million different ways, Ben, bear with us; the door opens and Gelt comes in cloudy in the face and says, though he doesn’t quite seem to believe it, what it really is, Ben, is an issue of popular response, we’re talking appeal. Wide, cutting across like a knife disemboweling. To hell with the critics, the role of the public’s to criticize them…their responsibility, that’s what they do: our polling, our surveys, demographics, you name it—there are methods, there are ways, Ben, take it from me, we’ve got it under control.

It’s all in the packaging (Hamm): we’re poring over the research, the data (Mada), samples, testmarkets (Gelt)…that’s what this tour’s about, after all—the Messiah opening in selected wherevers this summer, or this season passing for…but, goes the Garden’s latest questionaire, how do they want their salvation, with hot beverage, maybe, and their choice of dessert; and so there’s optimization, specialization, brandjobs supercustom. A question, another, half of what’d been asked to last session: should Ben conform to them, or them conform to Ben—asked to eighteen different groups of eighteen different adolescents selected at the holy and holying random, railroaded at Times Square, pennedin ten floors up—a focusgroup, with attention operating at deficit. Them giddy excitement and performance anxiety at the prospect of giving any right answer at their individual rolltop desks in this space luxurious with panes formerly used as a screen studio lit over the foot traffic and growing pools of manure; quills in hand, ink welling, the surveyed stare at parchment scraps; asked their names, ages, purchasing habits, the usual blah and then

Q. A Messiah should be ____:

- A.) Male

- B.) Female

- C.) All of the Above

- D.) None of the Above

- E.) All & None of the Above

(Circle One)

Q. A Messiah should look ____:

- A.) Good

- B.) Eh

- C.) Feh

- D.) Down upon us all

(Circle One)

Q. Match the following words with their definitions, and then use one in a sentence:

1. Kvetch

A. To take pride in pathy.

2. Kvell

B. Me

3. Mitzvah

C. To bitch, complain, or whine

4. Goy

D. A good deed, or, better—commandment

Sentence:

I am a goy.

Fun Fillins:

My mother is a

______.

Your mother is a

______ ______.

I hope you

______ ______ ______.

On a scale of one to five, one to a thousand and a millionfigured unto innominate more please rate your satisfaction with the salvation of your soul in the fields preparest the green pastures provided, then list in the space designated nowhere what your Savior’s name should be, ideally: Benjamin Israelien, how does that sound, strike you closefisted, the beaten goat drum of the ear; those seven sialogogic syllables—the tongue to the roof of the mouth on the assenting Ja of the vorname, how’s that feel, a good tolling roll: Benjamin—or so they’re informed, who to confirm or deny—from the Hebrew Binyamin, meaning A son of the right, or Of the tribal south, alternately, wandering, the kingdom of them and of Judah, there’s no time to get into that now; though others hold it to be a corruption of A son of days, born to His father Jacob’s old age, Israel’s, Him like the first Benjamin, a Ben-oni, A son born of sorrow, of pain, or according to such an authority as the Rambam Of mourning—no relation to the tour’s opener, shortlived, the Amazing Benoni, a fleacircus veteran who had to pull out of his contract when the union impounded his wand for you don’t want to know what; his opening patter: Ram-bam, thank-you-ma’am, I’m just saying…

How about “Ben,” then, they ask the daily assembled: or is that too familiar, sounds too much like a kid, a household pet that died once? Whatever comes to your mind, first thought best, no thought at all. How about Benny, or is that much too familiar? Or Bennie? Schlemielsounding, maybe, loserish—like a goy who’s owed you money for moons, who’d trust in a Savior named that, all wrong.

Because the whole packaging thing’s about as dead as dead, and Gelt knows from what he’s talking—or only acts the part—done with his pacing around Ben’s towered room he’s just standing by a window like sitting down’s bad for his image. Nowadays, he says, it’s interface we’re dealing with, no options save those supplied by dream, information so instant it becomes knowledge, raw access, then faith, the here and now, am I making sense: give them what They want, They suddenly want it. BetaBen. Abrasurprise. Instantly transferable, remoldable, no, forget the mold, authenticity’s what it’s about, verisimilitude…and then the magic, the ability to fashion from pure idea, or from nothing at all, golem, am I right, Ben, am I right—anyone want to pucker on a moustache, I’ll get the boss. At any rate, and they’re so high lately (you know what I’m paying in property taxes alone? scrawls one of the respondents in the space left wilderness wasted, labeled Comments & Complaints—on what my wife calls our beach house and it’s not even on the beach, it’s in Gainesville?), adaptability’s the thing, evolution. To be protean. Choice. Any change. The mundane scratched out in itch, a rash erasure copied from the person desked one over, to either side, a bubble snub of the unsharpened tip. On a scale of one to infinity, rate how much you’d fork over to be saved in the space provided by your nonexistence, the void. All spoonfed, except exactly what to copy, what to write if not just to crumple, snowball let it rip—to tear out the eyes with the tongue; to tap the temple with pencils, which are sidelocks dipped in ink—what to answer, then, having an inkling or lead that the best answer’s only a question in return. Most correct.

The tagline’s BEN: BELIEVE (they’ve spent a hundred grand on that alone, in cigartongued copywriters, tricolor billboards, airwave campaigns on the hour), and it flits through the mind, in one ear never out the other, stuck in the middle as if a malignant lump, to further dull the gray to submission. Why, because one day the world will end, and you’ll need Him, says taskmaster of ceremonies John Johannine, a tall, straight, imperturbable corpse or undertakermaterial he’s bald with strong jaws, whom you might remember from such programming as—announcing an overly processed approximation of divinity into the microphone, his chazzano profundo echoing specially effected with much reverb superadded to age the voice deep into the gaping mouth of the miraculous past, to fill with its bass and one true faith conviction Madison Square Garden, at capacity crowded two to a seat then ten across the aisles soldout. He’s introducing Ben cued off the cards a nubile intern holds aloft in the interest of career advancement. There’ll be others, Johannine stalling, stretching, raising the pitch as Ben Himself rises: slowly up from below the stage on a horned altartype platform pistoned amid the hiss of whitedry ice, flashpot pop, and the dazzle of strobes…others upon others, smothers schmothering forever, Johannine contorted breathless to a grimace as if he’s had one too many whiffs of the sour breath of his own business, but know this: they’re only pretenders to thrones, intoning impostors, the fakiry fake; don’t be fooled, don’t be led astray sheepish, there’s only one, there’s only one Him…who else are you going to turn to when the going gets tough, he gets the nod from Mada in the wings:

Abas & Imas, applause, allages kinder, I give you—Benjamin Israelien. Violins verklempt in unison. Just lunaticker as His head peeks over the stage then above the audience as if a heavenly what, not a sun, not a moonstar, just a—thing, outlined round and piffpuffily inflated, even if only shadowed from behind an illuminated screen, an exteriorized veil, this stark antependium. Good evening, New York. God Bless You, New York, and God Bless the United States of Affiliation, gevalt. And throughout all this intro—a drumroll, please, the house lights dimming down; brass roaring up, a throb of late German Romanticism; its seven trumpet fanfare executed by a snatch of Local 802 Satchmos, uniformed in smoky tuxes and tented satin yarmulkes kinked to hold, numblipped, shakyfingered on the valves. A screen, it’s smoked over our eyes…it’s been said: the screen is the eye of God and we are all looking upon Him and seeing only us, then soon listening and hearing us, too, our last reassuring murmur, roundly smattered applause—it’s a movie, a moving walkie talkie. An explosion, and can’t you almost feel it how loud and how huge. Rapidly cut scenes of the holy insaned, sootrobed forms in mad escape from the falling height of skyscrapers, flame and ash and the swandive of window glass, the whirr of sirens surmounting the whiz of fighter aeroplanes above; firefighters below, cradling newborns suckling thumbs, swaddled saved in the folds of the new twotone flag (black & white or blue & white, it’s both the same without color; He can’t be sure of anything; it’s dark, it’s the veil), a standard being raised everywhere lately, in this stadium, above this lesser Garden. Hatikvah’s sounded in a new arrangement, solemnly heavy on the schmaltz. An anthem without a country to call its tune, saccharine and slow. That’s the Q. for the pan out. It all pans out in the end, nu—to shatter the fourth wall, which is the brick blindfold tied over the eyes and ears of the audience, the veil of our own disbelief…as a knighted actor, Sir what’s his face, was also in what’s its name, with her you know the one I’m talking the redhead and, between me and you now doing hackwork, nude mostly and with outlandish accents for free money the whore the prostitutka, her exhusband’s exboyfriend playing Israel Israelien doneup in a doublebreasted beige suit with undone silk tie patterned with the two stripes and a star straight off the rack of the last casualwear warehouse left in the Empire State, he’s staring hard summoning his method, descending into the depths of his own loss, divorce, disappointment, addictions Rx, why, and zee to gaze forlornly into the void of his son’s, his only son’s bedroom and

Take 1…ACTION!

I am your father.

Cut.

Take 2

I am your—

Cut.

Take 3

I am—

Cut.

Take 4

I am your fat—almost had it that time…

Cut.

Take 5

I—

Cut.

Take 6

Cut.

Take 7

And cut! megaphones Schlomo “Slo-Mo” Spielgrob, a director touted as The Next Schlomo Spielgrob, even though he’s the one and only—recently rehabilitated enough to be making movies under such an assumed name—he sits down in his foldup chair, strokes his oneday, halfmooned beard, pokes his fingers anxiously through his glasses without lens, then takes from his head that bent brim Yankels or maybe it’s the Metz cap a popular model with the sidelocks attached, stuffs it on the bell of the megaphone he sets atop a cooler between seated Ben and Johannine—His hired and handgreased mouthpiece, His spokesperson recontextualized to spokesmensch, a misrepresentation of public face this graceless humbly mumbly, alldenying interpreter and press secretary, this shuffler of jobs, positions, titles and sheafs of chaff, former Chief of Staff to President Shade, whom you might remember as Ben’s future father-inlaw, here played by a respectably graying, growlingly jowled paunch of an actor whose name might’ve been Oscar itself, who’d done the president in ten previous projects. Ben desultory in His own chair foldedout, its sixpointed star decal peeling from the backing, He’s gnawing at the lip of His foamcup, complimentary with its water or what He’s shvitzed under the studiolights; His script wilting on Johannine’s knees as the latter with quickdraw of the wrist passes highlighter through the lines, for any they want to censor, delete. Security twitchy at their holsters, which are empty when not loaded down with props. A cast of hundreds shivering, coming down with a light fever’s headcold, incipient flu, from yesterday’s hours spent in summery shorts and themed tshirts out on a forlorn frozen stretch of Brooklyn beach, Seagate, was it, the board-walk’s breakdown that’s standing in for Joysey. He walks on water, He steps in dreck. He turns water to spoiled wine, fish into moldy loaves. Around, a mustering of extras for the next scene set earlier, thousands of them and their years bundledup in garb, into centurial gabardine, silken caftans topped with pointy turbans trimmed brilliantly in fur as if in the religious return of the sumptuary and its lex as yellow as fear; others who only look and sound and dress and act like them, or as they were, or as they’re being cast and played, except they’re not getting paid (though neither were the dead)…

They teem in the streets, cordonedoff, starentranceside to the world; everywhere they’re rejoicing, horaing amid the shir: Oy vey can you see…no, I can’t, to tell you the truth, this veil, not over their hats, down in front, stay low; their mouths open wide to the niggun of a new day, they’re dancing in odd hobbled circles, closing in, tripwidening out again, wielding weapons of banners and bunting, beating their sandwichboards into placards, signs ’n’ wonders, fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers, their krazy kinderlach enjoying their appetitespoiling, dentitiondestructive kosher treats vended only in extendo familysize, lining around the impromptu stands and kiosks and carts and booths to purchase their merchandise, gleaning swag (not only the Gardengenuine, not merely the Islandapproved, but everything, the illicit imitation, the violate, knockoffs themselves knocked off the block, curbside vendors hocking the bogus, get your chimeric, the false of the false); purchases later they’re ready to wearing their own, above it souvenir yarmulkes, under it souvenir scapulars, which are tzitzit, phylacteries, too, tefilin, false noses and flossy beards, and so who knows if it even is Him up there waving and smiling and with arms held far out in front of Him with palms flat deficiently applauding their fizzy applause, and shvitzing, too, in this bare chill—how much they pay for His shvitz, who’s the seller, let’s have his papers: Metro Gestapo standing immovably at the sidelines, simcha security leaning up against the shuttered storefronts that line the parade routes, the limits of audience muster, standing sentry, as well, atop the 42nd Street mound, the makeshift Tel of paraphernalia profane now purposed into barricades and cordons crosstown (a spontaneous mountain, every lick of height lacked by Sinai this heap of treyf pots and pans, crucifixi strangled with the snakes of the rosary, value leather barcaloungers, kneelers and falds, robes and stoles); portapotties runnethover, traffic is stalled to the tushes of tunnels, constipated, congested; the streets are paved a hazard with papers crushed, crumpled: snowballs, the windfall of potholes; there aren’t enough trashcans, any there are have been like the courts overturned, without street sense or order. Dogs are hanged from the clotheslines, pinned above alleys that echo their barks with the gusts. Media personalities pass mics around headed in filter with frothing black clouds; flashes pop off like suns then fall through the night, smoky doves. As more and more people they keep crowding into Midtown though Mitteltown’s now what they’re saying, having bypassed the avenue gridlock by forsaking the tar for the ice without lane: touring carts, chartered, not quite climatecontrolled, they keep on with their arriving in caravans, hitched streamlined in lines, queues without end—from the Oranges East and West and from Hoboken, Hackensack, Ho-Ho-Kus, and Parsippany, from Conshohocken, Philadelphia, PA, and the Main Line, Levittown, and the Five Towns, from Garden City Herself of the island Long off the island off the Island that’s His, or that was; older people lately membered into newly formed, duesed and approved Affiliated groups and otherly miscellaneous benevolent associations bylawed friendly to the cause of the revivified Semitic, with don’t doubt special interests and hidden agendas of their own, too numerous to countenance before a good hot plate of fleisch and a schlaf, piling off that drecky, fleshsplintered hay and into the frost of the streets, veins swollen to burst with their life, a lively arterial clog; and the beggars, O how it seems that all the schnorrers in die ganze welt are just showing up, having gotten drunk upon the grapevine and pooled the dribble of their remaining resources to hitch and hire rides from points near, far, and enough, genug, each with a shaky withered hand out, each wanting no nicht demanding their own pinched piece of the action, a shtickel, a schmeck, the bell’s end of the salami, the warty tip of the pickle’s nose, the pleasure of your company and of your bed with you on the floor, and your mother, your sister, she single, or if not is she kind—this being the first stop of their individual fiftyfour city tours, one city for each Shabbos, it’s scheduled, one rest apportioned for each portion of the weekly read Torah, in each city by someone else, then in another city by that someone’s brother, to board for only a meager parsha of pity, the rachmones of an emotional miser, stunted in a grunted begrudge; receiving as it’s called home hospitality, a cold breakingfast don’t worry about me, and then—pulling out, moving on; two arguing: one wanting to trade his next Genesis weekend in Oconomowoc for a Leviticusly Deuteronomous stay in another’s Rome, Syracuse, Troy, or Utica, what’s not to like about the deal, have a heart, have mine and my bad back while you’re at it; I’ve got to be Upstate next week for a Kasha Festival, to make a few inquiries about a horse, the funeral of my father-inlaw, alright, so he’s just sick if ailing and, not getting any better you should tell me what to say, whatever you want to hear.

Another fanfare, this of trombones and unison tubas laying down chords under the cantorial wash, an invocation to tears: the Nachmachen’s introduction, open to both misinterpretation and appropriate sponsorship…a prayer for winter, to begin with: Blessed art Thou, Lord our God, King of the Universe, Who Commands us to Wear Layers; a prayer for the lights: Blessed Art Thy Filaments and Thy Circuitry; then a prayer for the camera: May Thou Bless and Keep the Power On, the Reels Rolling, and then can I get a final Amen for that of the action, applause: Blessed art Thou, Lord our God, King of the Universe, Who hath Given us Hands and, too, the Bad Taste to Clap Them Together…Der ladders slowly up to the podium, summated upon an ambo just below the rung stars; its platform teetering precariously atop that seconding mountain, Lawleeward above the square, its triangulating grid—this gutterhuddled hosting of trash spirituality, junk religion, bum cosmology, and the markets that minister them all; he squints down over this mass, this web of streets ensnared by and ensnaring, a swarming of inscrutable flies, gnats, fleas, lice, jumbles of hairy limbs in a fractious grab and grub shot through with sudden beards, the juts of chins, the opened mouths of the trampled faithful; eruptions of shoulder and elbow and knee, begging only the breath of a glimpse. Upon that skyscraping summit, Der’s flanked by the presences of President Shade, Mayor Meir Meyer, along with his local machine, notables of the state and national electorate, pluralistic ethnic dignitaries, indiscriminate influentials, luminaries and eminences (camera depending), seated aside all five borough presidents with the Joysey governor kept standing, Attorneys and Soygens General, the City’s Comptroller, Parks Commissioner, and the Chief O’Police, starry generals, recently kashered senators, feinschmecking as fat as pockets moneystuffed, huskily cigarboned, no longer under investigation they’re holding hands (their greasy fingers, pinkies inclusive, festooned with jeweled rings) with their own personal heroes of the week, whether righteous police, fire, or emergency medical, sponsored and subsequently publicized different from last: who tried to save which Affiliated, which synagogue or school from looting, or destruction; madeup and fabulously manicured widows to the left, to the right, and on their laps, too, those who’d once upon a time intermarried the famous Affiliated, you might remember, only to survive them for fortune and infamous scandal (actresses, singers, and a memoirist of singular importance), gathered here to present Ben on this the second, firstfruited day of Shavuot, with the key to the city, which as this city lacks gates and even doors repressed within what walls surrounding and tunneldark hearts must unlock nothing much, and so its keychain, too, a plastic hunk of kitsch logomached with I Heart New York, of all things. Awaiting Ben’s keynote address: a speech vetted by both the Nachmachen and Doctor Abuya to be full of sundry thanks, appreciation and honors, distinct pleasures, acknowledgements less salutary than the undecided Shalom of a rhetoric as empty, still, as the desert—spiritual, real—is wasting: gavaged Gospel prepared especially for Him by a team of overworked speechwriters, wordwranglers, hands hired away from patronage of diversivolent political prominence, priced from the favors of Middle Eastern dictators and kings whose highflown had always been spoken plain, scripted low, then toned in a grave delivery derived from an Apocalypse whose threat these inky ghosts have spent their lives perfecting for profit, and so mocking, why not, while they’re at it; a message without a message, a platform with no leg to stand on, death by impalement upon the dull of a talkingpoint, say.

Ben shuffles endearingly slowly, kloymershtily klutzy manner up to the microphone of the podium atop the dais and shadowing there as if the one hand left of a clock, unbound, shading the face entire of this Timeless Square, this mess of Mitteltown recently redeemed from business, freed from the oppressive glare and din of commerce, lately rededicated to the holy—to the faith of these newest menschs and their womenfolk and kinder of thousands, these million they seem welling tears to flood the avenues east and west then ten street blocks north and further to spill out like blood spurted from the vein of the lane to stain the ice of the Park, to taint the pure and coldly bright earth surrounding the Temple, its reflection of the sanctuary’s dome, skymutual. With His veil lifted, Ben about to lift His voice—an echo comes from the crowd, a yelp that pierces air, its spittle a bullet, stray of flesh, He falls…a frenzied screech, its tongue the clapper of an urgent bell—then Tongues, speaking in or of them…

We need a witness! a witness over here! is what’s said, such nasally stop-tongued fortition made in response to a miracle wholly engineered, perhaps, or, nu, possibly even imagined, in the midst of the assembled…whaddya want: women faint, menschs overwhelmed themselves; they bawl like the babies they’re having; an accent failing: Hamm’s wing strikes quickly to hand out forms, passing them into the crowd from hand to fist, no longer questionnaires or surveys, but disclaimers, nondisclosure agreements. Is anybody hurt, I repeat, is anybody hoooooyt? Broadway’s sewers shrieking rhotic, lid their throats, go futz em. Officers get reared up into the air, go thrown from spooked mounts, geyn galloping under—slipping on prankish lots, lost marbles, trampled in the fracas ensuing. Shots rain up to snow stars. Nightsticks rap skull. Out with the hoses. Tonight, the glass will burn, the fire will shatter. No commandments will be broken, but who’ll vouch for their stones? Ben’s snatched; the rostra, evacuated. A helicopter rises, hoisting an overload, an underslung calf crying out…Ich bin the goddamned German Ambassador! The other guests of honor have disappeared, your honor. Ben’s dispersed into His doubles, lettered through the exhaustion of any alphabet, then numbered, alien Israeliens, the Garden’s gang of gängers…who is who, they want to know, how should I, they look the same to me; kicking, punching their ways through the home teem—enough of whom are happy to ape His likeness for no pay at all, not even for the admiration of neighbors, family friends. I’m me, Ben whimpers from His knees, cowered, who else—over here, you, nu, I’m talking to you, He’s saying at Union Square where they’re (unionized, but “for entertainment purposes only”) picketing each other, when that afternoon Bowery downed to the idol that is ye olde Battery amid a mob founded atop the altared ruins of its fort, they’re grossly salival kissing His feet and hugging His legs; pecking and petting a lovein, how they’re begging, beseeching, anyone but Him, His others…but it’s me you want, He says, me. Not who else, who better. Unconscionable, futzed—how they grovel like that, humble themselves at the feet of impostors. Ben grabs at His head, then His gut, the ego’s fat, turns it around in His hand. Me, this is me. Roots out His hair. Makes me sick. How they’ll prostrate themselves before any beard. Throng a finger risen in scorn. Asphalt gives poor reflection, tar no mirror at all—can’t tell how ridiculous we’ve become, so blackened, so changed. Hamm has Him facedown in the street in the freeze. Mada crackles the radio, over. A siren late through the Square airs His name. Another hand grubbing, not His own—it fists hairy paunch, digs nails, drags Him into the rear of a limo. Get in, Heber’s grunting over the seat, and stay in; be a good boychick for once, shut your door for yourself. They head west without light and against a oneway, turning onto Tenth Avenue parting the waters that are not water but oy lachrymose people, wave after wave of them unapplauding, widemouthed and raging and now coming to crack across the fender and hood, leaving behind them a staggering wake tipped sharply with spittle, a tide thick with gobhocked curses and blood. A squeal, then a left onto the West Side Highway, Downtown then a swerve off its edge—from a pier, there’s a crash to the flume, ice giving them way upon the riverine remains of the bay.

At a bivouac set up in the Park just south of the Temple, a tentcity of pilgrims with no further plans, having thought through nothing beyond this coming to town: arrival, mere showing, setting up camp then awaiting the blessing—Johannine among them, being inquisitioned by both presscorps and the public dismayed. Even given this utzy ruckus, there are still questions to ask, half as serious as sky, the other lightweight, to be dismissed in a manner professional, hand to mouth disarming and quick, a small laugh given out of the recline of the lips, a yuk humoring chuckle; the reporters love him and their cameras, they’re jealous…asking him what: boxers or briefs; nu, what’s His opinion of the Temple, or the new Sabbath legislation; really ready for marriage, are we finally saved? That was Him, the pilgrims gathering around, they’re asking, indubitable dupes; He was here, wasn’t He, what every arrived acolyte wants to know, I didn’t miss Him, did I, hope not, God bless, we came all this way just for this. Always late. It’s your fault, says husband to wife, though it’s his, always is.

How it’s been said—openflap whispers, in sleepingbag beddowns, this strawstuffed, stickstuck, muddying campfirelore—that Ben, though others hold it’d only been one of His Hims, you never know which, had healed a cripple, attempted to heal…Him attempting, then failing; this reportedly outside the Laz-R-Us department store, its location franchised, however, a borough away, Brooklyn’s King Plaza, or the Queens Boulevard Center—according to reports if not reliable then official—at precisely the moment He’s being evacuated from Times Square amid the progress of a riot still not contained and fast coming east. Martial law declared from the mouth of a gun. Don’t tread on me tanks through the tunnels. A pyramid of canteens without water. A command post nested with gulls.

It’s told: how Ben or another Ben finds Him or himself confronted, according to only the most salaried of our witnesses, that is, coincidentally the most memorious, too, He’s cornered, no choice or the alternative; how the goy rolls himself up to Him or him, demands an audience, airing grievance, entitlement, the lonely disgruntled, and how Ben or another just grabs him, lifts the babbling form from his wheelchair, dangles him in the air from his pits, then lets go; the goy geshrays a menschlike Oy, falls down to the sidewalk fronting the mall, a writhing heap of howl, still crippled, now worse.

It’s been asked: who tried to cure you? that’s what a lateshift nurse wants to know, later that Shavuout at the hospital (it’s related, too, named after Mount Sinai) to which the cripple’s been transferred for examination by a specialist who’s courting his daughter…God, she says, what a schmuck, but still the following day this nurse—who the night previous leaks to the press this particular story (and’s also a mother to twins), having been invited by agents of the Garden and with the flatter of media exposure for her and her easy-eyed, promising kinder, the promise of reward if not financial then that of the spirit, of hope—how she takes her older than previously reported daughters the two of them dressed alike out of their kindergarten early, schleps them but privately sleighed from island Staten to island Long and its Five Towns, which are not so much less than or equal to five than they are, factitiously, the same—in one of which Ben’s said to be dedicating a new synagogue, Beth Israelien its name, a shul, it’s preferred, and how she stands with them there, huggingly bundled babes they’re smiling gapped and waving at the wrist, their mother making her revisionary rounds through three hours, four, five of hard interview snow in the line that’s been designated for kisses.

From Newark out to Westchester, from White Plains on down to Wishniak Hill, from synagogue rededications to fundraisers for yeshivas and day schools, from mikveh grand openings to sales spectaculars at hat and haberdashery outlets and superstores for discounted furs, Ben lately in promotional mode’s been doing a lot of this, or His standins have, this smooching of infants, the laying of brunch, the breath of only, upon a profusion of cheeks both upper and lower, on foreheads then even on lips, the face of all flesh. The Bens, they’ve been coached as if birthing, coddled through the criteria: righthand handshake with the mother or father, lefthand holding the head of the infant, without any pressure applied, minding the softspots, the give of the skull not yet fused; then, the lean in for the kiss, under the veil, this the scariest aspect for the infant, the approach of this hairy toothed monster, him looming, descending Him, beard brushing skin not to tickle a giggle but to irritate, chafe, while he, she, clutches at curls; how they shriek then soil themselves as they pucker a suckle at lips His or theirs, twirl hairs around their littlest fingers, tugging and how He or they just has to laugh it off, at the same time applying enough, pressure; not enough to smash hands, crush tiny bones, just enough to make them let go; fingers leaving a honey’s stick or other icky substance behind for a Mary to shampoo, condition, comb out; rinse and repeat. Imageconsultants, brandmanagers, remind: never let them tear at the veil, God forbid; revelation’s disallowed, verboten, no peeking.

And then, this, just what the I’s need: a woman at that retirement home gala linner out in Mass., He thinks come Connecticut…a woman He’s never known before, never known in any sense how she stands up for herself to announce, to the press and the hysterical rest: Ben Israelien the Messiah is the father of my daughter! and then, hymn, what do you know (from want, from accusation, from the hurt of denial), another woman from inside the receiving line in the parkinglot she stands just outside it, removed, holds her kid if it even is hers up in the air under the weather as if praying for lightning to strike them both down how she booms…mine, too! He’s the father of mine, just as much! Mister Israelien has never had relations with that woman, Gelt says. Sadly, He thinks. Unfortunately no, is maintained. You’re goddamned right you’ve never slept with me, she says into a mic, proferring—pardon. As if I would sleep with a God poo poo poo—the mothers hock at once, spit to ice. This kid’s immaculate, she goes on…as a wad of photographers press in to shoot her; for the sake of circulations (panting), she’s milking the kid at a scandalous teat, deviatorily distended, bared. And so the paternity suits begin pouring in, allegations of daughters, too, but predominantly of heirs, sons alleged prodigal, their birthrights assumed: their papers always served late at the partner hotel, after roomservice brunch or lunkfast but before its dessert, as if cream for His coffee, a sapping stir. A third woman big with His issue datelined the opposite coast, then an oviferous fourth from overseas where Ben’s never yet been; a fifth with issues with a sixth with problems and more, seeking a degree of enablement, and that materially as much as of the soul we should hope; some alleging two kinder by Him, others three, though even if these offspring would be acknowledged, and let’s be clear, none of them are, “none would be Affiliated, as such transference must be maternal,” reads in part the Garden’s statement—which doesn’t mean these women won’t be bought off. Envelope stomachs, a womb flush with coin. A Maggie Dalene, 26, of Mittel Albany who’s swollen with daughter; a Christiana Eleison, 18, of Kfar Echo Lake, she’s worrying twins; an A. Leah Capitolina, age and whereabouts withheld or unknown, who she’d suffered a miscarriage of triplets she claims had been His; an Agnes Day stunned at the virgin birth of her son one David Stern last name and the eyes of her husband now ex; one Polly Esther suing Miss Day for partial custody of the boy, willing to let judgment decide, seeking a severance Solomonstyle, perhaps; even and for the ennobling edification of none a Bea Titude of Kiryas Joe alleging rape, a night spent in the stairwell of a motel outside of what’d been Goshen, violent and apologetic and altogether pathetic (the pleading, the please) while the lobby hordes were kept waiting for moments; though rumors of a legitimate son will prove unfounded, what won’t, and even amid the handling of this issue misplaced deftly in how furious, fierce, they manage never to make public His, how to say—operation: His procedure’s never leaked is what, and Miss Shade is overtimes reassured of the purity of her bridegroom-to-be.

Another offday, downtime of sorts and this despite its appearance worked only in public defense: up in Cambridge, Ben’s squeezed into a suit of tweed the kind with the leather spleenshaped patches on the elbows to protect Him in His wriggling grovel. A deserved sabbatical upon a Monday spent pent within the ivy walls and ivory towers of this university turned kollel of late, He’s here to accept an honorary diploma, an nth degree in theology, it’s decided, demanded, its presentation followed by a turn at hightable, leading Kiddush at a private faculty oneg—the intelligentsia supporting Him more for what He represents, less for who He is, suspecting such when this dean promoted to Rosh hands Him His sheepskin unframed and unsigned. Campuseswide, lectures have been forsaken in favor of sermons. Higher homiletics; the week following newspapers carry columns Ben signs, never reads. Maui offers Him a pulpit. Nome counters to name Him Chief Rabbi. Elite me nothing, snub me no snob: He’s both pop and not, His cult a movement of mass and a stilling of One…the namebrand, the Name.

The ninetynine of them then one more of God, names a hundred allpardoning, undeniable and ineffable, inextinguishable and, as much, allnegating—they’re going sloganeered on traffic signs, stickered and stenciled, on the walls of public telephones and information kiosks, taxistands, bus and cartstops, nomens recently registered trademarks of Garden, Inc. (violations are being cataloged, with vandals charged only if they’re not billed). NEB! in kabbalistically diffuse red, white, & blue becoming sprayed in tunnels of the subway said to be held by any revolution convenient for comment, a loose though they’re said to be organizing group of shirkers, skeptics, and the libertarian available that might anyway be paranoid fearmongering, or just another Garden interest, disinformation as entertainment, misdirection as the only way forward, nothing new there. With the Nachmachen tasked to image maintenance with Doctor Abuya assisting, advising in matters of Law in a capacity interpretive, say—a consultancy of divination palms opened, thumbly their fumbling prestidigitation—while Gelt and Hamm have been remanded to merchandising, remaindered to the bargaining bin of this campaign for hearts and minds, wallets and purses, pocketsouls snapped, moderation getting caught in the zipper; supervising the PR initiatives, and administrating, too, the official production facilities of the Garden (and don’t ask as to an acronym—lately there’re just enough around to forget), which night through to day are spitting out every species of kitsch; barracks repurposed to manufacture, light industry, areas of lading and loading, property dezoned and downzoned out on the ice of Joysey eminently domained; the two of them standing on the floor of a factory fit for Kings, Queens, or Hudson counties, hardhattted and soft of face witnessing as Ben’s own squeezes cheeks lumpy and pasty, extruded out of every metallic orifice at once, laudably shiny, all wrapped up in Himself: here a line of gastrointestinal aids, there a regimen of heartburn pills, associated powders and tinctures reactive, inventions of the dead FBs, pharmaceutical patents shylocked for a promise, the prescription of a rare grave. Icons of Israelien inflatable to totter sandfooted, alongside plaster Bens to stand on ceremony, its columns; pressuremolded and plastic Hims even for inclement weather outdoor use on stoops and lawns (1 foot, 36 inches, & 50), said to be sainted, for a nominal supplementary fee, that is, Benblessed miraclegranting, that’s extra, it’s told—fear not, they’re faceless, to circumvent the prohibition of the second commandment; name it what it is, the newest rabbis say, an idol at fabulous savings. Furnishings for the garden and home, and a line of luggage, also, just perfect for your next refugee flee. All products bearing Ben’s stamp of approval, that cartoonishly capital almost bubbly B in their olden language facing opposite and intertwined with a Gothically fonted by way of the sofer’s stam Bet, is how it begins in another; that unmistakable B/ emblazoned in iridescent hologram across the obverse of the packaging—with a worldly dagesh or dot floating to blot their bind at middle—being the same seal that identifies the new currency, Israelien shekels entitling the bearer to His visage laurely ovaled though veiled, and in eighteen denominations, minted across the country and, soon, if the Garden gets its way, the world, under the auspicies of the Treasury, which, along with dissimulation, was Der’s old department.

Though the new isn’t even the half of it, as the relic market soars, through the roof—a chimney’s black puff: locks of hair said to be His go for a mint, wrapped for the shipping in mismatched to no matter white tubesocks, retrieved from the laundry, dirtied fetching more than clean, veils and vials of sacral saliva and if impotent seminal fluid are prized if always faked and known to be, too, forged receipts, counterfeit clippings of nail from finger and toe, bogus foreskins and eyelashes as questionable, and as unquestioned, as the proliferating public and publicized records of miscellaneous deeds done, of good works goodly worked upon billboards and within the webs of neon campaigns—Bens private and public assimilated into a bland middle, made pareve, approachable, relatable’s the term through the given mundane (gnawed nighttable pencils and pens, knives and forks stolen from roomservice carts and their dishes that chafe, yarmulkes blown from His head and from there—directly into the hands of the deserving, a blessing fallen from the steal of the wind), these artifacts of His lapsed divinity, these failures made object of abject, His. Witness the fervor for such relics culled and cleaned from the fleshified strata of this monumentally walkingtalking dig, this instantaneous forefather Ur; an involuntary authority just one appeal short of repealing Himself, it’s been said—meaning God…what tsuris, what terror!

And how He’s imperishable like divinity, too, managing to recover from any scandal, emerging ever stronger, with an authority that can’t even admit No Comment, that can’t even be questioned without asking back: the latest DNA tests performed manage to identify the Jnome, or its lack (though only the results are reported, the exact science hushed up), setting the issue of a son right once and for all. With the depths of scandal being translated to the heights of authority, an inviolable mandate atop its heightening mountain with the desert impending—He’s near teflon omni, a bulletproof golden cow without tarnish; a bush behind which hides the ram that is His fear, never to be burnt for a lark. A Moses’ Moses, which is as a lay God or lap dog, a stoolpigeon trained to fetch the new tablets: debut legislation, fall season’s ad copy, the invite list’s advance benevolence. At pattering parties, Ben going from being token to a coin, as currency musthave, to be booked long on advance notice only: as a straightmensch, or color commentary, as a guest host or rabbi-to-the-stars, engaging in scripted debates with Doctor Abuya and others for gabs fested on rushhour FM and late night teevee nationwide—though there’s only one network revived. He makes for pleasant filler; not too difficult, always engaging, toeing the Garden’s line in slippers orthopedic: a product of Benwear©, His own label of big & tall clothing. Ben weeknights hocking whatever product He’s been informed of His support of (Cistern Bottled Water®), personal predilection for (He-brew™, now available in eighteenpacks), scissoring ribbons at kosher food outlets all over the nation, opening libraries at minimum security prisons out of state, inaugurating kennels, speechifying at rallies and public gatherings for worthwhile cause (Late Onset Tay Sachs research) or catastrophe (COP, COnvert the Poor); opening matzahball and gefiltefish canneries, delivering keynote addresses at sales seminars for women’s undergarments, motivational speaking for headache survivors, and Friends of the Uncircumcised. The Orphan Bride Fund. CPA’s for Charity. Ben all day all around your dial, turn as you, the introspectively disaffected, might (though afraid as any are nowadays of being denounced), hocking insoles, insteps, solutions, too, and solvents, it’s amazing, Ben, it really works, and just wait, He says, till you take a sit down in one of these recliners, phenomenal, tell me about those hypoallergenic pillows, will you, hymn, Ben, they’re specially designed to service your cervical curve, wow, I can’t believe it, can you: grillers and smokers and knives, life’s never been so easy, the wife’s never had it this good; Ben embracing the neologic of the infomerical, smiling from behind every pulpit, smarming from atop any platform—name the price, He’s your mensch. Marketing loves it, they’ll die for His grins—or so the Garden assures its investors with data to prove, the Kings Ben plugs for, endorses on behalf of from late at night monologues through the walkover, hosted into morningshowed tomorrows that guest the same as todays, the total program. How’s life? Holiday plans? Primetime beckoning, a call in the wilderness of poolside, the lure of the highestpaying slots, their jangling ring: Ben’s mouth behind the tamtam diet, the herringflavored proteinsupplement, touting its kashrut, the benefits to your health; then, only a spot later He’s on again giving weepy testimonial for Praying Off The Pounds©, I’ve never been more excited, He says, than about this simpering-ly a-may-zing evangelical weightloss movement in a spate of commercials for which He’s backed by a vintaged folksinger who with guitar in hand jingles himself out the nose. Though to be fair to His handlers, and to keep up His image, that selflessness shtick, Ben’s out there publicservicing, too, paid per the platitude to engage with the kinder, announce: Stay in drugs, Don’t do School. Take two. Yeshiva, voiceover. Ben, nothing much matters, that He botches most of this if not all: in His overdubs, occasionally awkward, a stutter; comfortless and clumsy in photographs; in printspots in both how He’s imaged and quoted, nearly repellent in intentschmearing spreads: a pitchmensch grabbingly girthed, overflowing His waistline, foldout…Ben’s pants pinched in two, while pitching a tent in His fly (styling credits: WHose by Israelien, $59.99/1080 IS): an encampment pilgrimaged by everyone who’s, producers and their advancemenschs, their behindmenschs, faddists and setters and models and magnates, crossover heiresses and crosseyed tycoons; their congregation itself beset with the heated pants and ferocious howlings of autograph hounds, salivating and fearsomely scratching at an elusive itch perked by the ears or the tail—they need His signature, it’s His name or death: just kick it into the sand, will you, at the edge of our purpose, of Ben’s or of Judah’s or…legible only to the gaze of the sun, let the wind efface it on the morrow: it’ll be gone, but may that gust carry your fame far and wide. He has to memorize how to sign His name in the holy tongue, entailing Nachmachen instruction under Abuya supervision—it’s a popular request. He grips the pen fullfist, as if the tongue of His tongue concentratedly nibbed. Then, to make His mark upon their clammy, heaving flanks: a singular initial fanged across the ribs, with a hesitant flourish. He shakes hands if hands hounds have, and then’s gone, leaving behind Him a disappointed pack of fierce fandom, cursiveshaped jackals howling at the moon.

O pity this Kitschenmensch fallen, semioticized Semitically exotic, hermeneutered to death! It might be better, the Garden thinks, if all had their own individual Bens, then, a personal savior to call each their own, or Ishmael—that would make more sense than such overscheduling, these lookalikes who themselves have to be minded night and day to keep sober and kind. A figure, a figurine, poseable, plastic without soul. An animal stuffed with dream, stitched up with silvery linings. Scarred. Expressionless. Name it again what it is, not an idol but an idol’s idol, a God’s imaged god shelved Aisle Ten, opposite the mirrorlike void. Too bad you can’t massproduce stars. Stay with us, it’s part of and parceled with research, that’s it, at least that’s how R & D’d try to sell it to Him: trying to find out if Ben, both the concept and human, the menschboy, the boychick, would be more viable as what, a woman—with a pair of those, Doctor Tweiss snickers, the other Tweiss sniggers, and a you know, giggle, snort, tsk, tsk, down there, with baby chromozoans helixed just right, nice and neat to further the line. Twistingly turned. Have Him mate with Himself. Cloning, no buts. Stroke a schlong. I need more. Lightning and thunder. Frank & Stein, a firm whose services He’d be smart to retain. Idea is, nu, how Der and his inner tisch they don’t say what it is as much as it’s implicit in whatever they the doctors are allowed to be told: to make Him as versatile as possible, opened up to the widest possible appeal; though only after identification of the maximum number of permutations to be had from among xdemographed incarnations and yadda y furthered through z. Basically, as it’s lately explained, once the value proposition’s been defined in committee, to go right ahead and, synergistically proactivate the deepest spiritual desires of, fill in the blank—what was the budget of Babel, how high overhead? Forecasts, predictions, a waste of time, resources, money money money say the angels up in Accounting; it’s that we have to tap into dreams, sample only the tenth or so of the stuff that’s represented as prophecy, according to our Sages, their entitled fraction, the terumah…let them make their beds to lie in them, we’ll be the richer for it; let them grope for amelioration all they want upon waking, it’s not going to change anything soon. It’s too late to toss, turn, rollover, around; it’s going to be that they can’t tell when one dream ends and another begins, and what’s best is that they’re not going to care—as long as we’re always a delusion ahead.

Awake, Ben’s lying in bed. His room, a hotel, motel, don’t ask, He doesn’t, not anymore where. Bottles of butts with the teevee on weather, He’s on in an hour. To be due in Makeup & Wardrobe, stat, doubletime. He sits up, takes in the carpet, the cabinet and dresser and the grain of the desk, the rack and the luggage, its guts sliced open to air; His crib, too, never used, they always bring with to hold ice. He’s wrecked, doesn’t know what time it is, light or dark. And so He goes to the window to up the shades and stands there over the west laidout below Him—unable to remember how He got out here this far: parkinglot A, parkinglot B, parkinglot C…asphalt sanding away to the highways, the open America, nothingness deserted, disused; downstairs floors below the hotel complex a horde of extras going through a round of rushed alterations—the unionized seamstresses hemming and hawing; the animal wrangler’s bathing the goats, lions and lambs, as his assistant’s hosing the rank wet from their cages; the properties master’s inspecting the sets—Egypt, Venice, Poland, and Tenement: East Side—redoing the Yiddish on a sign set to be the frontage of a butcher’s; the harpist’s getting herself tuned in the pit to the strains of an anthem different, made minor. Outside, lit in the gloriole of the three letter marquee—there’s a kid, standing at attention, a pole, hoisting up the new flag. Its lone star shines lonely. Its six points, spiting. Martyring the sky surrounding—the pitiless desert, its insomniac pulse.

O the eve of the Fourth, the erev of the fourth day of Ju-ly—and there’s no better shrine at which to celebrate, nu, To observe, than this here: a city only recently risen a bright hump from out of the bleakness of dunes, the newest capital of what was once known as the West, not sure if you’re familiar…no more wondering around enough wandering hotel hallways, then down any that might seem, if just for a moment, a frayed thread of rug, a gilded mirror glint, auspicious in their direction, their winding, portentous of eventual give; begging bribing answers off porters uniformed and not, offduty, dishwatery waiters and wrungfaced nightdesk personnel; through the window left open, go forth and sin with your eyes: the globes revolving dizzily, above the fountains spewing radioactive—an empyrean stripped, fallen to its tar knees, openmouthed, sucking freonated air and noising urgent. Cut the crapola, the decks and deal, we’re talking the glittery take them off tits, the sparkly cunt graven deep between the dunes, then beyond…trudging heavied, pockets emptied of everything but sand: O the skulls and the crossed bones, the brittle cacti, the desert. And then—so much—the fade of these sounds…the bringing bling, the rubby, grubby coin ching, die’s deathrattle weighted for snake eyes—it can only be none other, fellowtraveled good friends. Knowest thou the whirlwound where of this Sodom? Givest thou the proverbial futz as to the hidden name of that there forbidding Gomorrah? He asks, fregn, farlangen, or environs. Welcome to Los Siegeles, baby, a cocktail maydel whispers in His ear, then quotes Him the price for an hour.

O Siegeles! Bugsy’s burg, Lansky’s kinda town, I’m leaving you to-ni-ight…its name, hymn, how it might be derived from the German word Siegel, implying as some scholars hold the King’s Seal of approval, that infamously rhinestoned monarch whose memory lords it over these strange, illicit festivities: thank you, thank you very much…or else, other sages have said, how it might be a benign corruption from the Sephard, its Siega, though the word’s shyly feminine, with the meaning of Harvest, out southernly in this desert due west where nothing grew in the olden heat let alone in this freeze, you get used to it. Here in this garish desert Egypt, Mitzraim’s what the locals know it as, gone Goshen—give yourself another season.

Verily in the course of the buffetline that we call the land of our forefathers they came upon a famine. And so we generations stay enslaved even now, which exile’s to be redeemed with appropriate voucher. The Al-Cohol Hotel & Q’asino…try your luck, try your, try, three wishniaks pitted, rotsweet, it looks like we got a winner, close your eyes, stick out your tongue, here comes a manna of dimes. Tonight and tomorrow, it’s independence from independence we’re observing for the final, last call and closing time and all, though only a handful of the stubborn still wave in the manner of Old Glory. Onearmed bandits: the veteran homeless crutched at the crossroads, as stiffnecked as poles barren, BAR BAR BAR the stripes reeling, slowing, fading…oldtimey jingoes sleeping the day away standing upright, with their thumbs still out, their lids at halfmast, with their hands out, too, begging alms with false palms by the oases motelfront—and that’s it so far out to Mesquite, on the road north toward the border, its barricade, the purdured purdah of the holdouts, Mormondom.

Not to worry, though, there’ll be fireworks enough by tomorrow, the Fourth that isn’t the fourth, the false fourth, the day of the Israelien–Shade wedding, newly autoordained Rabbi Travis Travisky of the drivethru shul to preside: the halls of this Q’asino Hotel coagulating into veins mined for congrats; guests shaking hands, handing around envelopes enclosing checks and tables’ chips, addressed with advice in bright blood: senselessness, don’t spend yourself all in one place. Ben brought low in a seat that both rises and swivels around, costumed already, rouged, perfumed, and powdered: the faygele doing Makeup’s—secretly the partner of the one doing Wardrobe, don’t doubt—gone maybe a little too hard on the coverup, and now the tall, lashthin, lonely stoop goes tweezering again at His eyebrows.

Are you excited for tomorrow? he asks…and what can He say with his knee in His crotch.

O I do love weddings, he goes on, who doesn’t: she’ll walk around you seven times, and then shtum, He doesn’t want to think about it, thinking: where’s my coffee, I take it black but by now you should know that, what about my water, my invincible pills…anyway, why all this makeup if I’m married to the veil—which matches the white jumpsuit, too tight and tawdryjeweled?

Tomorrow, He’s to be married into the family of the President of the country that loves Him, which God blesses with each bountiful lapse of His will: the woman a girl He’s never even met, soon to be converted from daughter to wife. Her name, wait, give me a moment…Lillian Israelien, it has a ring to it, nu, and hope Gelt’s got the ring, sixstitched to his pillow. Then, the chuppah that’s been made in the image of a bedsheet upon which a son will be spilled—the weather holding its sky, which is a canopy greater, a next night’s clouding of the sleepless new moon, tomorrow’s redeye to Newark. Tonight, however, Ben’s been forbidden from mothers and sisters, urged to save up His strength, avoid such risky indulgence: though there’ve been allegations, ahem, situations, hymn, little embarrassments, random indignities…a measure of Schaden done, but nothing the glad hand of Publicity won’t wipe from the face of the earth.

And though there’s no rehearsal tisch, there’s still a rehearsal, which is always the same—whether religion or revue, and no matter the variety, the show must always go on.

Onstage in the main showroom, the Tut-ankh-a-men Ampitheather its name is, the paraplegic, extapdancer who’s also the second asst. director he’s not quite kickstepping, knocking, screaming out the kinks still left in the openers. Mada sits in the emptiness middlerowed, taking quick blacksmeared notes on a legalpad and shouting, too, as the small balding wheelchairbound mensch rolls himself into the sets in a dissatisfied fit, exhorting emphysemic through the hole in his throat, its metallic electrolarynx, the performers assembled: lefthand, and he means it in his emphatic tinny wheeze, the fingers must flutter, you with me, righthand now, right, and soon enough they’re arguing…Mada disagreeing with him through his own hands cupped to bell yell, you’re getting it wrong, then him demanding of Mada—tell me, who’s the professional, he’s asking voicelessly though, without apparatus, unable to manipulate sound as with his hands he’s frantically wheeling toward the lip of the stage, who’s the goddamned professional, rearing himself up almost vertically, this spooked tilt, as Mada throws back, who’s paying the professional…he’s leaning in a smoked hoarse, throatily impotent rage to fall back and out of his chair, which spits out from under him to fly up and into the frontrow, then snaring on a seat just spinning its wheels, him thrown to squirm worm atop the floorboards stageright. Houselights dim, with the spotlight on him; the operator’s been finally woken. He struggles to sit up against a tree prop, redfaced, and tearing, on elbows across the stage foundering before making an attempt with swipes of his fist to lisp pitifully through the gasp of his puncture.

What do you want from me, he asks, what are you asking of us, he pauses for the strain of next speech—that we scrap an entire moon of work, he’s wriggling his insensitive spine against the sloppily paintcaked wooden tree wheeled, which falls over its waxwork fruit: that we should just stop trying, he tries again to sit up, and trust success to what, bribery, coercion, providence, God or His headlining angels? then slumps, to be proppedup by the twelve principal Benettes, who fan him with their wings.

Am I on yet? is Ben’s voice from above—heightened amid the wisps of the walks and there even patiently, too, just hanging around: from the ceiling, stretching the rubberized cords wrapped around waist and stropped to a strut overhead, dangling Him limply over the pit and its floodlights, and sagging, halo drooping, toes weighted nearly to stagefloor—without drama, not enough tension, not much to spectacle at when it comes to suspension.

Save your voice! the crumpled choreographer gasps, a direction taken up slowly in whispers, vouches, and oaths staged by all in unionized unison: Ben. Benja. Benjamin, the stagehands intoning His name in this newly popular propitiatory formula; not as much hoping to save their star from falling than a ritual of pep, invoked in a style baldly copped from the profuse, profaning neon, flashing outside passersby, their yarmulked kith chauffeuring laden, bluefrozen kine. Along the Strip, marquees advertise attractions both former and upcoming in small print (all your past favorites: comic & corpseimpersonator Reggie Feldsein his name is, whom you might remember from his only appearance on Late Night with, forget it; next week: Eleven Intepretations of the Ten Plagues in Lasers & Lights—“Two Thumbs, Guess Where?” says the Siegeles Sun), but the large print’s always for Him: B-E-N it flashes, ten tall, BEN, and then BEN…B-E-N, BEN, B—a pause—N—and a member of the maintenance staff ’s chosen by lots, tephramancy: by the interpretation of ashes, the reflection of helium, argon, krypton, or xenon in puddles of gutter manure—cast out into the wilderness to screw in a new bulb.

An hour later, it’s opening, what with the toetap and the slapclap, and the booing, we want the show, we want the show—how there’s no time for reflection, Ben, you’re on and we’re off, a blinding flash out there, a whole cast of what can go wrong always will, acting up under the batting of brights: a heavy velour tugged up by a cord braided and fringed, sandbagged hoisted the flag, the desert’s skypennant, backed only by a dustily footlit diaphanous veil; this musty, fouled curtain rising on a risqué oneliner, then lowering itself back down only to be risen again as another: the entire spiel here a setup (plus admission fees, the prices of food, drinks, and unmemorabilia), and all this funnily staged business with the curtains in their second coming and third only to be followed by blah, merely a punchline we didn’t think funny the first time, and you didn’t either…such tuggy yuks as delivered by a mensch they’d taken on take your pick—scrapedup from under a rock Upstate or so, from which bungalowcolony or kuchaleyn his first wife dead always said—think it up for yourself ’s what it means (that and his older birthdate, which he’s had falsified with a stolen certificate, and which are his daughters and which are his second and third wives, each of whom’s said to own land in Joysey where they’d graze their trick Arabian horses): an oldhand expert at Katz skills, he’s short, fat, and borschtbelted, a former tummler and the purplehearted, white-livered veteran of a million hundredshekel Kutsher’s gigs, at least according to his official bio supplemented with headshot ten years and twenty pounds out of date—the immediate past president of Congregation Beth Supporting Actor, too, this snubby stub of a forgotten, unrecognized, underrecognized, genius in a weathered suit and a pair of dark, plastic, feltfooted slippers he thinks passes for dress shoes, how his bunions have corns, his tongue’s lost its gift is its gift in the telling, how he tells the same lame old jokes while holding in one hand a microphone and in the other an assortment of props, nightly, depending: whether a ringmaster’s whip or a conductor’s baton, often an unstrung violin he didn’t play if he could or a feather, which is artificial of plastic itself, pink and illegally sharp; then—according to the program that costs only a shekel or two extra if you care to follow along with us at home—there’ll be a juggler on stilts, to be followed up by a stilted who juggles, stay tuned; upstaged by a mime, the juggler’s brother-inlaw who he’s just doing a favor for he’ll regret (is he climbing a rope, or milking a cow, I’m not sure, ask him yourself, he’ll flip you a finger in answer); four and five respectively illfed, parasiteriddled albino lions and tigers turning lazy, tired, halftushed loops through flaming hoops, schnorring on their other sides, stageright, for scraps of meat rebarbatively raw—though only once all have passed safe and sounding in growl through such hazards are the hazards, then, magically transformed, alchemized, from having been hoops into triangles superimposed as to form a familiar star still afire.

An interlude, featuring the Tehranfinanced, Beirutbased rapper Def Führer engaged for juvenile appeal, the edifying fun of the kinder: We’re all infidels now / How / Shut the futz up…followed up by a set from a set of Siamese Twin girlpianists, the necessarily packaged two of them the only ones on this tour not in any way faking it, having been imported from Siam itself if it still exists: they play for our pleasure two different nusachs at twinned grand pianos, though thankfully they don’t sing (aren’t allowed to)—have you heard their accents? asks the dramaturge he’s billed as but he’s really a producer, and a dealer in woolwear, hats, gloves, mittens, and scarves; this seguing into a reprise of the opening theme, initially heard scored softly for winds with flute solo amid that sitting and settling rustle (aux. percussion), now though in an arrangement that can only be described as discoliturgical, even the critics agree it’s way over the top, performed past forte and prestissississimo, keying a change to chorus accompanied by triple winds and brass with bells up from the pit’s hellacious darkness, courtesy of the mephistic Maestro and his orchestra, besamimaddled spice addicts all, doing their improvisatorily riffing best to keep those deaf, dumb, startlishly molting feathered and sequined things onstage in the vaguest semblance of together: they couldn’t take a cue if it took them, audiences have said, and it won’t—Management will…these the openers that’ve been contracted tonight like a bad virus that stills the showstopper, keeps the stars in bed and without their shiny understudies for company, makes a boy have to step in to play a girl in drag what with the blond wig and the fainting; the last cast for the last date Ben’ll do in Siegeles, baby, and ever, wherever, the end of one engagement, that is, before the eternalizing commitment that marks the end of another, tomorrow, remember, whose wedding of Him to her and the day with posterity, too, is to be private, then its own reprise the day after that for the masses, the media, with their honeymoon scheduled to rise back in the east to close the tour at the Temple—which event’s to be the culmination of Ben’s public wander: the end to this six nights a week, with two hits per at 1900 and 2200 with only Fridays off, then two shows after Shabbos, the risen black chuppah curtain of night with its three tinsel stars, and then—showtime; He’s been scheduled like this for a moon.

And the tour entire from its opening night to this one time only it’s said, Very special engagement upon the eve of the fourth of the olden July the first of another month, also—the night of the newest moon of the month known as Tammuz, named for the God of Babylon, who’d been the lover of Ishtar and the bane of our prophet Ezekiel—has, admit it, proved nothing less than a disaster of proportions most Scriptural, whatsoever were its intentions: to begin with, the animals had been rented sick, the dye wouldn’t take, or poisoned—six sheep done dark, mortally leaded, and one heifer dripping in a puddle of its own red; the mocked up horn of the unicorn kept falling off when it wasn’t stolen and sold by the crew; then and as if that’s not enough in Indiana the unions went striking left and leftist forever, following this Marxist stuntmensch and his pyrotechnic associate who specialized in making smoke without fire turned political for the emancipation of the Hoosier proletariat; at Des Moines, Iowa, the Emezin Persky, he of “His Equally Emezin Magic Trunk (which he would always say might also refer to a more intimate organ, then wink)” refused to tour further without yet another plump plumer, a busty clovenhoofer and aspiring puppeteer he’d met then impregnated one night while on line for the motel’s ice machines and maybe she’s twelve on a good day; members of the audience throughout the Rockies, “The Very Difficult And Often Uneven” region down to the even ostensibly intelligent, aware, and worldlier denizens of Denver proper, proved reluctant to volunteer to sit in the schmuck’s trunk, take a lay, a load off—then poof out again Affiliated, afraid maybe of getting sawed in Solomonhalf, perhaps of disappearing forever; though the press would hold that their resistance was, instead, an issue of respect, finding the trick with the trunk not merely sacrilegious but unrepentant, also, of the unforgivably boring, that old outcast estate of outdated, superannuated shticky, which is to be punished by yawn, a tip of the old hat lacking a rabbit to pull for. According to our sages whose bylines buy love and whose praise is often greater purchase than money, Terrible, Unwatchable, Unlistenable, Unthinkable, too, nostalgically nonsensical—who would have thought, what with the mind that’s gone into it all: the script’s desertstale, the lighting and f/x despite the budget come off as amateur to be generous, production values pitched so low you could trip over them, a snare, a stumblingblock. A rimshot, a cymbal, a crash. And then Ben, what’s His deal, His dinging thing, what’s with it. A mensch walks into a talent agent, ouch, a mensch walks into a talent agency, ouch, next time he should use the door. No, seriously folks, a mensch walks into the office of a talent agent and sits down and says, nu, listen up, I have this fantabulous new act: it’s jokes like this, acrobatics, juggling, magic, how I’m doing all of them just by living. Here and now, that’s the act, I’m it, that’s the joke, me…whaddya think, this talking to Himself, Ben upstaging the stab of backstaging patter. Existence, now that’s entertainment. You’ll go far in this town, so far that you’ll leave town, and then you’re in the desert and futzed.

He flies high and lone up there, only to be lowered down onto a throne set atop a pillar footstooled amid property plastic fronds and hunks of foamquarried marble, from that vantage to offer His answers to questions that’d been earlier offered to select audience members, memorized by them preshow (questions asked to themselves in their minds throughout the performance, just as He’s been practicing answers, silently rememorizing what’s anyway always fed to His mouth by a device spooned into His ear) only to be offered back up to Him as if so much sacrifice, too turned and false to be accepted by even the cheap seats and their miserly gods. What did the yadda say to the blah, Ben? Knock knock, who’s there, Jaffa orange you happy I didn’t say Eden’s apple? That, and how many chickens does it take to cross what. Are sons responsible for the sins of their fathers, another goes, and its answer is yes, or no, contingent, of course, on the humors of any sins in the question, on which fathers and sons. How many crickets can outsound a heckle. Though often the answers and questions are reversed for effect, as if He’s telling the joke of a fortune: don’t bother, the audience would say all as one, or half the house that and the other, I’ll just sit in the dark, and then how He’d have to ask, humiliatingly, and with a smile that turns His glossy teeth to mirrors of the audience’s yawning and sleep, how many mothers does it take to screw in a lightbulb; and then, how the houselights would abruptly die or be killed in a fizzle, and how there’d be murmuring, too, bleats and more booing less and less sheepish—the Maestro would pad. A hook might become crooked from the wings. This is how a shepherd loses His flock.

In the early days, the initial run to fleeing sense and proportion to say nothing of dignity, respect, or the holy, the profaning previews, the underrehearsed, the yetunfinished, not quite there—they’d tried to class it up a bit with witty bits, highbrowraising oneoffs that failed (they being the first three of the spectacle’s by now twelve directors fired, or quit, or else disappeared both), such as progressive readings of the Law by prominent voiceover talent, Talmudic debates accompanied by interpretive dance performed on one leg; disputations of the type once held between popes, papabili, priests, and the rabbinate, or with the sacredly simple, devolving into mere roundtable discussions in which no position’s untenable, arguments without consequence, nothing at stake at which any will burn and so, worthless; in which every opinion’s welcomed, countenanced and considered, given an air, suffusued by the pedalheavy, flatfingered pianist Siamese plunking selections from the opera of the Second Viennese—intermezzi between the acts of this revue initially abriged, then outright freely adapted (destroyed, copyright wronged, misprinted corrupt like the program notes crumpled by the showrooms’ shined exit doors); as scenes from The Tempest became interpolated with others of The Merchant of Venice under a entire script of provisionary titles, including Don’t Be Shy, Live Long & Prospero, A Few Pounds of Wet Flesh, and Such A Big Storm As You Wouldn’t Believe; in which, we’ll be quick and synopsize the summary, Ben as the Shylock sells the King of Sicily who he’s surprisingly Aryan, well-mannered and handsome as if, a dinghy secondhand known as the S.S. Putz, which founders then sinks, stranding the King and his entourage on an Island named Coney off the coast of south Brooklyn where they can’t speak the language, are forced to dress heavily, eat oversalted foods, and pay retail; an Island lorded over by the Shylock’s business associate and, as it happens, His brother-inlaw, widely known as the Third Assistant Rabbi of Besonhurst. In the final scene, the Shylock, the Rabbi’s onemensch agency, rubs His hands, as greedily stagedirected, then offers the King, in a memorable soliloquy, safe passage off the Island He’s saying,

SHYLOCK:

I’ll deliver all,

and promise you calm seas and auspicious gales,

and sail so expeditious, that shall catch

your royal fleet far off

for a hundred shekels

a head…audiences suffering this and other such Narrisch,

Mishegas (such as vocabulary tutorials: Nonsense, Insanity…a blackboarded, graybearded explanation of the Theory of Relativity as interpreted by a professor recently sabbaticaled from Cal State, the selection of an audience member for a stint upon the stage’s analysandical pleather, a Doctor Tweiss impersonator attending; regional stock actors and actresses reading drastically edited excerpts of poetry and prose in up to and including onehundred languages: the corpora of many, from that of Modernity’s most exalted—persecuted, the truth is—names to that of Moses’ God, Who’ll be theirs by curtain; to be followed by a Mary or two as a ventriloquistic Hanna & Daughter as featured in a potboiler of a cooking segment, before the mime’s hauled out yet again to demonstrate appropriate application of tallis and tefillin upon an attractive, intelligent, altogether responsive volunteer, preselected only after being pre-screened); husbands woken up by wives woken up by kinder eyes and ears unhanded throughout for the good stuff it’s called, though a majority of them’ve left before the encore to beat traffic, make the midnight buffet.

And so the pretense is dropped like a name: Israelien, I got blessed by Him once live and I got a stub here to prove it; the extravaganza more like the injoke—the extrava-ganze, the allinclusive, oneprice, oneticket, oneshow one-nighttime only now with more musaf…upcurtains reworked after the opening acts, and then the overture anthem, upon an expensive display of lasering lights along with the introduction of that comely couple known as Smoke & Mirrors, overlaid with Der’s recorded exhortative in a voiceover the quality of which’s hoarsed worse by the night, scratchier, worn to a hiss, welcoming everybody, introducing and thanking, mentioning merchandise, setting the tone. Segue to a set featuring the pit orchestra again with a sleight’s fast, slut-tier than flirty cut to the dancinggirls, the Benettes—chubby virgins, but intelligent, as it’s claimed in the playbill, whose looseleafed content makeshifts the program, crying that they’re kind at least, sensitively single, amazingly over-achieving; quoting praise lifted from the sag of their mothers: she’s a good girl, you’d do well to applaud—for a number that’s presented in two tableaux one of secular succubi the other of lilin; then, another set from the pit, this with an exciting lead shofar feature that culminates on an expert High C, the girls out again in change of costume, now with a little stretching (too tight, they’ve put on weight, it’s the roomservice): Benettes as peacocks doing a routine of sequined sequences, the whole rathskeller gig, the burlesk and the topless, bottomless, ever refillable cancan, them up in gildgirded birdcages, feathered nests and upskirty swings, behind a quartet drawn from their ranks referred to in not one review as the Four Whores of the Apocalypse tonight doing a few USOstyle girlgroup numbers if only for the Fourth’s hell of it, the last sake less of patriotism than of their nostalgia—anything, then, in the public domain: this a starry spangly requiem, without bigbeat, without backbeat, the tin not panned anymore but made silvery threnody, the beguine once begun now elegiacally ended, the trot become outfoxed to a dirge: don’t sit under the appletree / (with anyone else but me), anyone else but me, anyone else but me, no, no, no, then the orchestra again in a medley of your favorite zmirot you love to hate, harmonized alongside many of your least favorite nigunim you hate to love but have to own anyway and now made conveniently available to the public in one (1) boxed set between the banter, accompanying a candled ceremonial, roasttoasting memoryfest, a participatorily projected montage of “This Is Your Life…” a drum solo under the death of the Affiliated edited together out of stock Army footage and scraps schnorred off the remains of the networks; then, a hazy fading out on the anthem again, exitmusic for intermission, a pause for refreshments—an opportunity made the most of to hock them schlock in the lobby.

On the flipside, there’s Johannine or his stunted double out in full ringlingbros regalia, bespoke besuited, tophatted and twirling a cane, to intone a script intolerably wordy with the pseudomystic, this hagiographic, heteroglossolalic Babel he comes on with a delivery polished as impeccably as his necklaced and braceleted and tiepinned and cufflinkedup gems: and now, the star of the show stuff, highshowbiz an antedated American dialect perfected orally only in the century past…the moment, don’t you know, you’ve been waiting for, haven’t you; each to translate this to their own disbelief. Huge womanly hourglasses are suspended from the rigging above; glitterspattered topiary’s rolled in wobbly from the wings, under which a raggedy, shopworn wreck of a lioness outcast from her species’ central casting reposes, alongside a lamb shorn due to health regulations. From a trapdoor, the platform ascends topped with that throne—the aspy hiss of hydraulics—as a screen’s lowered between it and the audience, ten cubits premium silk cut shatnes with nylon to separate the marks from the marked, to keep sanctuaried the paying public from the headlining holy: whosoever would gaze upon Ben’s countenance shall die, they’ll remember, they’ve been warned this prior to curtain in an announcement too serious to be taken for truth (and please: no recording devices, or flash photography), with the screen itself only a makeshift of lastminute, as Him suspended with bungees just hasn’t worked this last week, not what with the late weight or what all the new firms and their highpantsed, lowforeheaded adjusters want to rob Garden, Inc. of for the privilege of their insuring (this worrying, then that trouble with the unions, too, the forecastedly unfavorable reformation of Siegeles’ gaming control board), one of a God’s names’ worth of concerns and then that of marriage you won’t forget, all sagging Ben forlornly no matter what strength of cord they’d use: that of the umbilicus, rattling chains, binding ties. Up out of nowhere, it’s hoped, His shadow appears, an outline: screened, He staggers…the lights falling Him, the trussed stars. He’s deafened, with no sightlines His own. Another drumroll, this triple forte taken down to piano, a muffled muddle to ring in His head with the debut show’s organ’s last rill. Sparks fall from the roof of the sky. As He hikes up His pants and examines His zipper, the audience’s gasp rings out, enormously (a claqued human laughtrack whose mob of mobile organizers extort their commission), with the slots sounding loudly just outside the doors to the showroom—then silence, the toothy glint of a titter: He’s been rehearsed to milk it here honeyed, directed to exploit the silence to when murmur would set in, loosemouthed whispers, and vexations expectant; only now, with a deep dolent smelling breath into the microphone clipped inside the paper carnation of His lapel, to begin.

Line!—Call me Ben…’s prompted, delivered up to applause—God they hope, how they’ve already paid, how a handful of them have already been paid, grown menschs, womenfolk, and their kinder altogether wetting themselves, O Lord please and thank you, you’ve been a wonderful audience; to ensure a happy house for the prenuptial night, the entire frontrow has been comped. To take a bow to any smashed idol, a hundredthousandmouthed, open to sleeping, napping or nodding, and drool, then there on your knees to beg for approval, acceptance; lose the tie, loosen the collar—Ben, a little respect. It’s that you have to feel a right to be here, among the fleers, exiting still—the chutzpah, once was known as confidence, to be asking of them their money, earned time: not of them but its, though, is how you have to think—the undifferentiated, unindividuated public out there still in the dark; even as its yawningly sparse shadows emerge, at intermission, at close curtain, as individuals, as differently their own as the lights are dimmed up to air their embarrassment, shudders and stretches, watchconsulations then coat and bag checks, seatsearches of shame—a house is what it’s called, He’s thinking, as in a halfhouse, an empty house…as long as it lasts, it’s never a home.

Glitzy and glamaramorous come on come on, unrepentant sleaze, flimflam, hokum, hucksterism, and the slipping of audience finns, the whole razzle dazzle spiel whatever claptrap’s your brand—this scene has it all; and so, they’re always telling Him, it’s hard to believe the reviews, they’re more miss than hit: Ben Bombs, Israel Fails, He Puts The “Mess” In Messiah…fedorad newspapermenschs flock to designate pay telephones, fist the slot for coins returned for putting through their calls, telegraph machines stitched deep into their pockets’ linings, O so that’s what they’re always doing down there: line, dash, line, stop…Spectacle? Check Your Wallet & Watch! Shtunk @ The Shore!! The Whore Babbles On (find out what’s eden our critics, cont. Aleph 2)!!! Though despite the headlines, the sour ledes, the bitterest grafs, the tour’s still been blockbusting (reports have it, unconfirmed except in their unreliable capacity); apparently, there’ve been near riots at the boxoffice, and hahaha not demanding refunds: apparently, there’s just nothing else to do at night, these holying days, and anyway many have been freebied, and in not a few locales actually forced to attend, filed from their homes by police with yarmulked vigilantes assisting in lockstep to the gate, why not, thinking, might as well show up, get their blessing, as promised, which He bestows upon all at the end of every performance. And if you’re following the press on the press, the media always selfmortifying, selfcensorious, its coverage that beats breasts, fills space and kills time, there’s an easy explanation, a one size fits simple interpretation of an interpretation if you will for why the critics especially with their minds and columns and books, too—who needs them, not Him, a mensch of the people—have seemed so hostile lately, still are: it’s not Him they’re disappointed in, as we’re assured in Sabbath eve editorials referencing the weekday review—it’s just in the way He’s presented, profane.

And though He’s been hamming it up as kosher as possible, everything’s just east of being on tonight, say Utah latterly known as Mormondom that’s how far off, make you happy…as if the audience will notice—and how are our notices? Has the backlash backlashed into slavishness, yet? What’s wrong with me, what’s my problem: matrimonial jitters…having these eighteenth thoughts, that prenup this Goldenberg had Him sign this morning too early, how maybe it favored her too much, though she has her own money; after all, she’s the President’s kid, The First Daughter, foisted da Foist, they said da Pope sent a gift, Pius Zeppelini…how to get a disengagement, what are the divorce laws in the state of Kinfusion, how to go about getting a Get, or else—how to avoid such thoughts, and the aufruf; how to put an end to any Genesis before it can gestate into what?

Questions: do you Ben Israelien take you this stranger whomoever to be your fill in the blank, to have, hold, better and worsen, for richer, poorer, in sickness and health, to love and to cherish, from this day forward until death do you—who even knows how His own tradition does this, or did…they’re perusing the video arcana, the archival photographic, the imaging and audio lore; albums are pillaged, the reels are raided as tombs. And soon, begging off the bachelor afterparty, which the stagehands had been planning to host in the Forum, a vomitoriumlike via of Rome annexed incongruously to this unit of Egypt, Ben’s returned to His suite, penthoused atop the pyramid of the Hotel & Q’asino. No apologies to their disappointment. Frozen vodka and warm mashke just sit. The strippers had anyway canceled due to conversion. Hiding high above this iniquitous Whoredom, He’s beyond the reach of radiance, the sizzling of light a dull throb. Registered under any odd surname malaproposed then appended Pharaohnic with number—Jacobson I—Ben’s the lone guest of the alight capstone of this monument memorializing only its own wasted expense, roomed in the glowing glassed pyramid set atop the larger stucco pyramid sloping below. He sits exhausted on a luggagerack under a sconce, an oillamp illuminating the suite, then the desert, the sprawl hazily endless, as if emanating from the very rubble landscaped at the feet of the faces of this gently widening gold, at the very least gilded, edifice, which is set here as it is there or was, Egypt, b’shana haba, alongside the lie of a great riddling Sphinx, in this lockdowned keeping appearing almost domesticated, with its nose again attached in a laudable feat of archaeological rhinoplasty, its paws splayed out in front astride a stretch of statuary, enthroned Ramseses arrayed in factory ruin, wired for light and sound. Ben’s left the bow untied around His neck as if His head’s an opened gift, snifter in hand and a smoke, slippers and a robe—miracle of miracles, He’s left all alone.

Let my person go…Him of shvitz and of sadness, walled inside this tomb, however tastelessly appointed, not that He’ll notice, being nervous, anxious, humiliated by His image, His presentation, how He’s been packaged—O to be bound within the circumference of a ring…God, everything and the show, too, tonight’s disaster He’d rather not go into—the closet’s mirror, or that above the bed, in which to relive the worst in the face of relief—not with what He has to do to evade tomorrow, its tight new tux hanging plasticshrouded behind that closetglass (to be laidout on the bed in morning’s reflection), for the ceremony’s seven circles and…Ben almost thinks to stand in line for a refund at the boxoffice Himself, but no, think again—to do the drastic, that’s what’s called for, the coming voice, not as much gesture as deed, less prayer-whine, more more. Let my people, get up already and go! Gegangen! Napkins have been fitted into their holders. As for the rings, those two golden globes hollowed for vow, as if emptiness is its symbol (one of which’s been named the most capacious yet made, possibly ever, in the whole upper 40s, Mitteltown’s reformed Diamond District; who keeps records of such things, you might ask, but how they whisper!), they lie surgically stitched to a pillow on a bed in a room, which is Gelt’s, three quadrelating floors below, between two macaroons compliments of turndown. Ben takes steps to the window opposite the deck, dashes His eyes down upon the slope ensuing, its desert landscaped: a combedover tangle of briar, withered scrub and shrub giving way to flats; the far terrain littered not with treasures of papyrus, scarab, or hieroglyph shard, but with paper, plastic, the metal promise of lottery scratchoffs, the greasy shrouds that mummify burgers…Hathor the cow goddess slaughtered out in the wilderness and then carved for buffet, the four sons of Horus gone bust as the birds then flown home with the Sun God finally set, Amen-Ra; Osiris’ Isis secured for the night in her maximum security vault. Transportation to any netherworld’s just a short ride away, though, a straight shot from a lot of parked golfcarts that opposites the horizon.

From the glass atop the sharp rise of His accommodation, Ben’s stepping past the kingsized serviced with two macaroons of His own, served up each to a pillow, how thoughtful; their grease as if leeching His shadow across the eggshell carpet, deckward: the open and wide desert just a fall past volition, a gust flings open the door to screen midnight’s sky. The stars have been annulled in favor of the lights burning below, downed to the lampposts in deference, due respect dimmed to the blinking cold and the signs. Enumerate that lower stellular, then its sands gardened, too, and may that number be the wondrous sum of thy kinder—no way, you got the wrong me. Why should He marry her, how could He, why would He, know what a decent reception for onethousand maybe friends and no family costs you these days—it’s His money, not that it’s His to spend, but…emotionally, He means; know what kind of expectations are involved, what failures might lie in wait under every placarded table, what curses can be writ in the cards? Ben steps over the threshold, through the air, into sky. And there, at the greediest, pyramidal pitch of His occupancy: His head itself a greenish eye appraising, allseeing, seeking value unlidded, unlashed atop worth…Exile—the desert endless and endlessly unforgiving; utterly foreign, yet if only in its ideal, an inheritance, too: this desert the wilder younger brother of an easterly nowhere, the desert that formed Affiliation, years before civilization, ages before culture—an unpromised land; and, at its furthest western edge, another ocean, which promises to be purer than that that lapped us over here those generations dead long ago. Arise, then go down. Don’t let the wind hit you on the way out. Deserts have this way of turning people to prophets, sheep into shepherds, making rules into exceptions that then grow bushes of fiery beard and strike miracles from the faces of rocks.

Here and now, though, there’s no indication. And so what is it, exactly, precisely, stonily spring forth with what because we all have that thirst: what force, that tactless trust to what or in Whom that has Ben out on that deck, atop the pyramid atop the pyramid from which He rules every and none, then has Him ledge out a leg over the rail…the hair of His head, tangling with breezes and cirrus—to knock unscrewed the burnt bulb of the moon…on the rail, His crotch becomes stuck, what a drop—don’t look down? don’t look up! and then the other leg overs, as well, and Ben’s holding onto life with only the cruciate nails of His fingers, trembling, numbed. A handful of our scholars once schmucked low enough to suggest this as an attempt at suicide and for this they’ve been thrown from the topmost window of the House of Study, which if not merely metaphor is risen higher than any pyramid and with windows that don’t open ever whether in or out—then to become scholars of only their own demise, of their own failure, its interpreting loss; and yet neither is this a martyrdom, not even a selfmartyrdom, as other of our sages once heretically proposed—what mamzers semantic, forget them: may they be excommunicated by their own consciences, exiled out to the margins, the verso darkened by recto of the page being turned. No, it’s at its most secular an escape, as some of our more moderates have allowed, an exodus if you want, but, as they insist, an exodus redivivus reversed—an exile accomplished in rewind, a history never accomplished in doublearrowing rewind: into the desert, the Law, and only then may we wander it was, but now it’s just wandering from the very 1:1 first verse, perpetually—an eternal lightingout for a territory that can only be civilized in its Promise, it’s said. To think that who or what promised the Promised and why’s not to be known, and how that promise doesn’t indicate intention either, whether it be good or evil or neither and mystically both, only fulfillment, as faithed…hymn hymn hymn, is this the particular kind of promise best left unfulfilled, like the one of the One Messiah—who knows if not Him; better to think less, fail better, fall more. Unminded, mindless, to step along the outermost lip of the deck and then, lean. Ben’s foreskin freshly shed before the show thanks to His own ministrations, it’s calming; His Batya, the Marys, are off—and so He has nothing to slow Him, to float Him on down on the wind of its flap. He lowers His tush, holding the railing to air His weight as long as He can and the deck can support. And then breathe, Ben—He just lets Himself go, with a great loosening of everything inside Him gives way, and He slides…down the western face of the pyramid, Him slipping hundreds of widening stories down the slope widening fast and faster forever, what with His weight and its force, the extensive weather that is gravity behind Him, slingshotting this now yellowy butterballed, dirtysnowballing Ben down the incline headfirst, feetfirst, everythingfirst and tumbly nothing, His tush on His roundness that’s all tush getting hot, rubbing hotter and burning, bumping Him up in small moguls on ducts, chaffing until—just as Ben’s sure His robe will spark His roll into flame, a rearside, frontside, inferno, He hits, solidly, and splays open wide, landed in the sand, not quite that of the desert proper though made in its image: an unsparing, unstintingly dusky perimeter perhaps once marked for plantings, but presently barren because frozen, fringing toward the edge of the sidewalk then around at a squared turn to the face of the pyramidal Main Entrance.

Promise. Save that very vague promissory notion He hasn’t fully thought through, though who has—destiny or fate, reward or punishment, step right up, step right up—Ben has no thoughts whatsoever as to just where exactly what territory He’s lighting out for is, if lit, if anywhere and not just more of that proverbial prophetic dimness or dumb…God’s talking to me in my voice; God’s talking to me, and I’m God—whether in metaphor or image. Confused, who’s not, but out, just out’s enough—He rolls from the sand, half-somersaults then gets up onto feet, stumbles toward the front. And there, to His right, signed at the turn of the sidewalk, a black letterboard bulleted with letters in white: Shalom, it says, Welcome to II: Israelien Impersonators. Then an incongruous Philistine arrow, pointing this’a’way and Ben—despite any freedom a slave still to ego, like a dog sniffling for terrorist bombs, or a God responding to an invocation of names—has to follow, dripping sand and shvitz. Through the door, He’s swung into the lobby crowded but vast, then through the Q’asino floor and its tangle of topiary of Him, celebrity cacti kept decorative up against the glaring edges of wallmounted display cases said to contain: Ben’s wardrobe from His babyclothes up to His wear from the show, then His shoes—bronzed booties that just have to be faked; accompanying other Israelienish treasures and trinkets and charms, making Him blush if not galling: His family Kiddush set, or a model thereof, their silver box for besamim perhaps a reproduction, too, alongside an intricately upbraided—in its labeled, libelous description—Havdalah candle of His mother’s she’d never used because it was too beautiful, she’d always say, how to burn it, whose birthday present it’d been from relatives, hers, flown in from Safed once of Palestein (and then stored underground, inside the vault, an ironclad canopic containment of models purposemade to accompany us to the afterlife, a midgetized Eden of the temporal above: minivaults stuffed with miniaturized gelt, dimunitive chip and coin, minigolfcarts and minislots, minibuffet tables smally laden with tiny roasts and flecks of sushi, little harlot idols with claybound breasts laid atop the minibeds, the minipillows, the miniminibars, minipayperview available in every room, maybe)—then, deep into the innermost sanctum of the pyramid, a room known as the King’s Tomb: a limitless capacity ballroom doneup in a lively approximation of rastered sepia, with bunting and crepe streamers hung in black & white, to host the suitably bannered, what’s it again…1st Annual Meeting of Israelien Impersonators, held this inaugural year, amazing—O what a Cohencidence! such cohenesthesia! smack dab in the middle here of this frozen desert, amongst the holdings of displaced Ibn Ezra and Ha Levi’s latterdays. Maybe it’s the prospect of the wedding, or just that of the group rates that would follow it in a discounted procession, veiled in clipped coupons and diaphanous deals, trained to please, but all are in attendance, Bennies from every continent converting. He hadn’t been briefed—untold many of Him working the room, networking below and they hadn’t; futz the Garden’s Pharaohlording, their locklipped secrets, their pokerfaced withhold or hit, just His luck, but maybe there’s a why this’s been hushed. He’s folding, we’ll call. There’s no better place to lose your self than among yourselves, as who would find Him, Him as Him, here, amongst all these Hims, who’d even think it to look. How could anyone tell the real deal’s the spiel, only God knows, only God cares, and maybe that’s it—to let the world stand your security, to stay safe by exposing everyone else to the danger you’re in; and then, to convince them they’re every one of them doing it for themselves, now that’s business.

An ingathering of seemingly every freak who’d ever stuffed a pillow down his pants, then gave that pantsed pillow a secret name they’d tell anyone who’d never ask after only one lchaim of schnapps too many and so perhaps those many names or that Name aren’t so secret, it’s usually Help: windchapped and undermoisturized faces listing toward eczema; dark dangles of meshmade ties lazily shadowing immense purchases of paunch, belts of leather thongs braided hidden around girth, under gut—dressed for this westerly freeze just like their easterly mothers would’ve insisted, in multiple layers and, hymn, maybe that’s all they are, all there’s to it: people draped fat in infinite layers for warmth, layer after layer nylon to woolen and yadda on down to their stained cotton briefs; at night in their own rooms to peel downily away to the unnamable kept hot and heart with within—a molten unknowable nothingness, a core boiling barren of Him—sleeping in beds tossed by the blue light of screens, to become their very own nobodies themselves. This being the very first annual meeting of any orientation Ben would ever attend, and He’ll attend it all wrong, unofficially, uninvited, no blame. His parents, or so He’s gathered from an albumed stash of official linnerdance portraitphotographs, from the trove of souvenir programs, kept from going starrily yellow by the careful preservation of experts lately involved with a forthcoming museum to be housed in His house at the Garden (its projected opening date, this upcoming Rosh Hashana—the first week of the newest New Year), had been much more proficient in attending such meetings and gatherings, pitchstrategy sessions and infotainment plenaries to be focused on PR message discipline and trial technique, training camps and miscellaneous congress: as laymembers, they were never caught lying down; as board members, never bored, always attentive, and in good standing: during speeches, they’d sleep on their feet; they were even officers, at least Israel had been, Hanna maybe just a Hadassah or Sisterhood corresponding secretary or else, with Edy an event cochair, her husband presiding over an immemorial annualization of bar association brunches, inns of court functions, and other purposeless conferences held toward the winter what with Joysey’s Teachers’ Convention break flown south to greater Orlando (though in relative youth, with their portfolio barren earth, how the family would install its members in a chain hotel fanned above the swamp that is neighboring Kissimmee). And so this feeling for meetings maybe isn’t so genetic. Still, how hard can it be to be Ben-as-yourself, especially if it’s just long enough to help your feigned to food and drink for what’s gratis. Not to be Himself, only one of His selves, a mere tear oozed to this ocean, the giddy, overheated shvitz of the five, sixthousand strong here who if not Him or even of Him then have at least all been doneup alike, padded to pop, aping devolved His every mannerism, making an attempt to be accurate even to Him and His mortification to the last mindless gesture holding as public reaction (Him made mindful and foremost, aware, withholding that that’s being manifested by all)—this summit of gesticulators signifying familiarly similar, simianly familial, as Ben enters the room disappointment in disastrous unison.

A sigh, a roll of the eye, a forefinger shrugged. As this meeting’s inaugural, first annual, indulge them, this reactionary rudeness is the only organization obtaining: a total insanity prevails over disorder, two to a room if not to a bed. A shtus of klutz, a pure riddling mess, through which al-Cohol, Q’asino proprietor and seventh son of the newly elected though others hold Shadeappointed Palesteinian president, makes his buying rounds, pressing impersonated flesh, and comping next Shabbos packages, gladhanding anyone rolling high and hard down the pyramid’s loss, leaving the house with their gain; this as tomorrow’s wedding guests—friends and family of the Shades, associates and the internationally owed—enjoy the spectacle, joking amongst themselves they hope the rabbi gets the right groom, hahaha.

Ben makes His way to the rows of the buffet, the tables bent over backward with everything He’s ever liked, with anything He might like, too, if He’d ever had it: varenikis stuffed with pierogies themselves stuffed with you never know what as a foretaste of Messianic eternity; platters of everything you could ever possibly do to a fish before eating it: smoked over fires of rainforest woods rare and endangered, cauldrons of thick stews of lamb and beef whose names noodle out to eighteen letters long, in consonants as chewy as fat. Pre-warmed plate in hand, He lines behind innumerable Bens as two old women, they’re old to Him at least, they’d take offense, tsking drag Him as yet unidentified out toward Registration—to the table unsteadily folded out alongside the frontdesk—and stand Him there His fingers twitchy on the mammillate clangor of bell. To be singled out here, Jesus. Two women, both of them convinced of a singular estrangement from His strangeness: minimumwaged to be consecrated to the act of its identification, intent on an official acknowledgement of their how perceptive they are to be followed by a rectification of His own unrecognizable estate. Maybe it’s His sense of humor that isn’t in the Schedule, maybe it’s because He’s all the while smashing the table with the empty plate that is His head, shrieking along the lines of you’re not understanding this, lady, I’m Him, I’m really Him, the emes mamash, I mean for real. As they leave to He hopes get the Manager who, hoping further, might fittingly as if a creation made manifest of this very convention be imaged as God: a Ben as everything more than such Bens, taller and wider and with infinitely more eyes and ears and noses and mouths, and beards and chutzpah, desked in perpetuity and promoted imperiously, allpowerful, and yet always seeming to be off for the night—a crowd of lesser Bens crowd around Ben, minatorily minor Benjaminites shaking heads, stomping tribal trouble, whispering amongst themselves, giggling: is my squeal, He’s thinking, all that highish, no, can’t be, I don’t believe…and no, I don’t have an impediment! but the retort’s enunciated clearly: not yet you don’t, you’re too Young Ben—I’m supposed to be doing an impression of Him when He’s old.

The real Ben doesn’t point, one Benny’s insisting, a Teofils flown in from Warsaw it was, especially for the event. What He does is He squeezes His hands into fists, like so, then shakes them out loose, while stomping His feet.

And another, he’s New Orleans I think it was called, now Bet Mississippi…that’s rage, you with me? Entitlement, follow? I know a faker when I see one.

Me, too.

And yet another, from Angels, you know it. I know Him and, let me tell you, friend, you’re no Him.

And you are?

I don’t know you, Ben says, who are you to me, who in God’s name? I just wanted freedom for free, an offnight out, what I needed, one measly miserly gulp of unsupervised air—and now this. I’ve never seen you before in my life. I don’t know you to hate you as much as I do, just leave me alone, I’m sick of this hearing…then waves His arms above His head as if the unangeled wings of His ears, brings them to clap Himself down on His forehead like Oy—as if applauding His own perplexity, I’m not sure.

Can I get a gevalt? Better make it to go.

And, nu, ease up on the gimp, will you, says another Bennie or Benny, whatever they’re calling themselves nowadays, for use in propagating any calling into which they’re being coopted: the name’s impersonation, another jibes, not assassination…remember, you’re trying to be Him, not kill Him.

You, you’re so funny, you do standup, too, how much you make, maybe I can break into it, seems like a good racket, you know anyone I can call—gimme a number, a letter behalfed, the coin of a name…

Hymn, yet another Benny says, that’s not how you do it…He stomps His left foot, right, then His right lags a little behind, adds maybe another Bennie, and really, come off it, says why not yet another of them—you think He’d ever be caught dead in a shmatte like that, a house robe, think again, keep yourself dreaming.

The women return, hotflashing, moodswung, and with faces severely refreshed, flushed with sample kit makeup, looking like overflowed bathrooms begging for maids: they turn Him around, the only one of them unnamed, the One—hauling Ben called to the carpet brand new, one with a slip of tag, the other wielding a pen.

Why’d you drag me away from the buffet? He wants to know. The carving-station just got a new roast.

You left your nametag in your room, maybe, one woman says (her name’s Elaine), no need to run up and fetch it, says the other (Explain), we just wanted to get you another…you know, Elaine says as Explain picks up as if dust from her unfashionable, also unironed, lapel, before you forgot who you were, Elaine laughs, then Explain, and then the both of them together and how—one would laugh just a giggle longer than the other and so all the timing would be off and the effect would be ruined; it’s terrible: they’d get separate motelrooms to stay in and wouldn’t talk to each other for days.

No problem, He says. Me, I want to forget.

It’s an act, if still in development—until they can afford to quit this job, then their Mondays and Wednesdays dayshifting a diner opened to service the eating days of a local yeshiva: Elaine would say, I feel bloated, and Explain would say, this is how it must look to feel bloated. Explain would say, I have cramps, I feel terrible, and then, get this—Elaine would say, you look great, never been better…

Nu? says Elaine, meaning name, and guess who explains. Ben says what it is, Ben, and how everyone laughs altogether, doubles now doubledover, folded for the packing or stack like napkins or sheets, amused He thinks at mine this amateur impersonation, my rank this hobbyhack, sad. They’re slapping knees, drizzling tears like shpritzes of lemonlime squeezed, a pinch sprinkling salt over the shoulder. Bin Eden, known to most though as Fats, Head of Q’asino Food & Beverage, he approaches to ask if everything’s alright, Mister…in a capacity competently official, solicitous in its sincere swiftness, with his silent bows and craft of cunning obeisance in lipspittle, nosedrool, and swallow, and how the Bens gathered together shriek His Israelien name, then laugh even harder, heaving their tongues against teeth, a howl massed from their mouths almost vomiting up on the floor and its latterly vacuumed carpet a morningafter cholent, of sorts, slowly warmed in the gut, bussed from buffets, earlybirded especially greasy, but just as He begins to serve voice and register protest, bin Eden’s already moved on to his next guest: got to pass on the love—hand to crossed fingers, them old meet ’n’ greets—at least a false sense of feely importance, clapping impersonators on the back, hugging them and cheekily kissing and saying incredulously I almost didn’t recognize you, hahaha his sharpie brows and his slitty eyes and the scrawny, bent humble hunch of his frame on his way zigzagging down the welcome-line only of Hims, how’ve you been doing, baruch hashem, the wife and the kinder, enjoying yourself, have a great stay.

Their nametags, also, say obviously enough Benjamin Israelien, but underneath that writ expected are their real first olden names they’re given over to slowly forgetting, from which they’re changing, converting; what used to be referred to as their appelations Xtian, Unaffiliated, and then the names of their goyish hometowns; example: Harry, Mizpah, Larry, Shiloh, Gary, Lodi, here with his lovely wife, Vicki, doneup in drag.

My name, He says, is Jacobson, hymn, Jacobson, Esq., why not, from where or, more perfectly, from whom He gets it and what else (name, life—nomen est roaming, perhaps), He doesn’t know—and then there’s the touchy issue of quote His accreditation end quote; Jacobson, Esq. just once overheard and now, underspoken—the name, it’s been said, of His father the lawyer’s old lawyer of his own according to the will Israel’d left they’ve since scrapped. Elaine falls for it, asks Him to spell it all out for her: and He tries, capital-J-AC-O-B-S-O-N comma space capital-E-S-Q period.

And where am I from—Wishniak Hill, maybe you’ve heard of it, it’s in Joysey, where else should it be? and Explain shrugs, goes and pens it onto His tag.

Hello, My Name Is: and yadda, she pins it to His lapel, its spike sticking through His bathrobe, His breast (later observers would describe Him, Him as Him—as if they’d known, or could’ve told the difference if only to tell it again well after the fact—as the height of inappropriateness, here in a house robe piped in pink, over His mother’s own robe trimmed in purple, both rattytatty, and holed), pricking Him to weep, His sacred heart. To pump Himself, then, from this nick of a question, Ben asking, what’s in a name—whether an inoculation against self, or a sanguinary palm smeared to mark the forehead in confusion, disbelief…blood, Ben thinks: maybe mine aren’t just impersonators; Jesus, do you think so they’re clones? Could be, could be worse. Holding Himself against the pain, the pains of both wound and thought, He tongues lips, sets teeth. Elaine hands Him a program. Explain blows a kiss to His booboo, is what she says from lips swollen with enhancement, botulinum, collagenital. He opens the paper to read right to left. How late tonight there’re still two midnight sessions to choose from: Doctor Tweiss’ scheduled to talk in the Shishak Suite about minimally invasive surgical options to, and He’s quoting: Get The Most Out Of Your Sinuses; competing with his brother Doctor Tweiss who he’s up late doing the Ramses Room in a discussion of the Metametymparapsychologyality of (Im)personational (Im)personation: An Excursus in Pretty Pictures & Lite Muzak; please pick up your vouchers from Registration, it’s urged.

Fat, frizzy almost menschs swarm Him away with them into an elevator then upstairs to either or both sessions included (How To Be Two Places At The Same Time: A Seminar for Expectant Mothers; a prerequisite for How To Do Two Things At Once II: A CrashCourse, kneepads not provided), but the food—it’s back down on the floor below buttoned the lobby’s L. Ben jiggles a flabby wriggle from their frazzled, cuticlebitten grasp, attempts to take the elevators again and this direction down, but the doors’ve already shut, fallen. He rests Himself against the buttons to summon the lights, God forbid walk a floor. Suddenly, the hallway’s hobbled through with Bens halting with walkers and quadcanes, disabled to wheelchairs (electric and wheeled by Himself, by His own best companions both in drag and in friendship, and in the spirit of charitable help), incarnations of any fate that might be His, forever robbed of their futures—with their constant flowmasks or nasal cannulas hooked up as if by strands of saliva to little, wienerlike oxygen tanks tubing attendance, and, too, them lying their spacesaving, moneysaving accommodation in the Q’asino’s sprawled ballrooms and hallways and even in the elevators He’s waiting for still atop a host of rental and stolen stretchers hauled, gurneys rolled on casters that squeak to suspect an infestation of mice from function to food again and again.

A ding, the elevator doors open with Him about to step inside but instead He’s crowded back and out by more Bens piling out, too many, too much even for Him who’s been Himself all His life—what little of life there’s been, both personally with regard to fulfillment and, also, speaking of time. Huffpuff Ben goes to find the door to a stairwell in case of divinely intercessory fire and there in the hall tries at the handles and finds one unlocked and so opens it, He’s sorry: inside the room and sitting on a twinbed’s a mensch, a nearmensch, an almost there, close but not quite, who he looks though—superficially, the suspicion’s only a feeling—just like what His twin would’ve been in reflection, in a mirror hutched on the opposite desk; he’s naked from a hotwaterwasting, fogmirrored shower now drying and draping himself for modesty’s sake with a pair of tzitzit that barely hides the wound of a circumcision that just has to be recent. To this particular Benjaminite’s credit, even his squeal retails real—Him fleeing from the sound of His own voice, through the hall down to its end trying all the doors along the way, locked jimmies locked, then tries the last, the one whose name is Stairs lettered in the holy tongue, too, across its window in red, shoulders into its give to tumble down a flight to a landing whose door opens back into the lobby. But it’s an emergency exit, rigged, wired, and so above there’s an alarm ringing like slots ping in zeros of sound, an openmouthed, untongued everymensch for Himself, no one gets out of the desert alive—people flinging aside even panic, fleeing themselves as one self that is Himself, too, to lobby exits lit and conspicuous, blatant and yet too narrow to accommodate such padded passage as if the very openings, the needle’s eye gateway, to Heaven Itself, which is bright and cold and pavedover with tar…Ben approaches the desk and without really asking Himself what He’s doing asks for a vehicle, demands as if with all the credit in the world behind Him anything with wheels and like now.

And what’s your name, sir? the ancient, fisticfaced hop wants to know.

And the mensch laughs a scar until Ben gives up Jacobson, Esq., with what room I forget…no, #108, the number of the room from which He’d just been evicted by ululant force. The hop sobers professional as the sprinklers rain down on his head and the water gathers in the cistern bowled between his prognathic lower lip and his gums. He nods Him out with a you’ll have to speak with the valet through the revolving doors through which He spins planetarily, revolting around and around, then finally outside and dizzied, lit and alarmed into night, its vastness human and waged: starryvested valets at their stands, amid intricately stranding constellations of velvet, webs suspended fine and strong between tarnished poles. Police arrive as wolves, with the tails of scorpions and the disgruntled foreheads of fathers at the siren of fivetrumpet alarm. He rips His nametag from His robes, throws it to the sidewalk, stands out unacknowledged. Then, bends His knee to pick up that nametag, walks over to the trashcan aside the entrance, throws it properly away—Hanna would be proud, would’ve been.

Ben outside and alone takes in the Strip, the hotels with the velouring plush of their high, brightchandeliered halls; their checkeredpast gaming-floors, their chipped pools, sexually voluble fountains; the honeymoon suites up above, where Moloch beds down with Mammon, their minted offspring incubated in vaults, coins awaiting their sacrifice within dimly fluoresced lairs underground. He mingles amid this jingle and jang, tourists the spume and the flash and the flicker. We Buy Your Old Currency, a lit billboard speculates then squelches to urrency, urgent. Gold accepted, in lieu of jewels. Whores solicit the favors of unpatrolled corners and curbs halfextorted; who knows what sex they are or might think to be, they’re heaped in His clothes and hijacked tablecloths over what’s hoped are shapelier bodies. Firemenschs loiter among them getting paid by the hour, standing around like hoses stopped up, with their tainted dalmatians like swollen hydrants to be tapped for their foam. Despite the panic, impersonators fleeing, others are still just arriving, Bens perpetually coming and going—from their sad vans and paneled sedans, station wagons lonely with only the driver’s seat ever occupied; they’re uniformly falling apart, upholstered in delusion, but mufflered in dream—if not evacuating or hauling the wrinkles of their luggage to and from porters no longer waiting around for their tips, they’re honkskronking a nap on their horns on their ways waiting to pull in and out of the horseshoe blocked, too, by tethered and poorly shod horses and donkeys and mules with their bales of haphazard hay, their sirens of whinnies and brays. Ben whispers to a slot attendant who just now lucky for one of them happens to be on break who whispers Him, then, to a cage cashier with illegibly tattooed knuckles just punching in with a particular valet, caped and capped, who whispers Him to negotiate: two shekels large in His own denomination a no go, three shekels, I can’t hear you, what else, you drive a hard—nu, I’ll see what I can do…how much they’re talking for a pickup, what’s spare at the moment, a dumb, lumbering truck, a paleotechnic Henry Ford model the only vehicle he can part with at this hour, tonight with its alarm and for any price (part of which he has to kick up to the goy he’d punched in), deal or no steal; last week its owner had run up a tab, having jumped bail after being euphemistically too energetic in the way he’d talked to the officer; then, skipped out on his bill with a creditline you couldn’t use to pick up your mother, without a kidney, short sperm, and two pints of blood; he used to be a priest or a preacher’s the word, they have it tough nowadays, you know how it is…

And so to begin in with the handling, kicking the tires of a transient deal: they ding around birthrights, fling wrongs, sly lentils, a large bowl of His lot taken with doubly dipped doses of salt. The valet doesn’t believe who Ben is and so He tells him He doesn’t either, then backs the goy into a corner and opens His robe. A circumcision convinces—especially of the one actually doing the severance. Touch it, He tells him, tug it, shift it and tear: it doesn’t hurt, the emes, no fooling—it’s just skin, it flakes off, yours to keep.

Through glint and glit, Heber’s swerving the limo around and He realizes upon dodging its hood then the sweep of its lights that Hamm’s probably even now up in the pentpyramid, attempting to evacuate His person downstairs. Bombsquad shows up only to fill out their insurance paperwork on the dash of their truck; anyone got a pen, we’ll take turns. And so Ben hides as much of Himself as possible behind the hollow of an ivylocked column, which is maybe unnecessary and what’s more thirty bits of silver neurotic what with the other Bens betraying around—how hiding’ll just make Him all the more findable, found…emerging only when the valet’s gotten the truck out of hock to the headwaiter and lot then waves Him from the cab over to the edge of the sidewalk, the further curb where they idle at the head of a motorcade of who gets to be first response. A vehicle not usually recommended for the Affiliated, furthest thing from, but it works; one maladroit emission on wheels, mobile death. Ben gets up into the cab, the truck sags, belches exhaust on its chassis. It’s cancerously blueblack, with a filthy, fatty white interior, lipoid pleather that’s not quite fake as it’s not quite trying for real. A custom job, coming to ruin: the eagle once fossilized upon the face of its hood has flown, its nest left to the weather, peeling piscine finish in rusty scales, even the scabrous metal itself flaking away, gloss to dross; the rims churning chromed: lick my mudflaps, they say in flashy roman—without honor. At least there’s a full tank of gas.

The valet leaves Him honored, happy to be of help and with a wish of good mazel, no thanks he’s pleased only a thumb held up in front of a wink (and so, obscuring his recently hirsute face from surveillance). Proudly, the goy struts back to his stand engrossed in Ben’s outermost robe, hotelcomplimentary, and daubed in His blood, its left pocket hanging fully low past its purfle, heavy with the skin of His shed. Once unobserved, how it’s humiliating, though: Ben gets the hulk out of park, takes a moment to realize the emergency’s on, releases it, stiff footwork on the pedals, starts and spurts, stalls, starts and stalls on—trying to remember Heber’s lightly natural routine, that mechanical ritual as unconsciously observed too many mornings in transit, if most of them dreamed halfway to sleep (an inheritance, this techincal debility: like everyone else in their Development, His parents only ever drove automatics: the vans and the minivans, too, the rovers and even Israel’s promotional sportscar that he’d had out on lease for all of a month before being rearended by a towtruck out on the GWB, then trading it in on Hanna’s insistence for a practical coupe with no soul, prone to every complaint ever insured by the responsible, to be handeddown to Rubina, Simone, and Liv in their turns right and left—a fray amid the wires of veins, it must be, this disconnect deep in the blood); He manages how to have it going, to keep it going, soon gone…to turn it around the drive’s short learningcurve; then eventually—heading out.

Ben without chauffeur, though it can’t be too hard, just follow the nose of the road, hound it out. On the wing of a prayer: check mirrors, burn maps. He’s got a ways to go nowhere, both pursued and pursuing…Him to be forktrailed, coattailed by drones, Bens not created by God but recreated by the science of fame: His replica becoming their replican’t, willingly, with each of them lapsed, failed failures, messes and wouldaBes, Messiahs-in-training untamed without name. Wandering throughout the whole of the desert, New Mexico, Arizona, south by southwest, until—ultimately, a landmark’s required: the West Pole, a totemic redwood, a giant sequoia flagged with a flag; having been driven out from the buffet, denied the breaking of the fast the evening next (says the Law, the groom must go without on the day He’s to be married), which reminds: driven, too, from Lillian Shade, almost, not quite, Israelien, which would’ve been real Schade, who tomorrow early would’ve made her arrival on Aeroforce Aleph, its descent better classified, into the semaphored lights: their message, stay away, go back from whence you came, but then the glide to a stop, the gangway would be hauled up and who’s going to be there to greet her and her First Family once this gets out, makes wire and with it, stifles, strangles—an understudy public, a lesser name fallen from the agenda’s marquee? Off the strip, they’re waiting with new letters to hang. Meaning, runawayed. The wind, blowing colder than ever, winds its way into the loosest slots in town, as they’re sold—all proceeds going to the charity of a blind eye, the moon’s. The syncope, the tone: a howl with the windows darked down. Finger a shekel—call your mother goodbye one of these nevers. Tell her you’re not coming home.

To set out through tunnels, over the underpasses, loop around then turn without signal. To drive through the night—no, not to drive but to truck…that’s what the goyim say, what they once said and fast, virilely hard and long, Unaffiliated with the caution required: due westward ho, and once nowhere then deeper, ever further into its myth, its fantastical lore—sandshifts…Sabra prickly pears, Mesozoic lizards, cacti, and the threat of wily coyotes, existential roadrunning past repeating scenery repeating and repeating again, deanimate and so no longer funny but wasting—O the barren Midbar, the gulag that borders Siburbia; the whole contiguous country out there, how it’s one enormous golfcourse…neglected, defiled, destroyed—one hole let’s say three par of a course that breadths the universe entire, it might; or, our earth’s the ball, and it lays foul, from where it must be hit, again…a west to which the sun’s set to putter around in darkness, to waste its waning years paying bills by memory to waking, making increasingly conservative investments in day. Here, where everyone retires—Ben trucks, and Ben lives.

At the outskirts, the ramshackle gird of the grid, of failures and fallings, car carapaces, dungbeetlelike burnt like scarabs, swaying palms trunked in plaster, splintered rust…Ben pulls into the lot of a roadhouse being converted into a synagogue to turn Himself around after He misses a turn, and prays, if just for a moment. May my memory in this town be for a whammy, for any who might so deserve It—unto a double, what’s to lose by being so generous, no jackpots, no wins shalt ye merit. Then, behind Him, once pulled back onto the road prominently marked to give itself unto the altar of highway, as if a secular offering to the earth: there’s the call and the echo of fire…lighting up the desert in the rearview mirror and reflected, the same, in the windshield in front and there in His face, it’s a fireworks show; the night before the night, but still, a display almost divine in how violable, without distance. Huge trinities dazzling, they’re banging, they’re bursting, such warming, nostalgic salute—not ending but beginning again, not a covenant new or liturgical levin but a reminder that rainbows can be made by us, too, here and now. Not the engine backfiring, Ben—it’s the rocket’s reddening glary that’s sparkling blue, which once fired to fizzle is white, the ash of their promises made: another whiz, yet another big bang…halos exploding, a sundering of air and a coming together again, both at once: dumped clumps of gunpowder lit hissily to pop, poking holes in even the most spacious of skies, holes that are the skies in the sky—heavens, Heaven, that most blessed of the firmaments known, and the only. O’er amber wanes of grave.

An apparition above, a starry conjunction, a convergence of smokes: the lights fade into darkness, total, leaving only tracework, a serpentine sigh…a gray wispiness, a winding sinuousness, then—space, the emptiness ensuing punctuated only by the twinkle of a planet. Mars, if He had to war with guess, a mote of lava in the eye. In its entirety, though, this smoke’s a known form: half of infinity, a feminine slither—it’s a questionmark that’s up there, and who are we not to oblige? Who’s He not to make manifest any portent above? And so, what’s Ben doing, where’s He headed and why? Hazy, still, hidden in wind…you don’t think you’ll get away that easy, do you? simply disappear into ranks, the hierarchy, no? any route, which way high or free, which interstate of hundreds, of thousands? what about the symbolizing signs, the thisway thataway arrows, ten miles always to the next, ask directions, shun pride. You don’t think you’re your own keeper now, do you? Haven’t you perused at any length the books they’re called Exodus, Leviticus? Numbers, when your own is up, cataloged under As good as…check the topmost drawer of the nightstand at any schlumpy motel. Don’t you know from the desert, the boiltongued, locustlidded suffering before the Law—though that’s all a moon ago, and the suffering, it goes on, forget unabated, we’re talking redoubled the stronger. He has sand in His mouth, rolls up the windows and the windshield is fogged. More importantly, is He headed for a mountain? Paramount as Sinai. If so, then why and for what? Where’d all those years go just like that and a whole generation dead in demerit? Anyway, what Law is there left to receive, and who are you to receive it? No offense. None taken. The smoky tail of the snake that’s only tail puffs, anguiform purls away, but the planet that gave period to its mark still remains. Punctuates void.

Enough silence, Ben thinks, enough thinking, turn on the radio, turn it up, the one station tonight not playing, not replaying Him: this noname, no-lettered signal up on numbers exiled way off the dial then around it again, sixsixsix point six probably broadcast out of the basement of a longsuffering mother; jackalcrackle, croupy static, and—Shalom Shalom—we’re givingout a sermon by the new Rabbi of Albuquerque, the Albuquerquer Rebbe is what they’re calling him nowadays, alternating his remarks, which what with late and its liquor tend to stray incoherently (the tone that of Father Coughlin with a bad cough, only the hatred’s reversed), then station identification, you’re listening to the time and the weather, life fiddling away in a frail style, coming to you live from the Circle-K Ranch.

Frank Gelt’s tuned to this station himself—the immaterial waves that, like the horizons, bind through spacetime, but in invisible, insensible gusts—Summertime, it sings and it’s airy, and the living’s queasy, from the album Dolly “Tziporah Ruth” Parton Sings The Liturgy Of The Sabbath & Other Holiday & Western Favorites For Your Listening Pleasure, RCA 47-9928; Gelt driving an oldfashionably crisis convertible, leading Heber in the limo with Der ensconced in the back, belted, boloed, countried in a hat, ten gallons obstructing rearview. Hamm, Mada, and Johannine sit opposite him in a hush. A station identification, again, then, for the Fourth, sort of a responsibility to do something here, anything: wipers squeaking in time to a medley of patriotic parodies, sung by a woman by the name of Mahalia “No Relation To” Jackson; it warbles in the cabs of a thousand trucks abandoned along with their trailers’ pork product, in the wombs of a million cars shouldered as peddlers’ sacks upon Fridays’ dusks for a walk amid the grain, a night’s greeting of the fruited plains, beggared, burdened with only the wares of the soul. But just look outside, will you, what you’re passing, what’re you talking…oy vey, can you see, nothing at all. Snow, radioweather with the signal gone down. Heber kvetching, I can’t see a goddamned thing…out of range. They’re a motorcade in search of a valuable lost, as if of Egypt’s cup, Ben to the brim: famined, their meal ticket, their retirement package—pantsed, then draped with a tallis. Not to wait for a Messiah, a Moshiach salvific, understand, but to go out and proactively search. You want we should head out to Angels, or down south Mexico way? With President Shade and his daughter due in sooner than later as Hanna’d say, does Der have any answers? A fatherly surrogate, an Israeldirection…north south east or lost he says, I don’t know what to tell you, Sam, um, er, Mister President. Maybe you should sit down for this, get comfortable, be prepared. To hop on one foot that’s the tongue. Lillian sobbing her eyes into bloodshot, cracked knuckles, or that’s just the inarticulate planenoise, imagined—an image of the First Lady prostrate in the aisle, headrest’s pillow bunched for a priedieu, upon which she prays pets to her daughter’s indulgence—there, there; there, there…

Understand, lastminute preparations, removed to a secure location, an alarm, bad intelligence, we identified a credible threat; undisclosed, nu, even to you, it’s no use…we’ve lost Him, sir, hymn—but Der keeps his promises like grudges, fistheld: don’t worry, we’ll have Him back in one piece…thinking, even if it’s a bodybag, a loonysuit or tux—bright and early for the ceremony, tomorrow…or, we might have to postpone, take the Temple public without Him—I’ll have to get back to you on that, I’ll check in on the fives. Der with sleeve wipes the receiver, wipes his sleeve on his chaps on his chinos, turns the phone over to Johannine just getting over a hangover, to talk crazy with Shade’s special advisor on conversion: identify eventualities, address the particulars…a call made from a payphone lonely though it’s also a toilet, urinefloored, dreckwalled, boothed in scratch and acidulous pit (scorpions nesting in the neutered slot for coinreturn, and thin, silvertongued snakes winding around the cord of the receiver, subsisting on metal and glass), way out here on the flatland, the unofficially even if Chamber of Commerced Mittel of Nowhere, a Utopia not proverbial but actual, really No Place At All, to be found if ever halfway along the stretch of highway mating Siegeles and Angels in either direction, any of them but south into Mexico, whose border they’ll eventually head to in pursuit: Naco, Nogales, or Sasabe to which they assume He’d flee, one unrepentant of hundreds of thousands seeking asylum from their government and its unelect God at the great Garita, Tijuana to Mexico City to make a plane down to Panama, deeper into the freak, ever further the jungle, anywhere a million nosings and scrapings and outstretched arm reaches away from any horroring signs of the wondrously civil, making lately like barbaric decay—truly nowhere, that’s the only where for Him if He’s to survive: open and free and air and spanse, a land resigned to its nowhereness, accustomed to any element, accommodating any threat of the sky. Nimbi fried deep in whorl, then frozen. The glow of a prevoyant moon. And then, not a rising but another descent: a stodgy spaceship, sausageshaped, an unidentified unsteadily flying object, falling, that’s only later identified as a Descending Object, Plopping Every Second (a Dopes, in the Mamaloshen of your mutter-inlaw), plodding, dropping air over the hump of each dune; then, on a flat flush with giving, sifting, sinking though impenetrable sand how it hovers, wobbly, as if too exhausted to give a flying futz about being blippedout on radar. Underneath, around, everything’s still: the dunes stay in their ergs, the cacti unbent, dreamt unbowed. Slowly, precariously, the ship begins its settle, lands to dig itself vertically into a small sucking valley indented upon the face of the desert by gravity attendant on girth; from this womby depression it towers up rudely, then opens itself, blooms like a flower foreign to sandscape, multivalent petals dusky, verdigrised, and then blossoms, too, wider at base into a beardy mess of exposed, burntout wiring and patchy, pocked atmospheric shielding it seems, a gratuitous shedding of panels grayedover with exhaust—a wreck, not only has it fallen, it’s falling apart; and finally, with a mechanized groan it converts itself into its consummate form, which is an indecent triangulation of rusted strut: two bulging pods surrounding one large shaft that pierces the air with antenna, as if to conduct the spurt of its weather.

Farblondzhet’s the technical term, which is lost, and yet Ben drives this route unmarked in the dark at a speed excessive, totally reckless. And sure as the desert, sure as the Law, He’s stopped, and He’s ticketed. A state trooper, mirrored aviator sunglasses studded in pyrite, prefab arrowhead pierced to hang on a horsehide thong around his thick, sunburnt, windchapped neck—brother-inlaw up for State Dayen, he’s telling everyone lately, who could contest? He puts the ticket under a wiper for luck, from which it flaps as if the overworked tongue of the hood, drives on the pickup truck panting, only to be stopped maybe fivehundred feet or so later to be ticketed again, now by the trooper’s partner, his brother-inlaw-inlaw, who he’s so far gone on moonshine and mycohallucinogens he thinks he’s a dybbuk’s dybbuk (worryingly, with the sidearm to prove). Ben starts the ailing truck up again and—nu, alright already, so you tell it: how He actually hits this trooper, cuts him off passing to nowhere or is hit by, or else just clips Him changing lanes to keep it interesting, Himself awake; anyway, all this stopping and starting, it can’t be good for the engine—before He releases the clutch, He’s ticketed yet again, a preventive measure, this by the trooper’s partner’s partner, yadda. To swerve on slick enforcement, skid into fine. Who has a lawyer. Who could afford. Goldenberg, I’ll pay you with money you made for my father.

I know you, they say, I’ve seen you before. No, you must have me confused. Has anyone ever told you you look just like. I get that all the time. Flattery’s what I mean. For insurance information, ask His Maker, His license and registration, too. Ben goes—slowly now—for them in the glovebox, where they’d probably be; finds in there a lone rubberglove, and expired documents for one Doctor Karl Young, whomever that might’ve handled.

Attend, the speed limit before here’s legally posted, but where at what, though once you enter the reservation’s the reservation, Injun territory with the Navajo police lying in wait if not sleeping on horseback, sidesaddled on the backs of billboards layered six times over in the service of seven interests imported, mockedup boulders on loan from Holywood appropriately cragged for ambush and overgrown with crabby flora, the limit, here definitely unmarked, drops in half and they’ll ticket you for anything even a thought over remote, bet your tuchus, believe it: this drop in speed going into force in maybe a matter of a foot, that fast, an honest living—with the penalty for infraction almost the only justification for such reservations still to exist, revenue taxing the road between Siegeles and Angels their only profit of late, enough to keep the remaining tribal elders in last skins and scalps while their people wander off to Affiliate. By the time Ben’s edged His fender into the reservation, even only dawned it dimly within the arc of His headlights, He, as Jacobson, Esq. now doing a decent Doctor Young, has incurred in fines almost one thousand worth of shekels He doesn’t have even though His own face is on them, all over: tickets and citations and contemptuous slaps on the wrist for well nigh among others reckless driving, out headlight, taillamp, moving and even staying still violations, a parkingticket for when He’d pulled over onto the wrong side of the tracks, guardrail down, to receive a ticket for speeding—owing such serious altarage both to the people of the State of New Mexico, Nevada, or is this Arizona, and don’t forget the Navajo Nation. Is there no Hopi? Tell you what, I’m going to go ahead and give you a point for your loss.

Ahead, there’s a stretch of no police, Injun or otherwise, a no mensch’s land, or alien. And it’s only here Ben notices the lights; either His own lights light them or it’s just a mirage with a solid sense of humorless timing: He’s just run out of gas. All that stopping and starting again for the law, idling the truck while they spit out His tickets, a scribble of spittle, the blot of their chaw; or, it’s that the truck only now gives out, breaksdown, what do you know, nothing much; transmission dropped from lack of stickshift prowess, an expert I’m not, bumper hanging off to one side, He can’t tell; mechanical, technical, the get your hands dirty knowhow, the metal and oil familiar, how could He even presume; if it goes, it goes, if not, I’ll pay. He rolls tardigrade, to a stop on a shoulder, stooped in sand, in its pretense as it doesn’t exist and there’s only desert; an arid splutter, He kills the engine entirely dead then opens the door and goes out to hail down a dream.

The lights revolve and revolve slower and revolve to dimmer upon every revolution—and with them, that sound: this siren roaring the lights dark until the desert’s returned to still, and a pouting lip of hum the only sign left as if the airing of the feminine valley’s imminent swallow, or yawn, just over the unbushed dune and then, the wet ocean itself of sound and of no sound…a mumming filling the deserts above of faith and below of privation and sand without water to parch stuffed the stomach and soul, in a building buzz, a stir in the making: this whirlwind of noise expanding out, enlarging throughout the desert unzoned without echo—unto the houses of 90210, the newly moved into homes amid the Hills that once were called Beverly as if that name were an appropriate descriptor, whether adjective or adverb, an alien form of rich, or freely; Holywood we’re talking, and shaking its own higher Hills, too, trembling them, humbling, filling the western emptiness and the further decks, porches and patios, the stiltpads, Casacrumbles, decrepit mansions missioned with Moorish peaks, Spanish tiles, rattling the glass kept over the idols worshipped as Oscar and Emmy and Grammy and even token Golden Globes how they’re preserved unembarrassed, gildingly imaged godlets not yet hocked out of shame, then shattering them, their faces melting, molten as if a slip of golden sand…a hum that encompasses every July Fourth explosion, almost knocks Him over on His way out across the sand, across sands, a sound He’s seething against, forearm shielding His face from the sky’s frozen pelts and the winded skinnings of dune, the real and sharp hurling of sand in the eyes, in the ears, to mouth away to mud lump, to swallow a golem’s reward—to follow, obey…and then, just as suddenly as it all landed began, it fades, with a sound of poweringdown, as a spring of tongue, almost an aeroplane’s inflatable emergency ramp effusing a refreshing moisture, rolls out the front of the ship, wags itself into wakeless waves, stairs—are they; wroughtiron handrail, which can accurately be dated to an age in which craftsmanship still counted, extends from the sides then fastens into position: two flights up with a landing between is what Ben ascends, how can’t He, pausing on the landing only for breath, then continuing, the stairs givingout sop underneath as if sponges or Hanna’s always in use rag squeezed underfoot by His fisting weight borne down from above, to stand at a wide door that has to be oak to look that good and that sturdy, scratching Himself, spent, stubbly, to ring at the only labeled buzzer—Herr Doktor Professor Froid, DUJ, it says—overtimes and rapidly more than is considered polite by convention.

Haben Sie einen Termin? a voice answers, and it’s maybe a woman’s.

There’s no need to be calling me names.

Moment mal! the same voice nasals, then, in a moment, femininely adds, bitte…the door buzzes shrilly, and Ben shoulders it open in slow trepidation not into a ship as expected, its bridge as imagined in the mind of the culture replete with flagrant blinking, gross boinks, and that whole sound effect, trick lighting life, no—but into the confines of the temporally, terrenely familiar: an office, not quite, more like a lobby or waitingroom for an office, half of one it seems, unfinished, unmade. He stands around still scratching, taking it in. Disappointed, amazed. To explain: this lobby has its totems, its artifacts, the refuse of Sumer, the rubble of Ur, shards, partijugs, hemiamphoræ, amorphous fragments of marble and papyri and whittled rockstone and clay that’s been baked in the sun most ancient and same—an image is becoming complete in His mind, though, assembling unconsciously, the who knew from Other made real, now made whole: these relics, these shards, are—or at least how they appear to be to a mind so entirely worried with itself, its own losses—the missing pieces, the missing halves, quarters and who says so blah blah, of the artifacts whose damage is displayed in the offices of the two Doctors Tweiss; the Tweiss twins have the jug without handle, and this waitingroom—it just has to be a waitingroom—has the handle without the jug; the Tweiss’ office has the leftarm of a fertility goddess in lime, and…nu, you’re so smart, this office has the rest of her, how she’s looking well, too. And so the only question left, or not the only question but the pressingest to Ben whose time it is being wasted, is whose waitingroom is this; rather, He’s waiting here in this room for what and, as His followup, why? To one side, two little green what do you call thems, interstellar merchants of a substance that would preciously translate to diamonds, it seems they’re arguing a sale; to the other, two little greens painting portraits of each other in oils and both on quick glimpse are the same; they’re accompanied by a string quartet played by another alone with eight maybe hectocotylian hands; the music light and quick by a Mendelssohn still unknown as suspected lost or unborn.

Hier entlang, bitte, what has to be a nurse says, a voice identical to that that came through the intercom at door. It leads Ben down a hall whose ceiling’s lined with projections of galactic phenomena, framed images in still then in motion, too, as if screened stuff, skydark and starrily twinkling; their entire effect, though, rather cheap, chintzy, until He realizes they’re portals outside, and this is the launch: a sustained rattling, a shaking then a total uprooting, a snowing of sand, and then a tentative hover. As the nurse it must be, like them all: shellfishy, treyf, sucks and spits forward in odd jets and spurts it’s hard to keep up with, scuttling cuttle how it siphons itself propelled down the hall, she leaves behind her if any sex’s hers this black clammy discharge that slowly, though imperceptibly (He’s staring as the ship evens out in its spin), becomes absorbed, or assimilated, into an ether that soon, without gravity, in all weightlessness, will become hung with little droplets of this ink heavy at bottom but floating, as if an interior of negative night—to avoid them, to duck and dodge as the thrusts do what they do. With a massive exertion the ship rises again, this time warpsped to smash through the atmosphere and into the void, and He’s tumbled by the force of the rumble, its lift down the hall to smack against another solid wood door, which opens to fall Him in welcome.

Ich bin Doktor Froid, also sprachs the apparition meeting Ben over the threshold holding open the door by a muscular and hairy hydrostatic tentacle suckling knob; and either this is the language aliens speak, or the good Doktor’s just flown down from atop Mount Sinaius, affecting the sentimental out one nostril, the nostalgic out the other—two tablets to assuage the adenoidal, with an additional heil from tonsils deep in the glottal to this indescribably guttural Europan language, spoken today in no Europa known; a tongue ethnically tentacular itself as it’s reaching, always louder and damning, both velar and palatal but always emphatic, whatever it is, and from where besides the mouth opened wide in His very own head. Und your acquaintance, it says, or he, ist very gut to finally macht…waddles up from the armchair on four of his or its seasidereal, iridescent appendages, to greet Ben with two suctorial kisses, one for each cheek, which Ben’s then compelled to return unfairly, with four kisses, one for each of the cheeks of the Doktor, or for what He perceives as cheeks, which are really four faces, each slickly bearded and with two cheeks each of their own, sopping with respiration’s expectoration or shvitz.

Mein Akzent, it’s just asking (your what, Ben wants to ask, only in order to say, O your accent!?), do you mind it? Mein research informs me zat you would find it distinguished, oder intelligent, ja…und zat anything sprached in this way would be listened to mit—Achtung, attention. In mein findings, am Ich—ach, how you say…accurate, Herr Israelien?

But instead, He begins to ask that whole what are you going to do with me shtick.

Like, why am I here?

I come in peace. I go to pieces. Be gentle, be kind.

Enough already, says Doktor Froid in a tone it’s now modulating to just east of placeless, here’s the deal…I’ll go ahead and drop the Kraut, if you stop sounding like we’re in a Spielgrob production.

Agreed?

Let’s dispense with the formalities, then…I am, I’m translating myself here, Doktor Froid, extraterrestrial.

From outer space, assigned to Earth.

To you, verstehen?

And where are we? We’re in my ship, presently hovering just above a stateline, what your nation would have referred to as the Arizona/New Mexico border—prior to the chaos to be expected of mass conversion, that is, and its regression attendant into a past that never really existed. Reactionary, actually. Fanaticism as an antidote to the modern, if you want the whole, what’s the word…spiel.

No thanks.

Where are my manners, it begins again—or are they provided for under another program?

It shifts in its seat, then asks, would you like a Schwanz? I’m quite partial to them myself…then waddles chitinous cephalopod across the office to a humidor hovering on a puff of purply pneuma as if the emanation of the very product within and once lit, produces from its perfumed innards four uniformly short and fat penises, gnaws away the leaved foreskins with a set of sharp, horny teeth, spits them with a radula’s huff to the floor, shoves three of them into any faces spare, proceeds to light their glandes with a match struck on the underfaced head from which it’s talking, then does the same for Ben as it drags, exhales slowly, savoring through every siphon.

Now then, it says, exhaling rings of smoke opening into the oblivious obviousness of the vaginal, let’s get down to business, shall we? We are collectors. Preservers. That is our nature. You with me? Ben lips His Schwanz, inhales to the corona, eliciting a fit of hack, wracks. We amass people and objects, Doktor Froid goes on, there’s no stopping it (anyway, it’s all too veiled, alluded to, tenatcularly gestured at, misted away amid the gathering smoke)—we amass things, objects, and people regarded as practically useless, worthless, superannuated, I mean obsolete; we hoard them, they’re our treasures. On our planet, which, so it’s not really a planet…but you don’t want to hear about that, more like an idea, or its orbits—we have the last locomotive, the last slice of ryebread, its last crust and caraway seed, the last sip of wine, which is dregs; the lasts even of things that haven’t yet been invented, we have: the Tushomantic Analysizer, for instance, which predicts futures according to posterior size and topography, you understand, but you wouldn’t, that’s still a long way off, give it time. As I’ve said, not just objects, though, but life as well, bioform, bio-mass, buy it up: plants and animals, endangerment, extinction, how they’re just the beginning; we have the last dodo, the last unicorn, dinosaur, dragon, the Leviathan, too, you name it, it’s ours…Ben considers the offer, then realizes this alien just likes to hear itself talk. Me me me, mine—we have the last postage stamp, the last telephone and the last television, the last atomic weapon, the last drop of oil…the final, the ultimate desinent, eschatological-wise, the caudal conterminous never.

On our planet, just follow me here, and there on permanent display—having been made available for inspection subject of course to a nominal charge, are the last novelty items: glo-in-the-dark vomit and poop, the lapel squirting-flower, the buzzer, the cushion that makes you make whoopee. We have Misses Stahl’s last knish, the last car of the last Q train that once lined from the bottom of the Park down all the way to Coney Island, Seventh Avenue to Stillwell, then the last seltzer nozzle from Canarsie found rusted, its bottle shattered down at the end of the L. What else. The last pocketwatch. The last threepiecesuit, though, admittedly, there are holes in the vest. We don’t do restoration. We don’t do replica. Nor facsimile, neither reproduction. Come to think of it, the list of what we don’t do wouldn’t fit in your universe. Number the stars. Kiss the sand. Ours is the last temptation. An enshrining of kitsch. An ennobling of the fleet, and forgotten. To begin again at the end, the ideal. Doesn’t matter, you don’t want that either. We have most of the last things, and only from your planet’s what. Other planets, other peoples, have other collectors, aggregators of their own, private interests with private capital, their own personal private manias; obsessional, it’s like a madness with them. We have you. It’s our shared fate, as they say. Symbiotic, yadda. And we would have this last of everything, not just to have it, no, but to hold it, preserve—to keep it in its decline, maybe, outside of your destruction, outside of your time.

Preserve what for what, and why’d you want to go and do a thing like that—having finally found His mouth, kept numbed around the smoke: no way there’s much money in the last if all you do is keep it locked up, like sleep with it, why. Seems strange. Icky. Aberrant. Unclean. A thing weird uncles would do.

You’re not understanding. It’s that the lastness of last things taken altogether, it’s not a lastness, it’s more like a nonlastness, a firstness, no, an extraordinary unordinal, you with me?

A whatness for whoness of whyness now?

In our time, which is not your time, which is outside your time much as your Einstein once thought, if you know him, you might, the one with the hair and the mc^2…we have the last black & white photograph, listen up, the last phonograph record ever pressed, the Ninth Symphony of Mahler, conducted by your landsmann, sehr langsam; his name was Bernstein, like amber. We have, also, the last book ever published, though its title escapes me, its author unheard of. No one’s read it; we don’t want to break any bindings. Anyway, to explain: these three items, each the last of its kind, these three times together, they’re no longer the last—together, they fill in each other, reconstitute, recreate, repopulate the world that once made them…regeneration, reincarnation, not really, not quite; more like resurrection, that’s right: the last things of any world, at the instant they’re the last, are that world, nicht wahr, a world that, and this I don’t need to tell you, will never Turn turn turn again in the same manner ever.

And so? He wants to know.

And so, your presence is requested.

Me?

Yes, not now, though, soon enough…as if to say, I’m sorry, sir, your incredulity’s no longer good here. All the arrangements have been made. Everything’s paid already. Up front. Posterity’s been booked long in advance. A palace is waiting, like Solomon’s, Herod’s, whichever, a real Temple…that is, if you want it, a manger, a Mecca, a White House, all yours—and in it the last two Philistine women, now I have your attention, aloelipped, myrrhhaired twins both above and below how you wouldn’t believe, luckily enough for you they’ve got the last four perfect mammæ in your universe: they’ll attend to your every need, they’ll wait on you hand and hoof. We have, as well, the last of every species allowed to you, and if and when you finish them, and we’ll allow you to subsist on them, to eat and to drink them—that’s how important you are to us—you can start in on the tablets, which have been clinically proven to successfully simulate among the tastes of many other foodstuffs both that of kosher deli and takeout Chinese.

And why are you, answer me this, indulge me…Ben ashes His Schwantz into an attending green nurse’s He thinks it’s its cleavage, a pulsating bust itself interplanetary—why are you so interested, so obsessed, with this lastness?

An obvious question, Doktor Froid says, which it has all the answers…it’s that we have nothing to lose; nothing of ours ever ages, nothing becomes old and so, nothing dies. And if there’s no death, nothing at the end, indeed, no end at all, then, and follow me here, there’s no possibility of our being exceptional; in other words, of this lastness, of being the last, as you say…sof pasuk: which estate we consider either the highest honor or the lowest punishment in a world such as yours, in which everyone’s punished to one severity or another—to tell you the truth, we’re still not quite sure. Understand me, please, and it stubs out all three of its Schwanzs in the rounds of ashtraying suckers—we’re immortal: for us, there’s no being born, and then again neither is there any being unborn, any life outside or, better, beyond, our cache. We’re the first people, also the last; the two qualities negate each other, commingle in cancellation, if you will, dialectically anull any ambition, hope or faith; and so we’re obsessed with this mortality, not only with yours but more perfectly—we’re fascinated by the end of it All, with what might be called universal mortality, if that makes any sense, deadline, flatlined timeline, catastrophe with all the fixings, Chaos the first God, Apocalypse’s Greek revelation…with the idea that any world can just—end; this quality of lastness, this idea of singularity, of being unique…we’re talking survival. Genug.

Whoever you are, whoever you would’ve been only if, whatever it is you do and whatever it is you would’ve done—you are it. And I mean, It. You, Ben of my Ben. The past and the future are now. Sit straight, make eye contact, bend me an ear…

To name a thing’s to give it life, that’s your tradition, just trust me on this. It’s like Adam, prothoplastus to ultimaplastus, the Roman, the Latin, you follow…then a negative Adam, an antiAdam, the genetic repository of God’s imaged intention and its debasement by you, I mean them. Ben, you have no culture, but to those left behind you are the culture. No matter what you might want out of life, no matter what you might’ve wanted out of it once, or needed, or else what’d been expected of you or by you, you Ben—liebchen, if I may presume—are chosen, and like you, we, too, have no choice…and Doktor Froid stretches out, slowly, expectantly, crossing tentacles to reveal behind them and underneath squishy, an armchair: plush, loosely jointed, and creaky maybe a century old; emitting in its recline a patter of soft flatulent noise He mistakes for the sounds things like this make when they respire, if they respire—ask it.

Bitte, He says, I’ll bite, I’ll even chomp at the bit and He spits out a loose shred of Schwanz…I’m interested, I won’t deny it. Let’s talk particulars—how does it work? the salary, the hours? Vacations? Benefits? What’s your coverage?

To begin with, we beam you up here and ship you to Zion—I know, I know, we’re thinking about changing the name…

And then?

And then what else do you expect, you exist. But you’ll want motivation, incentive, enticement, a little of the what’s in it for me. Shema, hear and then harken: for you, we’ve broken the rules, violated directives, thrown basic principles to the wind that isn’t in space and so we’ve made it ourselves with rain and with snow and then set it blowing on course, that’s how serious. Your happiness means the world to us; what I mean is—we’re really going out of our way. Especially, we’ve acquired not a last, and neither a first, except as she represents for us a departure, and for you, everything, the universe known and, at the same time, not so well…she has her own distinction, I mean. We have for you a woman named Hanna, though we know this isn’t how she was known to you. She was Mother, Ima, Eve and Lilith, think suckle.

You do? He springs from His seat to stand the unsteady thrust of the ship, gags on His Schwanz, begins choking.

And now we need you…not now, though, later—your later.

And then? He asks, getting breath.

And then we’ll have you, that’s it, and we’ll keep you and well, that should be enough. What else do you need: you want we should probe you, perform experiments, polish off the speculum, speculate deep—anything else you secretly hope against fear we’d do because you’d be disappointed if we didn’t, wouldn’t you? Doktor Froid whacks Ben on the back with a tentacle uncrossed, He hurls His Schwantz out of His mouth to fly across the room wildly butt over cherry, as if with tractoring lock to smack this nurse attending in the tush if it’s tushes they have like orbiting moons; a fit of hurt throat, then a calming of cough, a stifle and soon, amid silence, another of the Doktor’s tentacles exploring His lap in a special direction, leaving across His knees damp trails of suction.

Yes, He admits, recovering, I’d probably be disappointed, usually am.

But don’t disappoint us!

One more thing, though. It’s what’s this? Ben’s asking to move the session along from groping to fate, so as not to run this session overtime and on reserve power at that, the emergency beamblinking, winking, lowlight supply or who would’ve thought engines down—and so, owing additional money He doesn’t have to an alien who probably doesn’t have need for it…if I have no say in the matter, I’m thinking, what’s with this abduction?

Only a reminder, a noodge or a nudge. It’s to say hurry up and expire, enough with this already: get your life together and live out your span, your eternity, or only what you perceive as your eternity, and then, we’ll be back…we’ll return for you on our next pass through this quadrant, you should be honored—you’ll be our only stop in the galaxy. Now, and I mean no disrespect, you’re not the only acquisition on our agenda this time.

What, He wants to know who, who’s more important than me?

If I must, and Doktor Froid strokes its moist staches, its beardy clammed thought. Discretion, divulge. It’s the last of the last, this One. Though we would’ve retrieved Him on our last trip, the logistics wouldn’t work—just didn’t make sense to Accounting, wasn’t they said costeffective, even we have to deal with budgets, deadlines, and crunch: we would’ve been backtracking, would’ve spent half an infinity on inventory and restock alone; this One’s at the end reaches; He doesn’t live where He works, doesn’t bring the office home with Him, no mixing business with pleasure. We need Him before you—but you’ll get to meet Him, don’t worry, and you might even like Him. A wonderful addition to our collection. It’s big, I’m talking a raise, might be in for a promotion, Management’s impressed. What I’m saying is that though for your world He’s the last of the last, it’s not that He’s a nothing to us.

Last what? who?

Though there’s a slight problem: it’s that we can’t quite figure out what He eats, if He eats, if He drinks, sleeps or wakes or whatever, we’re not sure, how could we be and Him, it’s not like He’s telling, keeps a lowprofile lately, silent, and hidden; it’s as if, it’s been said—it’s whispering slurpily—He doesn’t even exist, is maybe already dead, or perhaps never did exist…more like He just seems that way, wants to seem that way, out to prove, make a point: at least appears if imageless, resistant, apprehensive about the whole process, I’m sure, irked, jealous, and vengeful…relatively normal response under the circumstances, can’t say I blame Him, don’t hold it against. He’s not used to being bullied, coopted, told what to do. Not Him, not the last of the Gods—and, would you believe it, the Doktor says brightening, and rising from behind it as if they’ve all along padded its sit atop the decline of the armchair a handful of tentacles each banded around with a hundred fancy schmancy watches clocking their times differently though equally and expensively regular—it’s fifty minutes past an hour of yours; my how sessions fly, and how we should, too. It’s been a pleasure; truly, I’m honored, it’s deep. Don’t worry, we’ll deduct the fee for this session from your first week’s allowance. My office won’t be in touch until it’s too late; we don’t call or send cards. Speaking professionally, you’ll forget all about us. But you might want to get a second opinion. Rest assured, Ben—we’ll meet again soon.

A ray of light or shaft, with Him beneath, the disposition terrible. One leg of a ladder missing another leg and then, too, their rungs altogether, with Him beneath and passedout. A pole, and not that of the moustachioed, sausage-tongued nationality, those who once had been known as Poles, and so to be fatter and even taller and immensely hairier and more violent than that of the present species—but a pole like a totem, as in a lamppost, a telephonepole, above Ben, passedout about to cometo.

The mood, horrendous, don’t ask.

A pole just poling out there alone in the middle of the desert—O the West Pole, standing blown to bow in the cold wind of dawn, its shadow so long it reaches all the way to the easterly pole and right back around again, equatorial and such, gone global. As for the loose rag atop, that flappity schmatte: it’s flying the standard of a nation Ben’s never heard of before, a flag for a land He’s never even seen on the maps, a country maybe unconscious.

18, it says, where’s that?

Ask Aba—golf was his thing.

It’s freezing, and His robe’s no help, it’s wet, not fabricate but filth. It’d snowed, then icedover, and all the while the grounds’ sprinklers have been on, shooting their water to harden, to still, their sprays frozen insectlike, or into seacreature tentacles—coldhanging cages of flow, as if capturing air, imprisoning cold.

Ben on a golfcourse, His form a divot of earth.

The shadow is the pole and its shading flutter the poletop flag for the eighteenth hole He’s sprawledout atop, or below: comingto, goingout, Him coming and going again to where He doesn’t know which, nauseous, perplexed—an incalculable time dialed, teed upon the posts of His lie. On the head and the arms, there are wounds, there are scars, and then the shadow’s in a different lie from where He’d last left it, dimming across a hazard with the westerly swing of the sun. The light, His eyes…the kopf of His head. Ben’d been knocked-out: a prick of blood encircled by the red of unconscious scratch on an arm up near the hock of the shoulder…a doctor, it said it was, then there’d been a needle unnursed, its sharp tipped widely and as dark as the night. He’s hit that head, too—on a rung fallen from, knocked a dream. He tosses, numbed, though His numb also aching, and His putz slipping from its shorts, then pajamapants and mothering robe to writhe within the hole lubricious with ice melting from the friction: Ben rubbing up and down against the astroturf, and upon spurting He goes out again and when He comes to He’s shed a skin and soft again and there’s greengrass that’s strangely not God’s Third Day of the beginning creationary grass and the green, it’s a strange bitterherb in His mouth, between His teeth a tongue that’s jealous of wet. He spits to the wind, turf and leaves fallen, flails under the eyes of vultures perched on powerlines neighboring the fairway, aged and blistered buzzards out for fleisch, His or any. It seems, with the long, sharply tipped tufts His hands weed from the course, that the astroturf, regularly watered by weather, has begun growing on it own; it hasn’t been manicured for moons.

To His left, a golfbag lies empty at the verge of what had been a sandtrap. To His right, an iron numbered nine as if in designation of the shadow of its future hour—and then a driver, which is crossed over the iron to form an X, marking what geary spot, amid the dot dot dotting of balls. Ben rubs Himself, rubbing to itching, He has to, to scratching again, to raw. He sits up, stares. The links’ve gone to dreck, which is pretty much par for the course: wind’s up coarsened from the hoard of the traps, whiting out the arroyos, bunkers, and cañons menschmade and those that are merely the obstructions of nature; easterly as far as the wedge of horizon, these pyres of clubs and bags, leisure dolmens, puttered obelisks, jutting up from the snow littered as if in offering with gloves quickly stripped, shed headcovers, upended stands; golfcarts overturned as if abandoned at the score settled on total disaster, imminent threat disrupting all shadows, their teetime; and then, furthest to the west, a forever spanse of evergreen snows, moneyshaded from astroturf leak—the leachate tainting of the real by the fake.

Oy, the back of my knees. Ben rises to survey the lay: as if a landfill in its wastefulness, almost otherworldly as uninhabitable, too cold to breathe…this terra terribilis gone incognito without the usual atmosphere of polyester admixed with plaid. As He rises, He’s scratching still. What is it, it’s horrible. A mold forming around Him, a bushy cloud or monstrous fur, the seeped whitening green of His sleep, staining the robe, sucked onto the skin. He itches, it feels, even unconsciously, in His unconscious, its recognizance in the waters hazarded over with ice: to let fly with nails at your reflection, the burn in your brain—it’s leprosy, Ben, this land lepromatous; you’re going to have to trust us on this, we’re all doctors here, at least we’ve all been to doctors; take off your robe, put on this gown, you’re on holied ground: sit down, let’s answer our questions.

What’s given Him this leprosy, assuming that’s what it is? Los Siegeles, babele, Los Siegeles, the last He remembers. What’s the line, what’re the real odds—on survival; how He’d wandered feverish, dazedly delirious, to here, this golf links, to the south, the west, between them and both, dreamlessly scratching itching and raw, unkempt to His fingernails gnawed, tearing a drip precious of vein? Had He been walking, what, two, three, four days due southwest, half through the iced desert, over freeways newly tolled but who has the nerve to pay, in doing so just denying an inheritance lately received: withhold your right over every head, not chutzpah and yet neither is it cheating per se, only it’s a sin not to bargain, to handle as well as the truck, abandoned and lost—over ticketed ways high and low, banditbound interstates, routes fined, polared to pot…was it a drink and its poison He’d been slipped, comped to conk out, the seizing of shikker—a bartender He’d paid to be serviced by, only to be taken for all and for nothing? Whatever image He might try to mock of Himself gets subsumed in the fame, sublimated, otherwise Affiliated, never at fault. What Ben last remembers: betting the bank on red 18, or, then nothingness: dropping some dry drink, something too ginned, or overly vermouthed, a drink altogether too expensive and refined to ever be indulged upon His own free will and separate check, there’s no way He’d ordered it for Himself, no way He even knew of its existence (Israel drank wine, Hanna had sipped Israel’s), attempting a splurge only to spill the dribble over His robe, soaking His socks, puddling slippers. Bookies to creditors. Dealers untipped. Bellboychicks and cocktailmaydels. Foxtailed waitresses. BunnyBens, and then what. Then abducted, but how, only to wake up here rawly rufescent, with this futzed fuzz on His skin. He holds at the pole for support, then with a sigh lets it go and stands upright alone and unsteady, wavers like the flag veiling His eyes, nearly falls a foot into the hole below, staggers then rights Himself again, tries to breathe deeply.

Fore! is said or only heard. A white shot shrieks through the sky: a whining whiz, this dimpled ionomer incoming, a golfball to hit Him on the head, lay Him out sprawled—His head on the green again, a rising welt to hazard the forehead, His feet chipped in the direction of the penultimate hole, arms strewn to fingers pointing to far groves withered around water frozen at the longest drives of horizon. Ben comes to, then, to hooting, scraping from the treestand that shades the neighboring rough; a riled noise coming closer, the strangling shake of bare boughs, white, and the swinging scurry of fur. Another weather begins, a hail of golfballs bearing down on Him as He stands yet again and staggers dazedly from the flag and its hole to where par three should be, should’ve been if ever landed and ended. He’s dodging this plague of balls like fallingstars or planets, dropped, getting hit in the face, breast, and crotch; stumbling midfairway toward a precipitous rise in the greened snow and there, the protrusion of a coontailed antenna, bent by the wind; to kneel atop that very hunch, prostrate upon the unlandscaped to dig out amid the pelt a golfcart buried, to turn it upright with all His strength, to kick at tires, knock icicles from hood, then rev—to head, is the thought lazy, tired, nauseous, necrotic but also fuzzily numbed in a personal hoar, this private ice of mucoid scaly fungus, across the countryclub restricted no longer, puttering quickly toward the 19th Hole Greenhouse He espies for the refreshment of safety.

Goddamnit no stalling, balls boinking, boinging, every cartoony sound from the roof of His ride. Ben putts ahead at fullspeed, whatever He’ll make if He floors it, He does as if His foot’s accelerating strata down through the ground, a deep dig into earth cleated with skulls still with their caps on. His skin’s on fire, despite a fervorless fear in His veins. All around Him, the astrotruf ’s peeling its planet: ailing, occupied with shedding itself, with shedding the sheds, in an affliction that’s merged a mess into a unified albescence upturned and shot through with green, an alien mold spored out from under the valleyed snow and the sand of the sandtraps and from around the perfectly elliptical extremes of the ponds, left for the disease that shatters ice in removes, their own sheered removals, both epigenous and dermal and further below, the course entire a fluctuant surge: mounds falling from mounds, rises and dips and verges pocked, sopping a sort of freeform verdural, in a scarification fungally frozen, tongued sick with a fever, blown hot and cold; the soured fairways say, Aahhh…despite being a golfcourse, can you believe, there’s not a single physician around.

And so any diagnosis must be a consultation made brief with belief, an experiment of the etiologically theological, what we’re talking is a matter of faith. If, as it’s been said, God is everything, both a maker and a ruler, a judge and a king, then He must be a dermatologist, too, accredited by His own infinite wisdom, insured by His own illimitable might—after all, Who can know the world and its skin and the creatures that infest it as us better than the One Who created them all, only to wrong us with sickness, punish with disease. Mycobacterium leprae might be the verdict, then, Ben’s suspicion confirmed: endemic to this desert, an ailment of the links sinned entire—but if so then leprosy of a divine diagnosis, a leprosy of a Scriptural strength. Metastasized, exteriorized, a blight out of body—retributively, the disease of Miriam, the sister to Moses, the illness that’d pillowed her outside the encampment, delirious under the sun, lately absent.

Ben reaches the Greenhouse if it still has enough walls and enough of a roof to be called or considered any kind of a house, though greener than ever from the slurry of turf: it’s fallen, a skeletal stress of twisted trophies and signage tangles, the remnant of banquet facilities with legless chairs up on splintered tables, locker modules ripped from the setting of their rooms then arranged in the showers, as if metallic megaliths and trilithons intended for the worship of pagans. Inside, which is now its outside, the same, everything’s in a feverish splotch, made lesion, numbly ashen, and flaky. Pusssoaked shammies. Pinkgray flesh flayed loose on clubs and barbarous spikes. Ben parks the cart and wades in in search of food and drink. And the more He stands gleaning through the rubble for any perishables that might’ve preserved, even the alcohol, a light Kiddush from the bar forever closed, the hackedup cherrywood with its bacillarylike rows of bottles not cellared—how He burns more and more, a skinpeel, it’s unbearable, maculamade, that and a flow of blood from the nose, epistaxis the name; inflammation from nodule to plaque, His nostrils impassable, the same with His sinuses, His throat a stack puffing, a blowsy chimney on fire itself.

A crackling barbed rustle, then a prickle of shrubs, a mustering sound…as over a slicking hump He’d driven around once the concrete barrier of the parkinglot fronting the lazaretlike, leprosariumal Greenhouse and all in a tizzy tripping and falling over fallen and tripped parts of themselves, deforming in a partiform peel—the feral caddies klutz in on Him, pariahs in a panicked charge; they’re hurling golfballs at the misered glass the edifice has left as windows, as walls, sharding into stings, to embed amid the loosening of limbs; they the frontline, they’re tearing under their armpits with grownout nails and fisted tees wedged to nest between the knuckles remaining; caddies devolved, grown apelike, primalputsched, silverfurry with the molder of fervent, feverous illness, they’re sharp of tooth and eyed in wild suppuration, overworked yet underpaid, never tipped enough to stave off their eventual, inevitable revenge: some weak ones hanging by the stumps of near trees, wrapping their wounds one by one in the club’s insignified linen napkins so as to be prepared at a moment or signal, for a last assault, a final attempt—to swing for the groin or the throat; others scramble up trees shaggy with snow, drooptrunked, for a better position from which to sling their pocketed balls, smashing even the heads of their fellows, the stronger ones having hopped the lot’s perimeter hedge to swarm through the remains of and tumular over this Greenhouse fallen, its sharp edges of metalmade detritus: counters’, chairs’, tables’, slicing them flanking Him at all ruin’s routes, fall’s momentary escapes, with exits left unilluminated; they’re wielding gripless sand wedges, drivers and irons numbering high into the sixthousands, woods and putters, their bags’ umbrellas, poisonously ferruled, ribs spooked out to corner Him to carcass, to whip Him into submission with gratis towels knotted from the laundrybins of the lockerroom showers, soiled and un, wetted hard then rolled, and then there in the last stall with its spillsticky floor and its soapdish bitten to muffle to punch and kick at Ben, as if to infect their own form, sustaining toward what if not death…their knuckling tees, their fingers and toes only missing, not missed.

Ben makes for an exit, from them and His fear, the scabrous heat piling piteously through the scaly, hairy rubble, the caddies assailing from the rear: His momentum knocking them to impalement on unframed window mullions, lepromatically ferruginous supports, squamous stang and transom, upended foundations studded with infecting nails of just rust, crushed by blocks in cinders; heads through what’d been the club’s kitchen and its service entrance in a vaulting slide over the meridian counter, banging Himself on the hanging pans and pots and skillets, on His way grabbing at the handles and knobs of bins and cabinets and pantries abandoned, looted empty of goods canned, preservativebalmed in case of Apocalypse or Sunday shortage, then out the door to flee the course entire; lunging over the fence at the rough’s rough edge, there falling into a neighboring yard, getting mired in a swimmingpool dry though filled with the pasttime of personal days—innumerable faked sick leaves’ worth of golfballs lost, fouled globes.

Ben’s clambering over the slippery mount, atop, near giving up, balls giving way bumptiously under His effort, the righting rump; then, a last, lumbering thrash, and He emerges to hurl Himself over the pool’s far ledge—on His gut, slit, a fish floundering fluke, the catch of last days to fin up onto dry land upon two legs now to fly through the house (its screendoor, open, its door-door, open); then, as if Friday’s first course belated, through the blessing of a family’s kitchen, around its middle countertop and there parents and kinder gathered in their service of Havdalah, meaning To make distinct, to keep kadosh, or segulah separate the mundanity of tonight and its tomorrow from that or the sanctified of another tonight, that of its sacred today—Havdalah the candled conclusion of the Sabbath with its Elijah arrived as Him, scaring the gehenna out of this newest Affiliate, Ima, Aba, their two point five kinder, upsetting their braid of fire to consume the cabinetry, to tarnish with smoke the cups for Kiddush, its wine inflamingly holy, to incense the box of spices at which we nose at Shabbos’ end, as if to revive ourselves after an illness.

A few clicks up the high dry you bet Jurassic it once was a river—now only a moat without the water or bridging courtesy to freeze, a snowedover safeguard of the turreted monstrosity above: a forbiddingly outlandish stucco manse, pinkening with the dawn though perched resident heavens higher out on that thar mesa, which juts up majestically from the very middle of an enormous cañon sunk around it, a socket of this cold and blinded earth. This the estate of the legendary Lee Sure, a former Holywood actor, producer, director you name it who’d retired his own household name for a new home out here only a moon ago, deserted his career in its recent crisis to zone this plot his own; dedicating the future development of this scenic openness around him as a sanctuary for fellow moviefolk blacklisted for their refusal to convert. He’s a hefty and tanned goy, threechinned, fourbanked, presently a mere two laps and a length or so into his daily routine in his pool dramatically overheated when what do you know the poolside numberless telephone rings. His wife, Lara née Busch of the once prominent militaryindustrial Buschs, maybe you know them or better—she sits alongside the unit ringing without registering any interest, even awareness: a woman sunned to small under artificial lamps, pruned, heated to petite…the morning is, in her words to her Kush of almost every morning when and if the medication takes, perfect, am I right? Above the sun a yolk hidden forever within its cloudy shell, never to crack down upon us its warmth, though as she says she only eats the whites, dear, she reminds again her servant who she’s just sounding him out for the umptillionth time and only today, I only eat the whites…this the first day for her outside in a week: the new agoraphobia drug’s finally spaced her (a tumult, a whirlwind of late the reconstruction of its disaster psychologically requiring a host of special prescriptions and proscriptions both phoned in and forged: how they’d finally cashed out of the city, which’d meant Angels, last moon, headed out to the desert to get away from this next generation of players like Spielgrob, Kinoff, Joshuabaum, P. A. Yuccabaum, all the freest agency of their wives present and ex, to live heightened security and alone in this mansion they’ve been renovating forever, it already seems, what with memory, way back since the beginning of western time, ever since this mesa had been no more than a dunghill, and the immigrants laboring no more than dark scurrying dreams), she’s dulled insensate though perched purty in a freshly oiled chaiselounge under sunlamps set in the shade of the umbrellad highdiving platform facing her darting husband deaf to the telephone again with its insistent rattle, a needy baby cribbed upon an elegantly fineboned wicker cart to her side that also holds, on its topmost shelf, the remains of her brunch: bacon and sausages and slices of contraband ham for the protein, hold the salt, with blood pressure onefortysomething over a hundred causes heart disease served up still beating if slowing apropos a white plate trimmed with three eggs scrambled to the texture of her brains; dear, I only eat the whites (cholesterol)…can’t be bothered to answer the phone, too much trouble, how could she on a day as perfect as this, so stressfree, am I right, and so the Kush obliges—how can’t he and keep his employ, still run his illegal smuggling operation of goyim fleeing, running, swimming, over to Mexico out of the caves of the valley below; he drags Sure in to the concrete shore with a hook used to retrieve cocktail glasses sunk to pool’s bottom.

Telephone for you, sir, the Kush says and, is it important? is what Sure yells strangled, his ears sloshingly full up with scald, I gave specific instructions only to be disturbed if it’s important.

Is it important? the Kush asks into the business end, the receiver black and lost under the lobe of his ear, the glint of its enslaving stud. A moment of bated listening to the breathless way they still talk it back east, which Sure should be able to hear even from where he’s sitting suited, goggled, and waterlogged, at the lip of the pool with his feet dangling in the water it costs him don’t even ask what a fortune to heat. Keep it just at 100º. And then, it’s important, the Kush vouches, tucking the phone under his jaw.

Is it urgent, though? Sure asks as he towels his pecs, kicking up with his toes small waves against the filter.

One moment, sir, the Kush asks, is it urgent? another moment for the Kush to say, it is urgent, sir.

Hokey doke, says Sure, then on a scale of one to five, no, better make it one to ten, how urgent is it? With one being forget about it, and ten being my God is on fire. Ask him that, he says as if in challenge, a coldweather throw-down…tousles dry his hair, jumps in a regimen such as was once recommended to Rabbi Hillel, up on one foot then down on the other to unclog the ears as the Kush he goes and asks what he asks, on a scale of one to ten, sir, exactly how urgent is this?

A moment more of this loudly staccato and the Kush says, it’s urgent, sir, very—the party would have to rank it high in the millions.

Jesus H…. okay, collecting himself, haven’t had one of those before. But one last question, just to be sure: is it more important than urgent, or is it more urgent than, don’t worry, you get it and a raise…and so the Kush asks again, is the matter more urgent, and then he stops with the questioning answers before he’s finished to say, it’s both, sir, equally both, the Kush says the party says, all of them and more’s why he’s calling—consider this serious, a most plus.

Wowzer! in dialogue from roles their names reruns forgotten while their lines, they live on—quit your wasting the dude’s time, says Sure, and give the unit here…and the servant, what does he do, he goes and hangs up the telephone to wheel its cart over to his employer and before he has it rolling, nu, the ring goes ringing again, the Kush answers it and they, hymn, you know, having been conditioned to the rest, the spiel, it’s said, the speak softly but carry a big shtick routine, clocked calendrical almost, the ballagone whole—go through the very same ritual, and then and only then, only after Sure’s once more and for the last fully vetted this interruption following up, his delighting peevishness manifest in the swell of his neck, the tension of his temples, too, and that of his trademark chin bottomed like the tush of a newborn (kid or idea—clefted half his, half whose), does the Kush finally place the receiver this time upended atop the cart, rolls it over with plenty of corddistance, picks up the empty rosette plate that hosts only the residual grease of the meat of the pig and the pareve of the eggwhites and the silverware, which he places atop the plate in a cross, bows slightly to Master and Mistress as he’s paid to address them and heads on inside, through the patio and its glass doors, as Sure picks up the phone, cups with a pruned palm the business while nodding demeaningly to his wife to shuffle off to decorate the interior, to belittle herself with trifles: selfmedication at needlepoint, xword puzzles that’re the hidden study of Scripture (being the clue for 12 Across), mystery that ensures, too, her puckered pout and this, her shriveled slinking—then sits down at the landscaped edge of his mesa, his shivering legs to idle amid the emptiness, air, kicking feet through the sky shot through with cloudbursts: Sure speaking, he says, who’s this, whaddya want?

Lee, says a familiar voice, Billy Brove, STOP, long distance from parts east.

Brove, you old son of a bitch—why didn’t you say it was you? examining his pedicure over the drop, how the hell you doing out there?

Drop the formalities, STOP, the goy he talks like a telegram that refuses to sing, big news on this end, STOP, we found Him, STOP, Ben, STOP, now you want to hear I’m doing just fine, thank you, STOP, how’s the wife?

Israelien? Sure says, if I had a nickel, this is the tenth time today…you with your stops, pull’em out, ain’t no time to push me around: we’re lying low for the summer…anyway, I’ve got a houseful of unemployed producers with their consultant boyfriends telling me they’ve got masseuses with dreams, who’ve received visions, visitations, gotten tips, new information—let’s get down to it, how much you want from me, how much you need?

It’s legit, Lee. STOP. Take your hat off your ears.

Bill, you’re my friend but…

Buttinsky.

Don’t want to hear that talk, least of all from you…listen, Lee says, I heard the one, and Sure he’s heard them most, about the Affiliated, you know, how they’re hiding subterranean, I’m talking deep under the earth like in a hollow hollowedout for them through the agency of this worm, if you can believe it—and there holedup in small, definitely incestuous families, it’s said, and wretches that they were, that they are, they’re eating this worm, I mean like they’re feeding on it, drinking its essence, the blood, I don’t know what you’d call it, whether worms have blood or not, their only source of sustenance, right…STOP yourself, and that they hide there, guess what, plotting their takeover, the Final Days, Bill, the no nonsense End of Ends. I also heard the one in which they went off to settle this other planet, led by this mysterious, get this, Doktor Froid, left us in chariots of heavenly light, I heard fire, Bill, ascension with all the fixins, and—wait for it—that they’re planning to return, just waiting for the right moment, to zap the earth back to the ashes it sprang from. Zip, zilch, okay nada. Goddamn Bill, I heard that, and now you want me to believe this, which’ll be even crazier, won’t it: Israelien walking around in plain day, sunlight Sure as my name’s Lee, with a halo over His head and little yellow stars hung from His tits. Anyway, let’s out with it: you have Him, He’s being held, there’s a price on His head, you’re asking a ransom, He’s already dead…enough, give it up, Bill, what’s your deal?

About time, Brove says, keeping in mind STOP who’s paying for the call.

Is that what this is about? I’ll tell you…I have my suspicions, Bill, you cheapo Marx whatever the schmuck, if that’s how it’s said, I wouldn’t know—how do I know you’re not one of them, too?

He’s S/SW, Lee. STOP. Heading for Angels through desert STOP. Moving slow and in the open STOP. Three eyewitness reports STOP: latest in a burgerjoint just outside Tucson.

Why didn’t you say so before? gushing gosh. Don’t answer, rhetorical, say. Haven’t we done anything yet? Go ahead.

Thing is Der knows. STOP. Already sent—Gelt, Frank, alone.

Gelt? That goy couldn’t find himself even if both stood to profit. I got ten Mex working KP duty down here who could do his job in half the time…

For half the pay, says Brove.

And actually get their mensch, says Sure. Why not Mada?

Not his territory STOP, not his sort of people.

You have a point.

You had a few points there yourself.

Which means I’m winning, Bill, he always is, how Lee’s sure of it.

They’re two menschs, witnesses, any…affirmative; even offcamera, they’re always in pairs. In the paramount waitingroom, flipping through periodicals preposterously just a libration or so out of date: last Shabbos’ Times, recent back issues of the Weekly Affiliated, old Yinglish editions of Der Backvertz (a paper revived, Downtowned once again), anything to pass, riffling their ways upsidedown right to left through subscriptions in two names of a lawyer threenamed, H. Shy Lockermann of Corona, of counsel—they’d expire next moon unless he renews, unless they do in his name, as he’s dead. The two of them who, remind them, they’re waiting for what, a nurse, an assistant, any replacement receptionist, her desked at the door, chained to command in manacles made of bills bound small in denomination, and wadded tightly—anyone since Miss de Presser left her employ for pregnancy, moneygreener pastures, the free range of the oven; she’ll be missed. After smokes stubbed out upon the mediating arms of their twinned recliners, they take the liberty of announcing themselves to whichever Doctor Tweiss’s available.

A Hymie and a Hymie to see you, Doctor, a Hymie says…and Miss de Presser returned’s the sentiment, all nostalgized what with the dust daily rubbed into their gums, tingly—how they aren’t in a state to distinguish; they’ve been burning files for hours, they’ve been shredding documents with their teeth.

Shalom to you, says a Hymie to which one of them, with starring badge in hand him whichever barging like Sabbath’s eve suddenly through the door to the final corridor and its leftmost office after having negotiated the halls and their rooms for an hour, navigating the makeshift, makework waste: flayed paper, document skin, the files purged to stale air, light smoke; the trashcans are smoldering, the watercooler’s too dry to douse.

Upon their entrance, Doctor Tweiss forgets himself to rise, arranging his suit and pants unmatching professional detachment, to lounge up against the shelves of an office wall, uniforming ranks set with volumes of ostensible reference materials, in truth nothing but false spines; he picks at the drip of his nostrils.

We’re from a government agency with such a name as it wouldn’t pay to have an acronym, says one of them to him once they’ve made their marks on initial inspection, but we’ll refer to it as you’ll refer to us, HYMIE…that is, if you want to.

The doctor nods rapidly: no take a seat, no offered drink.

We’ve been led to understand, the Hymie goes on, that you’re in possession of materials necessary to our, let’s go with—project. His head flits around the room all schnozz.

As for his partner, he’s diagnosed as the Strong, Silent Type later that day: he’ll take disability and that’s that.

And what materials as you put it would those be?

We need the foreskin, Doctor, the first of them, the virgin shed if you will—you have it, and you have it here.

Is that what you think, Mister, hymn…Hyman, or Hymen was it—Hymie? Thank God for the nametag, he thinks, belief in a badge. I’m a medical doctor, a respected professional. I wouldn’t turn anything over to you: no patient information, no labwork, no specimens, samples, results, and I don’t have to, that’s privileged, protected—I dropped out of lawschool, I know my rights…I’m just not in the mood.

For once, Doctor, you’re right. I’m afraid, however, that my partner disagrees, he’s disagreeable, also highly illogical, suffers from…nu, as you say, you’re the professional: denkn, trachtn, klern or haltn, oystrachtn maybe, forgive me, I forget…perhaps he should arrange an appointment with your twin?

If that’s your thing…his offices are only down the hall, though I’m afraid he’s out—there’s been a death in the family, my cat ate his mouse, my dog ate his cat, he’s all broken up about it. Though you might want to take a meeting with our employer, have a word—I assume you know who that is.

We know, and we already have—we’ve had a few words, in fact: Shalom was one of them, Shalom the other. We understand he’s exclusively retained your services, and those of your fraternal twin—but your employer and ours, they’ve reached an understanding…I hope you understand, farshteyn.

That’s for Der to say, and when we spoke this morning he said nothing of the sort. He flinches. Didn’t even mention.

It’s all written right here, and the Hymie waves an official document as if it’s gone spoiled, along with a warrant, too, to search your property, to seize anything we might want to seize and then search through on our own time, though it’s no crime to waste yours—whether as faith’s evidence (FED), or, gevalt, just to aggravate you…anything out of the ordinary, our decision, our call, anything suspicious, whatever, vos nor. He squats to the ground to light another smoke, and the leather of his wingtips crackles like burning. From that position, removing his glengarry and scratching around his yarmulke a head that’s been recently buzzed, he asks, tell me, Doctor, do you have anything suspicious on your premises? and he takes a slow drag, exhales with a frown, you think I’m joking, joshing, narring with you, mishing, just witzing around—you want we should garnish your socks?

Nothing I know of, I assure you, and he tries to hide from the Hymie one foot behind the other he’s crossing them again and again, almost falling when he realizes one foot always has to be put forward, the best. This is a medical facility, righting himself. Long Island’s most discreet & expensive inpatient sanctum sanctorum’s our new ad campaign…what do you think, a bit much? No one’s here to take your call right now. If you’d like to leave a message, wait for the…

Hello, this is H.Y.M.I.E. I’m calling with regard to a particular foreskin in your possession, that of a Mister Israelien—actually, we’ve been led to understand you have multiple foreskins, but we only need one. If not that One, then another. Whichever. A futzing flake, a fall—is that too much to ask?

You’re not listening. I’ve handled many foreskins in my day: detaching, re-attaching, redetaching, dereattaching, you name it, and even my own—you might be interested in a procedure yourself, no offense: even with our rates so affordable, we could probably work out a deal…

His foreskin, you schmuck—first off the orla, then the ganze peria, a bissele brisele, His milah mine…the Hymie shrieking every schmeck of decorum lost if, also, messed around in this very referring deferral, passion for his mission refound. Jumping up from his squat, he flicks ash to the carpet, throws his hat bent out of shape atop the flaming as if to drench with his shvitz, then jumps up and down on the smolder; the other Hymie, however, remains impassive, stands still, “hebetudinal” as his partner’ll describe in his report: how he hangs deep in the shadow of the door edged open as wide as his mouth, as tongueless, and dull, no help at all but he’s family, how their sister fright wig and whining, she’d asked a favor, he’d needed a job.

His! the mensch’s shrieking again and again, His! Israelien’s rail, Ben’s bump epimorphic, you putz, you know of what I’m talking…pulling himself together, retrieving his hat thrown into the ring scorched on the floor, punches its dents into dings, then felshes it all into perfect shape brim to crown. Apparently, he goes on, further calming, an interesting specimen, the world’s largest, it’s said: falls off farkakta, grows back yadda and blah, regenerative, blastemal if you want, bornagain miraculous; echt, a neys if there’s ever been one gadol…he coos, it won’t be such a loss. I’ll tell you what, and his eyes shift this way, that, then cross: let’s say we forget search & seizure. Just confirm for me, will you—it’s true what they say; this wondermont to behold, call us curious…does it really live up to the hype?

And the doctor, he holds out his arms, indicative of either the state of dispossession, or the desire to take flight…how Hymie’s debriefing’ll take note of both possibilities: his palms out, facing up, fingers splayed, his wardrobe jacket baring cuffs then humiliate skin—anyone’s guess, the Ascension.

Then any hair samples, the Hymie says—actually, any and all organic materials of His whatsoever; anything that once lived: organs, nails, skin fore or aft, I’m sure something’s lying around somewhere, has to be, filed away no doubt. I hope you’ll see things our way (straightening his own sight, making of contact a bludgeon)—you have a reputation to think of, a future, too, olam haba…has anyone ever told you you have beautiful eyes?

You’ll make another of Him, others, I know it…the doctor thumbing still at his snort, maming nares. But it’s never been done before, don’t you understand—the first one to be cloned, He can’t be Affiliated.

The first one cloned has to be Affiliated…just think for a moment, Doctor—with any mazel, we’ll make Him that way.

But then is He Affiliated? Aha! and Doctor Tweiss jumpsup himself though he’s already standing, pedants over to the blackboard walling the west of the room, grabs a length of chalk to make a chit in its corner, upperrighthand. A point for me!

Doctor, He’s whatever we want Him to be, and the Hymie grabs his dark knit tie, spits to its tip a cusp of congestion to aid in his erasure.

But that’s insane…it’d never work, it’d never live, and the doctor returning dashes back toward the board, tripping on the rug that bunches under him falling, his fingers splayed to grip for the ledge, which gives way with his weight and he ends up on the floor stuck with a stick of white dust up a nostril.

It? Now, Doctor, is that any way to refer to the nearly living, to the in-the-works, the potentially possible, the perfectible Ben, b’ezrat Hashem’s what we’re saying—is that how you’d talk to the imminent Messiah Himself? Moshiach, I mean. Omniscience wouldn’t miss that. Heaven’s all ears, Doctor, old and humungoid, waxedhairy ears…it’s all recorded anyway, and the Hymie adjusts the lily in his lapel, though the mic’s actually clipped to a cufflink.

Even with a slightly smaller nose…which we’re planning on by the beshert, He’d still smell what stank.

God’s plan is His, if you believe in Him—and I don’t very much…but for now, it’s inviolable, and all these new adherents, they’ll do your work anyway, on their own, no questions asked. And no pay. But you, you…a little help here—you’ll blond Him up, you’ll blue up the eyes!

The doctor crumpled on the floor like a paper discarded: a subpoena, a prescription, the script—ripped through the middle with chalk.

Which will see for miles…gazing out from a head ten feet above the earth: a head like of marble, and with skin of such velvet so you’d like to stroke it, baby it, bathe it, sleep with it at night, wake atop it come morning. A nose ever straighter and straighter, teeth white and whiter even—until they’ll rob us of sight like a thief in the night, and we’ll look within. A Messiah who’ll live forever, every day made younger and smarter—making something of Himself, something more, all for us, His fathers and heirs, to have pride in, over which to shep nachas…

You don’t know what you’re doing…(the doctor getting himself up, reading off a script the other Hymie now hands him; before they’d been sharing one copy)—you have no idea of the forces at work…

You won’t make a God, it’s impossible.

But, Doctor, we’re not making a God, we’re duplicating Him: In the beginning there was creation, et ha’shamayim v’et ha’aretz…and it was good, but could always be better; think of it like this: we’re making improvements (the Hymie loses his place in the snark of delivery, the other Hymie points a finger, he finds it again and smirks on)…don’t worry, Doctor, we have our top ravs on this (would he really say that, “top ravs,” he asks, isn’t that a little much, over the top and toohatted—maybe “rabbis,” no, just a suggestion).

Take Two.

Now, if you please, time’s of the essence: we need the Jnome for replication, and we’ll have it no matter the source. Pause. Or the beliefs of those who might attempt to impede or frustrate our efforts.

Doctor Tweiss stands whitefaced not in mortification but makeup, facing them with his hands on his hips, his script flapping behind him like the wings of the angel he’ll never be, or ever merit…and right on cue—In Mitten Drinnen, as it’s been blocked for a wide shot, Int.—OFFICE—Hymie [silent] pulls a pistol from the holster at his shoulder; his partner waves him down.

Just think about it, the first Hymie says: male newborns, newly born without foreskins. We’ll inject the birthright, naturally chosen in utero, in vitro, in whatever we trust: Affiliation to go from strength to strength, hazak l’dor, from generation unto generation, a Messiah engineered for every age…music gimcrack and gilded rises from the vents, along with a gas scentless, colorless, maybe even effectless and so just pumped in for the sheer shorn folly of it, the trebly paranoia: revelation brass muted by cymbals strungup to ethereal harps. Salvation’s proposition is once-in-a-lifetime, Doctor…you’re mad, mishugenahmost! who sent you? PAN OUT. The Acronym, Doctor, the representation, yours, ours, and so why not everyone’s, too, while we’re at it…the idol of Name, of the Name that is all names of the letters that are all letters—the Name, Whose every letter holds its own names inside and then letters inside those, too, Aleph, Bet…get my drift, you got snow on the brain: all that unknowable and inextinguishable stuff, the ineffable Name of Names, as represented in letters of letters, nu—does that answer your question…as either Doctor Tweiss or his stuntdouble (a divorced former camera-mensch with bad knees from years spent stooping to film XXX scenes in and around San Fernando), anyone but his twin Tweiss who can’t be bothered just now, falls through the doorway to the hall, its rug sloppily thrown above the marbleized linoleum, Properties’ salvage, and smacks the soundstaged ground with his knuckles; the agents crack theirs, ask to use the phone, call their agents…it’s almost a wrap; the unions are going restless and tired; all that’s left of the catering bagels are holes; the continuity girl’s gotten pregnant by the boom; there’s no more coffee, but there are planes to make to the coast.

Doctor, the Hymie says out the side of his mouth, cupping the receiver while he’s still on hold to the muzaked tune of three shekels a minute, we’ll have ourselves a Moshiach, with all rights reserved, all patents pending, whether you’ll help us or not. CUT—how the first is by default the deepest, a fade to black and then, the scenic horizon of credits…or is this just a rehearsal for the futureful real? As for the other Doctor Tweiss, whose scenes have been left on the cuttingroom floor, there just wasn’t the interest, he didn’t test well, one Tweiss is enough—he’s been overheard in voiceover (and even once glimpsed matchedcut, amid dust’s dissolve) through their office’s intercom system, surveillance cameras footaged in black & white he’s occupied flushing any samples at hand—semen, and blood, down the toilet he sits on; a wipe, and they wrap.

To the south, which is for why always west, or should be, into illimitable Freedom…mapcalled, flatcolored Fleedom—the House of Bondage, a new essen&M themed leather joint risen at the Mexican border: a place friendly for a rest, an inexact shave and a wash, a sip cerveza and a hot meal on the way outcountry; a bar & grill, a waystation and hideaway, too, made of metal, roofed and walled, of the refuse of repentant bikers that’s piled out back, as well, and, also, in the sandlot up front—riders hunkered down around their flaming wrecks, Harleys smelted to holy. To the north, then, and to the east, which are the same directions, which is—a grayhaired exheavy in a visor and ten cableknit sweaters for the cold stands a soar atop his private, No Trespassing mesa, keeps his head down, his eye balled, swings himself out into the sandtrap we call the desert, a sunset pastel, and then in disgust at his shot and with the weather, throws his driver up to the sky to tangle with a bolt of lightning come down—and from it, the neon…necromantic, illuminating each and every failure, among them one (Emanuel) L. Leeds, the Good and rt. Irreverend L. survived, today the appropriately yarmulked and side-lockladen Rabbi El he’s aliased as (a costumey disguise, though he’s liking it perhaps a lach too much), bedding down in the back of a jeep he’ll hotwire from its unfortunate owner tomorrow, up on the sixth floor of the parkinggarage of the Al-Cohol Hotel & Q’asino, kept warm by a bottle of Vat 613 and a pack’s worth of smokes flavored besamim he’s rolled himself. They’re out for L., and L.’s out for Him, too—can’t stand the memory of that Joysey humiliation…reeling tales as tall as Him about the One that got, gevalt, away to a host of obliging or just pitying unionists: Double Triple Quadruple Pay / We Ain’t Gonna Work on Sa-Tur-Day, them striking out for the picket-line that hazards the tourists’ turquoise rim of the moon; their ostentatiously jewelried rep giving good quote…“we don’t believe in an end to God’s bounty, or in a border to our country, either, America, the world.” Which by an estranging yet commodious rictus brings us westward ho, which is southbound, again, as it’s been said with a smile, and, if given to belief in all the signs that bedevil the toothless, tongueless, gaping beyond, the north and east, too, all of it together and around again if the mystic’s your thing, also if not: silver highways that, if you obey the recommendations of their contingently blinking advisories, if only you would heed their wondrous warnings arcaned in ways symbolized of arrows and stars, promise to take you out as far as the garden of Angels, which is Holywood, the second city that is all cities, but is all other cities perfected, made irreal: apparently, a place of pilgrimage, the developers now sell it as, per the glossed propaganda a mystical shrine, in which dream need not be its own fulfillment, no matter how common its interpretation nor how brute its price. Here there are intersections and there are causeways and byways, there are interchanges and coded connections, known only to the select under hidden numbers, by secret names. To approach this wisdom, it’s said, you must follow the wide wave of the desert, then turn—averting disaster—just before its break, forsaking its spill over the concrete and the meridian there, to abandon its wake that drifts sand as if stars to constellate the further beach, which gives itself over to the Pacific as a grave, the bottommost burial of the world…this is the ocean, the other ocean. A rumbling wave prays in thanks for the sacrifice of the shore, the land, the dry earth. As here, as much as everywhere else, the heavens open: every weather crowded into cloud. It’s Friday already, it’s the Sabbath again, and we tumble into its fissure, timequaked—the void of yet another Shabbos.

Here, one line of many, infinite, or, in another interpretation, the one and only line—this leading to the nameless, perhaps stockless, and so just reliant on false word-of-mouth, OffReservation liquorstore (a line that alternates lame hosses and lamer pickup trucks with the odd pulling, motorpuling tractor modified into a snowplow thrown in to keep it interesting, everyone awake, at attention)—snakes through the early evening’s long quiet plaining to holy. A slight past the line’s middle three eligible Injun bachelors in ripped wifebeaters, two of them in meshbacked caps over slick mullets, hurry to replace a gutted tire on their white Silverado, while Kuskuska her name is she sits I’m too pretty, smart, important, and female to deal with ya’ll in a battered bluecollared recliner nailed down to the flatbed and facing exhaust. Atop this poor sprung stuffless throne she’s just singing along; all the radios are on and are loud.

He’ll be comin’ ’round the mountain when He comes

When He comes

O He’ll be comin’ ’round the mountain when He comes

When He comes

O He’ll be comin’ ’round the mountain, He’ll be comin’ ’round the mountain, He’ll be comin’ ’round the mountain when He comes

O when He comes

He’ll be ridin’ six white donkeys when He comes…

As for this mountain she’s singing about, listen up: in our lifetime it’s winding down, eroding, been sanded away…today, it’s just another mesa, if a mesa made special, sacred, not in its appearance under any light whether of night or day or else in any other apparency, but only as it’s a landmark spiritual, a placemarker, as it’s said—the site of an emergence, onto the shores of our world. You following. Stay with me. Now, be you chaver or chazer, this here is the harder world, be ye warned, a dimensioned world, textured, heavy-fingered and greedy of palm, it touches all surfaces, strokes: its topography one of pain, of sorrow and suffering, but it’s also another opportunity, after those of their worlds previously squandered—realize the plan or prepare for yet another destruction. All of you with husks in your ears, with shells over your eyes, you’ve been warned. Ignore at your own peril, gringo, Bahana—you White Mensch from Across the Water whose appearance, it’s said, means the end of this world, marks the beginning of the next, whatsoever it be, they hope good and soon.

In the beginning of it All how they, too, had their own void, believe it, space without form, everyone did, each to their own, the same, equal and endless. Then—we appeared…we appear only in order for the world to have appeared to us, and so it follows—dispersion; their Eden already a diaspora: they emerge from the water onto the land to be robbed. Their womenfolk raped. Their legacy up in unproverbial smoke. A noise comes from behind a star: a siren, civilization’s cry, which destroys, decrees future governance; over the mountains, the bleat of the cavalry’s horn—it’s the voice of the God of the Universe, Nature Itself saying to them, go forth: follow each your own star…and then when that star stops, wheresoever it might end or fall, settle there, this is what I’ve decided. And so they make their migrations, four ways to the wind. That’s their myth, no stranger than any other, admit it. They’re the Hopi, the unchosen chosen. Welcome to their world, dwell in peace. Reservations unnecessary, hunt yourself into a quarter, gather, and settle. Pitch your wander. Make yourself at home.

What you should expect: to begin with, the color of this world is yellowed white, its tree the juniper, its bird the owl as wise as age, perched on its winged laurels; its animal the mountain lion that paces starving and droughted, inexorably tracking its prey elusive if not yet extinct through what are called the pasos, which are the four directional arms of the Great Swastika, north, south, east, and west: these the very routes of the Hopi dispersion, their camp to be centered at this, the apex of the bent cross, the dead middle of this peopled line. Here is the seat of the planet’s rotation, the spiritual magnet that once attracted the New Aging rabbis’ sisters and thinhaired, wireglassesed aunts out from Angels, Desert Hot Springs, Arizona’s rocks Bell and Cathedral, Sedona and its outlied environs, and even parts aged further east—here the intersection of the vibrations of the Twins, the Hopi deities of our fallen equator. From here, the middle of the map that is the Swastika, the migration can be mirrored in two directions: there were the Hopi who’d turned right, the clans of the Bear, the Eagle, Fire and Water, Whatever, That One, Why Not, and Sure; while those who’d turned left provide for the reflection of the form: the clans of the Crow, the Bluebird, the Butterfly, What He Said, Without a Doubt, Definitely, Absolutely, You Got It…others still splintering off from the Swastika, to live apart, in inhuman cities and outerboroughs, in godless Developments scattered to the judgment of every scarcity’s wind. This reflection into four arms symbolizes, too, the quadrants of the worlds, those quadrantworlds destroyed—all of us living despite our wander within the meaning of the last square, its intent the greater, the darkest. Cradled in the bosom of the swastika. Confined by the total wall of this cross.

Among us, her…Kuskuska, otherwise known as Jane. In Hopi, it means Lost: named after the locus of our previous existence, the world from which we’ve just fallen; known, don’t ask why, as Kuskurza. She waits in the line, which is according to many, if you ask them and even if you don’t, the longest, most crowded arm of the swastika, to the liquorstore and from it, impatient for it to open after its enforced Shabbos closing, sitting sidesaddle on the recliner in the flatbed its tire now replaced, her feet surrounded by wildflowers, sienna and sepia dead. She stops her singing only to mock a yodel at Kokuiena, also known as Dick, her kin at the wheel and not going anywhere, idling, wasting gas, exhorts him to just honk the horn, will you, spook the horses, those strawberry roans and pregnant rasps she’s sure are to blame for slowing everything down up ahead; how she won’t turn around, though, and face front to get an idea of what lies in store, or else to envy, to covet those closer: how she only faces the rear and smiles her fortune despite bad dentistry at the poor parching behind her. A noxious wind’s up, waft of el chupacabra’s stank breath, the icy abrego of a season displaced, thick with sand and debris, fear and hate, and, God, when you think about it, the next world isn’t the last of the worlds or her problems, they won’t be…there are more to come, too many, she’s had it already, enough. We’ll never make it, not us. Kokuiena leans out the window and turns to Kuskuska and asks her with his sorrel eyes, pleadingly, like I know all that myth shtick and the government and the wars, hymn, unemployment, privation, martyrology’s ganze geschichte but, nu, sis, how’d we ever end up like this. Worlded. Take a number. Get in line. But Kuskuska’s lost in her own, thinking maybe, just maybe, give me one good why not and she’ll light out for Phoenix: temping receptionist, secretary, maybe get into the hospitality racket, a moon or two getting settled and who knows she might even make waitress or maid, the aboriginal who checks coats; anything to get out of here, far enough away from Hotevilla and environs and, gevalt, she has no idea how to even begin telling her brother a thing like that.

Kokuiena, bareboned, knifecheeked, with sockets shadowing the pale, the rashraised stubbled chin, the shallow chest heaving its fluish sigh, paws his ponytail, then takes it around his neck to his mouth to suck on its tip; it helps him remember the prophecy: how he’d been called, by the Chief over to the public telephone eavesdropped upon by the immortal operator, She of the 0 sunning out over Holbrook, frozenly nooned in the sky a hundred or so unmarked unmade miles away, past Oraibi Old and New and its mesas and their secrets he was told what would happen and then, the extension just died, beep beep beep and please press # for interpretation, a pounding…how a voice he’d never heard before deep and grave, yet un-characteristically white, had told him about a member of a foreign tribe headed this way, and had mentioned a reward, said it would be a formidable service, then described a Bahana named Ben, a Redeemer, a white mensch who, and it’s not like he’s sure how, is not a white mensch: a paleface with a red heart and lips blue from the cold who’d one day arrive in the plaza, who’d show up when one notch knifed into the stick—the last line past the last day, a moon from now with the tribe entire, fathers, mothers, sons and daughters all out to welcome this Messiah, imagined, their arms out laden with greetings, with gifts, here at Yellow Stone, there at Pointed Rock, Where the Ray of the Sun Goes Over the Line to the Place, south of Oraibi proper. He’s been tasked to search for this Ben, He Who Comes In Peace we’ve been waiting for for so long—and so what, to scout around, to ask questions, follow trails, which is futzed: tradition says He’ll come to us, not us to Him…how unexpectedly, He’ll arrive in the Plaza, which one you’ll know on that day when, middance and with the fire tamped down, the Tourist Kachina will remove its mask in front of the uninitiated kinder: a star shining brightly blond, the elders all masked in their finest white rubber, their eyes’ slits rounded and rung in corny plastic, threechinned husky, falsified faces grinning widely to expose an endless imitation ivory dentition, their dark naked torsos below bedecked in photographic and video equipment, bandoliers of film canisters, in their hands they’ll wield rainbow umbrellas while dancing dementedly, opening and closing their thrusts and parries upon thuds of foot raising the dust of the earth—this Kachina an advanced incarnation of their only spiritual future, lately channeled to this world not out of a wanting for myth, or from any metaphysical need, but because that’s what the audiences pay for, that’s what the tourists demand; and then, how there will be no more ceremonies, there’ll be no more faith, and, after a time, the elders say the wheel will renew itself, that it must, and then…how it’ll begin all over again, shakily spoked, the crossed axle of the baldest tire—another emergence, meaning other migrations…and these outlining an even greater swastika, another settling—and yet another death. Would you believe it. Who ever heard.

A white who’s not white, don’t ask Him to explain…He, shtum and on foot, arrives in the axis. Here in the middle of the newest tundra, in the middle of the middle of no money, that’s one thing, no warmer woolen sweater or sweatshirt, fleece or Hanna’d say pullover or anything like that, that’s another, it’s freezing out, the middle of middling nowhere, now what, now nothing. What might be the wind’s Ben complaining. Having wandered through the night, toward the end of the temporal Sabbath, lo He beholds lights in the distance, a twinkling grace saved from perpetual powder, strung out to dim poles a God knows where, and’s not telling. Through the lenses of His glasses, frozen with fog, He makes out a line of vehicles, raggedly running and not, motley: golfcarts registered to corpses, asses liened off neighbordebtors, repod burros, donkeys and horses, ponies and mules, loadfoaled, collapsing beburdened, pickup trucks, sleighs yoked to tractors hitched to their owners and hauling forever, heaps of hide, spring and sprocket who could ever hope to name anything but a mechanical apology, I’m sorry geared to strip down—all given the pallor of exhaustion in three coats of dull finished with wan under the dim lights of the highway that haven’t yet been cut off by the state to discourage such driving on Shabbos. Them waiting, as it’s been handeddown, whispered down the line, for Molly Mashke’s OffReservation Schnapps Emporium to open when the sun’s finally set, and so contrary to the concern’s NonStop reputation, it seems to be a roundabout 24/6 operation. Hoofing it across the gulagish in search of the open, amid all this open, the finding lost amidst the found, only to become blocked, stopped, disallowed: verily it comes to pass that Ben wanders straight into this line lining across His path and forever and pathless; that His line has in the midst of such freedom come to intersect the line of these Injuns, innumerable and thirsty and prepared to pay through the throat for the sanctification of quench, and to intersect it exactly at its midpoint, halfway between the last thirsty Injun (of course, it’s tempting to speculate, as have many of our best and brightest, that these Injuns are linedup in order of thirst, of desire), and the threshold of the elusive, perhaps merely mythic, liquor purveyor; the line winding down the road, or the line is the road, slick sprinkled with cornmeal against skidding, slippage, to keep anyone from tailing them to harm through their wait, their patience this Shabbos, for its three soused stars, the hungover light of the sun. Ben can discern only animals and vehicles and their idling people in both directions: no end of the line and no beginning either, on this disembodied arm of this swastika mirroring all; and further on down the line, Mexicoway, so far as to be certainly foreign: Heber backtracking north with Mada in their limo requisitioned on the moment in Siegeles spurred hard, brakeless, its transmission on the clunk, and behind them Frank Gelt in a rental Hummer (on his way out to check on an Angels tip his convertible unreported stolen outside a Barstow motel, creditcards, too, he left in the glovebox at Needles so he pays all plus extra mileage in cash, saves receipts, prays reimbursement); they’re trafficjammed, fisting their horns thinking instinct they’re back in the city where when you make noise, you make life go; the lights getting greened in jealousy at the very red of impatience, the lanes only what’s made of them, lane; and then behind, far far behind and there unsuspected, almost at the border where they’ve bought with favors forged documents with which to evade recognition, the Marys, in the van in which they’d followed Him on tour (thanks new plates): they’re still costumed though off the clock, most of them lying atop a Hotel & Q’asino mattress gutted of stuffing in the bay in the back, its hubby, orificetight space studded with pillows in the style of an Oriental harem, perfumatory, tented with stolen towels and sheets; like everyone else—and though for them there’s no money involved only guilt in the gut, Hanna’s, them made family to disappointment, in themselves and in Him—they’re determined to find Him, to bring Him on home; forget bounty or bonus, it’s a duty, a love…His mother and sisters to pass the long while holding shiralongs, playing guessinggames, I’m thinking of more than twenty questions with the answer always Him, taking turns sleeping in the rear as Rubina usually or is it, as it’s jammedup and waiting and honking Batya just now, but how she’s too young to drive, idles them out of gas.

Ben holds up his hand to an elder withered to the perfection you’d expect to pay for in these parts, an Injun standing amid the throng, holding up and open his palm. In his other hand, he holds a miniature totem, topped with a scrap of plywood nailed, on which is scrawled an I…which must mean Information, indicative of progress, a palaver, and so Ben bows His head, like let us hold speech.

How, says the elder.

How what? He asks, thinking why not.

Howdy, he says, digging his totem into the ice and the dirt—donations are welcome, deal white with me, will you? He stands silent and straight and in-expressive as if a totem himself.

Ben forces on the elder a laugh, and he loosens up, pities with piety, waves Him over to meet his young squaw: a starved shy but pregnant girl, a refugee from the Navajo who despite their reputation for resistance, for violent survival, have all been already converted, he tells Him; then has Ben help shoe his horse while he—what else to do, not enough food—starts in with the nails on his kinder. If nothing else, he has a sense of humor. Not taking no, he offers Ben the freedom of his camp: lets Him sleep in line that night, the line that doesn’t move, as if anyone’d expected it to, the night that doesn’t move either, only its lights, which sway in the wind, which braid, as if to candle themselves with the powerlines, and then fire—lets Him sleep in the stow of a wagon on a heap of rank hay come loose from its bales, flameready, flecked pestilent with dung, nested infestation, the hatched eggs of vermin and varmint; amid the sleeps of the elder’s family of six with they threaten at least two more on the way, how they tussle in there, maybe even three by the end of the week—until just like tomorrow next Friday arrives, night, and with it as always the beginning of Shabbos again and so they prate at preparing wherever they stand, turning around to face east and now the Blessed art Thou firewater of its holy store are located, if at all, in the exact opposite direction. They’ll turn west again when the sun sets the next night.

You’re not safe here, the elder says preparing Kiddush that eve over what they’ve scooped of the weathering melt steeped with the peels of grapes saved and stored. I know who you are. I’m not just a native, I follow the news. And it’s not just my family, I fear for you, too. He holds aloft a murky tin cup, and there’s silence because none of them have yet memorized the blessing, the bracha. Over the washing, done from the depths of wheelrut puddles and hoofsinks, but before the breaking of bread, two cold loaves of corn, he takes Ben aside and whispers to Him: after we make Shabbos, it’s best you be gone, then returns to his kinder (his shayna shanya kinder), promising them—when we get to the store, I’ll trade up for more wine.

Ben sets out from the axis, walking two days, wandering three days, four, traversing four lines, arms, roads, and their people, kith and kined worlds…ways that might all be the same way, as the days of repetition lead toward the closing: blockade; with the meal spilled upon the ice then the savory salt, and there’s only one road left open…this the hardestrocked road, winding a way past the touristed ruins, originals destroyed whether by earthquake, fire, raid, or by time itself a God and then like Him or it reborn, again resurrected if only for the fast, distracted worship of weekenders ingathered; then, up to the so described, you sold me majestic vale of Third Mesa—how the pamphlets and brochures and catalogs available for a nominal investment of faith say windswept, say mighty with height, the site of the invisible archway by which the spirits of the dead might enter this world, and then exit, taking leave in a deep fall forever into the grandest of cañons. At least it’s not so small that you’d miss it.

To leave the line then, to forsake His personal migration, His own singular path or forgetting—repenting the axis entire, Ben takes off in any direction opposite, out, only out, into the open to wander again within the world of direction, of progress and forward, onward and upward due west. Yea though He walks through the valley of the shadow of death, how it’s worth it, there’s nothing much else to do. He heads toward the tinsel, Him fearless of evil, with only a rod and a staff, which are one and the same and discomforting, by now without an underwear change—out to Angels and its Holywood, passing over playa to plagued, past saltpillars of snow formed to His form and none other: apparitions, Himlike white specters, frozen in their own autochthonous escapes. Don’t look back. Don’t turn around. Every three or so steps, He shambles into a length of railroad track, 4 x 8½ gauge its iron quaking, hot to melt the fall as if a train’s fast approaching, though none ever does: tracks snaking over and under the dunes as if boundaries to invisible countries, borders writhing like worms strewn across the emptiness of the earth; the track rough, battered, barbed, occasionally surfacing, then submerging again, winding veinlike, mained, through the rises and falls of the sand in its dunes. After four exhaustive five exhausted days, fording washes dry turned tundra, sidestepping sidewinders, tumbling weeds and mossy boulders better hazards on a roll, Ben begins finding these longer lengths of track, then descent, and then nothing; hombre, we mean nil. Then, other even longer lengths of track ahead, these at an impossible angle of turning from any section previously found. These discontinuous stretches lie scattering the pale, small stitches on the flesh of the desert, as if holding together the grains below, binding the sand to the fundament, the grounded, down to earthed, wounded in valley—the lengths that once joined these sections made timeline of the discrete, gone, disappeared, maybe quakeswallowed: a punishment if not undeserved, how incurred. He nothing else to do follows the directions these markers might indicate to any mysticism inept; follows them far until they have Him at a loss, turned around on Himself and Ben has to rest and so sits down finally here—around this dim camp coiled in a valley between two risen dunes, one the sun, the other the sacralized moon. Sitting His legs crossed in the native style at a flame fricked of His own creation, sparked by two scraps of track, ties He lies with then falls asleep with in His hands, slitting both wrists with them and so becoming His own brother—to live for Him this life upon a shade’s awake. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow them. Praise be to God.

Upon the morning, a good day to die (Shabbos the holiest of days according to our sages boding well for the disembodied, the living and the thinking and the unknowing, too—all holding expiration within the Sabbath’s bounds to be a wonderful omen, despite the suffer and sorrow of inexistence resultant)—having quit the line, forsaken the truck, his people, the world, and an inheritance of future worlds for himself if not for his own, pelted now in the pocked skin of a buzzard’s coyote tied around his neck, Kokuiena in chalk-bitten whiteface walks feet bared bleeding the day’s way up to the flat of Third Mesa: hours it takes him, moons and their illuminative suns before he ever arrives at this plat above his reserve; he paces himself, he must, it’s required, a mandate to take it slow and go easy, and so making those four stops along tradition’s hard pass, interrupting his ascent each pause to a quadrant, each a gesture to its own direction, its own wind—an acknowledgement or farewell, that’s the ritual; arrives atop the sky only at the time appointed, the hour he’d dreamt had been appointed, after having received visions, overdue bills, and a visit from a collection agency, you don’t want to know them. The higher you get, the greater the heaven, and the more you can find it within you, and within you to believe, too, in even your own shadow—how it gives him this riverrush of power, lording it over his past, as if a lower sky…dreamcatching shades of waving arms and hands, his fingers those dusky dun flocks of them splayed in benediction, a duchen, granting the blessing of death over pueblo and purchase: irrelevance, nothingness, dust to dust, smokestacks of cacti, cinders of scrub, driven snow ashes. Alone, he’s here to receive the arrival: Ben, Bahana…you know Him, me neither—and, too, to welcome the emergence of world the next, at last. Must ready yourself, must make pure, must not must at all. Still, it’s thoughts of her, stealing, his sister: mourn his Kuskuska (parents dead, everything they had, since then his heart as scarce as the earth); he’s lost her to them, his land and his people: she’s far away now in Tucson, newlywed to a notable and working parttime at a mikveh, a kindergarten mornings, at least that’s the word, prophecy without postmark. Blanched by air this cast and rare, shadowed and shadowing he waits, and waits mightily; stands to face down the land: to gaze in all directions, which are none altogether, searching like a bird for its prey, the quarry of redemption, a Savior…a lamed weak Messiah just mincing in from afar, dragging Itself easy diseased, wounded as stationed and bloodily crowned—but for hours, hours then days and then a week of this moon it’s just desert, lack of faith. Must have just missed Him, must. How He’d been in the line, it’s been said, but oriented to the wrong wind, allied with an evil gust, turned around, lived against: they went west He went east, or the other way, too; a revelation denied him. After the death of his people through life they die once again; after faith’s lost, when memory itself goes forgotten, what’s left alone, him. Kokuiena. That and a sharp speck spied in the distance. A mote of the sun, just now rending a rip through a cloud…a push, a peck, then a beak—and suddenly, an eagle tears through the sky, shreds the gray with its wings flapping weather from one’s speed the other’s steer, snow and crests of cloud that swoop to him like snow, too, if not for the sun and its rising glare. Rattily rangy yet grand, despite the distress of its birth, it soars to eclipse even shadow, then hovers those ample and amply ancient wings any angel would kill for a span over and around the jut of the mesa and his standing stone. It holds in its beak a small black nothing, a moon defunct, a lunar rock only the size of an eye—a star lately fallen to dull…to blink, then to calm: it’s a yarmulke, nothing else, that the eagle’s glinting, gutripping talons tear from its beak, a yarmulke the vicious bald bird descends with, in a quickening, meteor’s motion, unforgivingly furious as if the animal’s ultimate plunge: a yarmulke as wide as the sky diving down, and at him, to drop lightly, with a plop, on his head.

A depot, an empty station. Ben waits for the fleck at the end of the sky: expectation, what might be a train might be only a blown speck of dust. He straddles a beaten bench unpainted and missing two legs. It’s been how long, a snow’s ever. Needled to the top of the only cactus here is a clock—a saguaro hosting the demoted if not forgotten station’s timepiece of only one hand, which is the hourhand, to the minute, or else it’s the second, up to whom, don’t think it ticks anymore: lightning struck’s stilled the mechanism; it holds an approximation of halftime. On the other hand, what’s the rush—frozen: that winded aleph from the east He hopes is a train comes no closer, but He’s done complaining for now, has hardened, holds puff and kvetch; think about it—at least there’s a bench, even if all it offers is splinter.

Here has no walls, no platform either, just this bundle of wood where a bunch of tracks, previously sunken, intermittently risen, converge then go on, track track, just metal and straight, far as west. Scattered haphazardly, protruding from the sand as if an alien species of arid growth, prickled in iron, unfinished, are levers and switches He has to rein Himself in from futzing around with, they tempt. His robe’s in tatters, draped around His head then cinched with its belt as kafiyah, to keep Him from sky. There’s no roof either to this, except weather, a snowball of sun beating cold.

What’s most disastrous, though, isn’t this lack of robing warmth, or of room & board, or companion, it’s the lack of a schedule—the affirmation of existence at the discretion of time. Know that in schedule is warmth, and that it is room and board and that it’s companionship, too, their hope. Ben searches for His in the sand, amid this dunedom chilblain and blown, howled and tossed and flungamong, a surface of shifting time and times, a confusion of stops and starts and both at once, at the mercy of unhoured weather. As if each sandgrain contained a number, a time number, a train number, a platform number and track number and the number of a stop, rownumbers and seatnumbers and letters, too, these letters and numbers engraved then effaced by the numb finger of a fiery gust. There are times of arrival and times of departure He sees, and sees prices, in what currencies and where to change to what, then transfers departing when for where, arriving who knows if at all, in a whirl, miragemotion, fluxed, mixed up with each other in the mingle of snows, packedoff, dispossessed, only to flake intercalated by the fix of the quarter, in precipitate wisps, drifted to nothing, the destruction of order, any system’s front passing through. Then, mindsick with dizziness to turn to the depot: thinking, where if you even wanted to would you pay, and who; He’ll be lucky if the thing arrives, the train, if once it arrives it ever leaves, if its cars are all hitched, if He’ll make His connection, where and to what. The sky doesn’t announce the stops anymore. No one is woken. Ben, His face, His nose, the only nail holding together the wood of the bench. A trainwreck, forgive.

The sound’s a hiss, undertongued shrill and then the smoky and fatty metal and meat smells seethed in a single stack, its vibrations opening the throat of the track into a quaking, mouthing fullvoiced, this wantonly gaping geshray. All aboard the morning, the desert. A locomotive comes into view, its single shining eye its headlight hulk and ever nearing as if the rising of the sun itself, illuminating the train of the engine: rusted loops and pulls and hauls soon slowing, now slowed, towing in the wake of its woke what brakes like an entire straightened equator, an endless end of the line, of coaches, passenger, cargo. A big old puffer, its 4-4-0 lead truck replete with snowplowing cowcatcher and towering inverse pyramidal smokestack to pulverize the sparks; Xmas Special classy, though izled aged, worked hard: its once neat forecab a memory of red trimmed in happy brass lately faded. It stops at Him as if for Him, sizzles. Ben tries to climb on and it snakes again, sisses, lurches a length, flings Him off. He gets up, tries again to clamber, another lurch, and again, He’s flung again—each time the stack’s smoke billows in regularly rolling puffs as if in mechanical laughter, tinged black. Making His footing, He finally swings on: rollingstock tumbling, without a ticket, to absquatulate paperless, without any documentation, official or not, neither destination. As for a passport, stamp this.

All pulls out, takes a turn, heads horizonways. Ahead of the train, its urge, far at the horizon—a tong of Orientals laying track out there, sloped amid the icy shimmer…they’re hammering in huff, laying track to the one track all the other tracks wind into, to pass through the tunnels of wind. Clad in silken skyshaded azure pajamas, sporting ponytails under dishpan strawhats don’t ask how they stay on they keep always, miraculously, a length enough ahead, a chug beyond then around the cliffed bend. They labor furiously, shvitzing to freeze a skin above their uniforms as thin as daybreak’s rashers, wielding hammers that might be their own arms distended, outgrown to smack the rails, the stakes and ties due west. All the wheels in a row, linedup on one of the infinitely interlocking, weaving tracks into one track, then past the horizon out again and in, disaster and its aversion, incidents of merging and splitting then merging again, until alone, finally, atop a lone slick track laid a length ahead of progress, laidout solitary through the forests then through the thinned forests and then the trees, who knows what trees, the grass and rubble, ruderal hope; the sadness inspired by trash that will outlive you, that must; to no purpose waste that can’t console…then, more grass in every shade of gray—and then trees again, all of them mere roots of His familytree, its fruit ripened to spoil, and then into the forest, its forests again and again: a landscape of repetition, an enumeration of repetitions enumerated, tradition’s ritual and its counting balm upon the heads of the fingers then kissed…folklore as an aid to sleep, the mythic soporific—the train kills the goyim, the goyim kill the goyim, the goyim kill the goy, the goy then kills the goat with his train, but they both die because the goy he also eats the goat, gevalt, which was ill, had terrible worms…and then, the odd stretch of fence, link or post, a trackfront house, a defunct yard whether for feed or lumber, the lot where better business practice comes to die; animal, that goat, cow, or chick, kinder and then again, emptiness; the iron, the steel, and the wood, the scorified energy, relentless and yet still it’s a miracle that everything works—all of it more dangerous and terrifying in its sheer haphazardness, its stubborn slowness, a technical exhaustion, a mystery mechanized of steam and of smoke.

The faster they go, Ben’s windows become ice and soon, halfsleeping, He has to pry His face away from the frozen. He has the compartment to Himself—the entire car’s His, it seems He’s alone in the train. To rouse, He goes out to the aisle—to explore, to forage for a diningcar, for food & drink, vendors, concessions He’ll compromise, if there is any diningcar, with waiters and a cook and a bartender, too, if there’s even a conductor, nu, if that’s not too much to ask, any official stoking the way and not just ghosts with the train itself a hobo between homeless worlds, condemned to the superstitious itinerant: a train that haunts the tracks desperate, enraged…all on its own, for Him and Him only. And so, to hope for an outside voice, whether it be live from the wilderness booming theology, or only temporally shrill and coming over a ceilinged speaker to tell Him what, where to stop, to get off for and just go. He makes way up the aisle, thrown from seat to empty seat, then enters the next car, one class upgraded from that of His board: it’s labeled on a sign as Levi and empty itself; the class of the car ahead He enters, it’s called Cohen, and is quiet, abandoned: this class the only class outfitted in plush, and there’s a tiny draft of heat, a lick up from the lowermost grill. And then the locomotive—but who knows how far the hierarchy extends in the other direction, eastward past the classless Israelien and further down the track again plunged into the unnamed, the unlabeled if not unmentionable rearcars, stretching to the intent or is it the purpose of forever—they’re packed, sardined to the gills: hymn, they’re the emes sardines there, herrings, also whitefish and sable, mamash salmon smoked and pastramitized, beluga sturgeon and its caviar, too, upward of ten kinds of roe, fish bound for the coast, preserved fresh in their unheated hold; they have to be in Holywood for tomorrow brunch; latterday lox flown in from parts east—the bris plate secreted deep in the dimly skinned hold.

Ben stays way up front in the Cohen car, that of the priestly class, despite His not being deemed worthy by whom: those who could, who would afford the price of such comfort, who are or at least were in a position to upgrade, produce the downpayment, submit to eternal scrutiny, entropic review…and even if He were so inclined, whose wheels would He grease, whose eyes would He have to oil to look other ways—nothing worse than being in a situation with no authority to bribe, you’re only alone if there’s no one to buy off…just those Orientals implacable, working their hammers of arm up down up down, through and past this scenery of movingpictures, Sunday matinee landscape panned over and around, again and yet animated again; enough to make Him nauseous…all this reek and dreck dripping from the train’s netherworkings, from between the cars, their toiletstalls, spraying to puddle with lubricants, those oils and greases underneath, fallen, goddamned the sign says it’s Occupied, as if He’s invading the opposite mirror—it’s Him inside squatting, shivering, hiding from no one save the shadows of His own inner fear, reflecting the outside world, its paranoid guilt how it both disrupts His gut then feels bad about it, apologizes with appetite, hunger, need; the toilet chugs, glugs, rumbles fouled bright blue like the water of the ocean further if ever, then overflows into the aisles, freezes slick to the floor. Around Him, passing overhead, through the poled wires both telegraph and phone, allpointsbulletins for Ben long put out, receiving little real response, only a titter of pranks, a smattering of honest tithepayers scared into visions. Hell, get them whoever they ever are nowadays, the Garden and the government and sum the world’s private capital, the international bountyset, the fortune and glory goys—get them desperate enough, they might even flag down a stretch of these trains, leash a few dogs down the aisles, shepherds sniffling under the seats, between the cars and then up on their roofs…but by that juncture, trackshift, lever pulled, flag up, routed on the wrong oneway past the last un-listed stop, He’ll be gone, hidden by a kindly bearded pointsmensch maybe, told to wait for the next train, for the one after that, in one of those tiny corrugated shacks that’s both the office and quarters, the desk astride the bed—then cradled tight amid the engine’s undercarriage, a shrunken shyly suckedup testis of the locomotive itself; to ride on, a splay of shadowed, perhaps only potential, stops later, further down the ghosted line, and then—another hiss, yet another lurch, a stop frail and still for here and now final, He leaps to the meager platform, makes on, oblivious of the absurdly narrow gauge of His escape, following only the map of that unsettled tum; and oblivious, too, to the workers—miracle migrants to the west’s newest expansion, the unlived but holyheld past—swinging back onto the train, which switches its orientation around to chug in the return direction, its locomotive downed, out of service, the train’s head and heart within towed now in reverse.

Bone voyage, the scowl of the wind. Blind Wiedersehn. It’s terminus, officially at least, and everybody off…for Him, though, there’s never a last stop, no final destination. Ben takes a breath around: the environs of this humpy dump of a depot littered with stakes—a grimed glimmer of gold, and silver, these railroaded claims delineating the hope had for clearing: these stakes pounded then left forlorn to mark nothing but their own abandonment, plots forsaken, the demarcation of a dream abused. Its true appellation, this junction jubilating a former wateringstop the locals that remain have taken to calling Bad Chan: there’s a mensch, the only mensch around, maybe the only mensch left, this letzing marshalik up on the forbidden rung of a stepladder painting in a bluff of choleric red a new name atop an old name and its beaten bandage of sign: Chelm, Hotzeplotz, anyone, Kasrilevke, Shnippishok…though isn’t that Maine, Neue England—tongue out, he hasn’t made up his mind. Open for suggestions. Closed Shabbos. Ben walks up and asks him what there is to do around here and the mensch scuts his way down without deciding on a designation, then disentangles from a tincan tub of signs on the porch of the sloughed slouchy depot one in the shape of an arrow he spikes into the stairside ice at a lean.

It says, Spa.

Why not, He thinks, revivifying, just the thing! To take the waters—where…the purest, repristinating air!

Ben transfers to His feet, following the directions intuited, maybe, mapped on His palms in dirt, in mud and the spew of the axles, shvitzing almost away in giddy excitement. He sets off for the colonnades, the rivering waters, rived, earthily heated and healing, medicinal, hundred percent hydroxygen for whatever might ail. To prescribe Himself a rest, His entire flee given purpose by the sudden prospect of pilgrimage, though the waters would probably be frozen, and the hotels might all be long booked. He walks the arrow, perhaps pointing wrongly or just down and out of light but finds no more signs, no higher, faster track, whether by way of faring or handoff, by night or because they’ve never existed—an indication of how elite this spa actually is—only overgrowth, dense wood without trail: hidden, recessed, a jewel set in a greengolden, lunesilvered valley always beyond; down gulches up gullies, 1 Mile’s what He remembers the sign having said, hymn, that or ten at the most, one for each toe, deep into the forest of petrified palm among which are scattered, protective in passage, a huddling minyan of redwood, displaced sequoias sufficiently withered—to pass through them, their arched hollowed trunks, dragging with Him a piece of baggage claimed at random, Lost & Founded through thickets through thorns, tearing straps and imitation hide, Injun luggage seamed, scraped, zipped with tears to obscure its multihued beaded monogram, CHAI (standing for Chief Had An Idea, though unfortunately for his people the Chief ’s was to pack up the prairie then move out to Palestein, abandoning his wife and nine kinder). Ben comes upon a river soon, a hot burbling brook slicing its way through nature giving way to the kemptness of grounds, winding a valley around, then cleaving a clearing—revealed, beneath the palms’ icicled fronds and shaded by their hang from nothing but the freeze unremitting, we’re talking nestled: the insanitorium, a fallenrates paradise, starting at threehundred shekels a night.

To soak it all in: all the promenading people in retreatmode, retired even from vacation, chazerai of chazerai they’re lolling around in the mud, penned like pigs but ostensibly for their own health, can you believe, the young, kick-shaking spirochetal, the suspected syphilitic, paying homage and offseasonal doubleoccupany, too, to a gerontocracy of the hypochondriac with their own ibberbuttled elders to deal with, with enough of their own about which to kvetch kishkas’ deep: chemodialysis victims, we’re condolencing, poor diverticulitis schmucks become prisoner to their own waste impounded in bags hung heavily from bushes and the branches of trees; munificent municipal parks trailed through with every nature labeled, thoroughly marked, pasture stretches adorned with lifelong, ornately armed benches, inhabited by monuments, defaced these monumental menschs and their womenfolk sitting arteryhardened, encased for plaque’s posterity within the dreck of just visiting pigeons and gulls, waddling off their early feed only flakes of skin and nail peckedup, then passed through and out. And in the distance, on the opposite embankment, those grand colonnades, their columnal pitch and canopies grave and imposing, but ornamentally fragile, delicate in filigree as if of frozen winds, gleaming purely; to reach them, He has to cross the river thiniced over a slippery slip of bridge down a slated, turnedover leaf path littered, too, with souvenir sippingvessels, to shatter them underfoot.

Ben goes and books Himself into what just has to be the most expensive hotel on the boulevard, a wonder they have the room, though they assure anything for Him under the name of one Doctor Karl Young, with a tipped hand in thanks to Herr Portier and a promise to pay when He can—from the proceeds, hopedfor, of what’s to be His dissimulative hocking, schlocking, and petty steals: the claimed unclaimed dummy drummering luggage of a traveling salesmensch He finds here in the hall and wheels away to the hold of a service elevator, lost sprung open to be found stuffed with barters, that and the oddsending wampum of reliquary junk: shrunken skulls, baculumbones of coonschlong preserved in what dipped finger smells and tastes like snake-oil; the black currency of blond scalps; then the Hopi dolls and rattles He’d fingered from his Sabbath Injun host, to sell to an elderly spagoer as charms against death—and to sell, too, His parkingticket debts, He hopes, He’s trying, to the eventual spagoner’s gogetting son for either half or double, He’ll forget which, of what they would have cost Him if He’d pay. To live is to stay open, all weekday, all weeknight, to make the business. Checkout’s at noon. He scribes His name into the register an Xlike halfstar.

The hotel, it’s an enormous collapse of grandeur called the Grand, none other now that all’s kashered under new management, the only Grand they say, halfprice of thievery after the summer rush, two pools, one heated and with brunch included, the whole complex: mention this ad and get up to 10% off at our over 100 restaurants & shops. The lobby’s gorgeous, you should look it up one of these nevers: everything gilded and what’s not is vaulted if it’s not gilded and vaulted both, redwood and brass and steel, brushed just like the hair of virgins, marble veined like the legs of the old, and glass as fragile as their bones. After showering and toweling, which ministrations are hygienically overturned by Ben’s dressing as all He has for later’s the robe He’s been shrugging forever, He makes downstairs again to scare up a meal, wanders from the Grand lobby into one of the just ask them how many ball or conference rooms hallwayed off, a highly windowed, sequoiafloored, plastered paradise of ornately fruity moldings as the valances for bafflings hung, which serve to both dampen any happenings reverberous within, as well as they’re regional maps sponsored by the local Better Business Bureau—in which room, now, a handful of marks having been existentially Cained only to be soon enough enabled are being sermonized to regarding the seven or so but who’s counting highly effective prophecies of highly effective something or other’s, as will shortly be not quite forthcomingly revealed to such an uniformly out of work, out of time audience of this prepaid seminar in what’s promised to be high histrionic style by this schmuck of a mensch who needs no introduction, doesn’t want one either he doesn’t himself either script or vet, this mucky motivational speaker standing up front in postulant posture, embalmed in a suit on loan from the director of the least prominent area funeralhome his brother-inlaw; him a healer of faith for those who really have none to have become so sick with doubt that its sufferers they’re finding themselves here and in the pudged midsection of a workweek, to be preached down to with pitch amid the sideshow of slideshow (have you ever thought about the amazing opportunities to be found in—click—real-estate, such as—click—second homes—click—ski chalets—click—mountain retreats and—click—Island timeshares; what would you say if I told you that I knew a secret—click—a thousand shekel incentive up front, which is yours to keep—click—all your money down, we’ll halve your investment—), all coming complete with a regimen, a system, act now and receive as our free gift to you a stock of glossy portrait photographs as well as an autographed book he’ll let go for nothing wholesale—squint closely, he’s standing on its copies stacked—vanitypublished by an inexistent imprint of the Texas State Genizah, of which he’s not just a client but also the founder; Ben peeks His head in just as the mensch’s beginning, spitting shvitz into the antiquated mic exhumed from the air’s grave of local radio.

Trouble with your boss? he asks.

Yes!

Need to ask for that raise or vacation, you deserve it?

And verily the whole room shouts, yes!

Hymn…he milks it treyf, I can help.

As it is written in the book of our prophet Daniel: And he shall confirm the covenant with many for one week: and in the midst of the week he shall cause the sacrifice and the oblation to cease, and for the overspreading of abominations he shall make it desolate, even until the consummation, and that determined shall be poured upon the desolate and yadda and blah (he’s skipping, he’s flipping)…I’m about to reveal to you my failsafe method, proven then reproved, which has helped multitudes, I’m talking untold.

Are you ready?

Amen, they shout in response.

Week One: Confirm your Covenants! Those you make with yourself and those you make with others…

Hoping a light snack, those requisite refereshments to be served following, Ben pulls up a chair, gives attention as the mensch, he spits on…on Day One, flicks a slip of imaginary lint from his laminated red powertie, put yourself first! Follow my easy to follow assembly instructions to first identify your Four Beasts then, for the rest of the week, pour your determination out upon the desolate—and nu, take back control of your life!

Amen, they scream spittle to fleck the walls, stain apparitions, visualization techniques…shoes and socks and their crumpled creaseless, and pleatless, foldeddown waistband pants to the elasticized knee as bald as their heads to be soaked in saliva pooled on the floor, before we’re all done here.

Day One, 1st Step: as I’ve said, you must identify your four beasts—do you want an example?

Do we want an example? they answer and mean it.

My first beast is—

My second beast is—

My third beast is—

My fourth beast is—

2nd Step up up up the ladder: you’ve got to rank them, first for the least problematic, fourth for the most, hymn…murmuring, this might be too tough for this crowd and so again he asks, do you want an example?

Do we want an example? they answer.

But do you really, truly want an example?

Do we really, truly want an example?

Nu. For example, sayseth the suit…you—and he points prophet his manicure into the fleshmess, as if desperate accusation he asks, what’s your name, friend? Fat mensch in the rear. You, yes you to the right. Your other right. Sorry, didn’t know you were one person. God, you’ve just got to have problems…

Me, He says, hymn, my name’s, uh, er…J-Jacobson.

Take your time, Mister Jacobson…a stutterer, too, slow of speech, a Moses-on-the-make—haven’t I met you before. No? Don’t be so nervous. Where are you from and what is it that you do wherever that is, Mister Jacobson?

I’m from, hymn, a little town called Weissnichtwo, that’ll do, outside Weequahic, back east—and I’m, I’m a successful…

Aren’t we all? And that’s why we’re here.

An attorney, junior partner in a stable, very profitable firm—but I want to have my own practice one day.

I’m sure you will, Mister Jacobson…everyone, say Shalom to Mister Jacobson, and all of them say Shalom to Mister Jacobson. Nu. Mister Jacobson, you’re up, you’re on, your turn—now, your First Beast is…?

My first beast is probably my…um, er, my boss, Goldenberg, he’s founding partner, real senior.

Goldenberg, the mensch frowns, typical, and then your Second Beast, Mister Jacobson?

My second beast has to be my mother-inlaw—yes, that they’d buy…my third beast is my accountant at tax time, and for my fourth I’m going to have to go with an intangible—say, my inability to form lasting relationships.

We’ve all been there before, Mister Jacobson, and the mensch smiles to twinkling glint, trust me, chching. Let’s not underestimate ourselves, chaverim…Mister Jacobson’s beasts are every bit as terrifying as those of Daniel’s dream: The first was like a lion, and had eagle’s wings: I beheld till the wings thereof were plucked, and it was lifted up from the earth, and made stand upon the feet as a man, and a man’s heart was given to it. Chapter 7, verses 4 through 8—copies not even xeroxed but mimeographed will be made available during the break between sessions.

And so, Mister Jacobson, the 3rd Step, dying to know what that is?

We’re dying, they say, we’re so dying.

Nu, for the remaining five days of the week, deal with one beast a day, in order from first through the fourth—bad to worse, if you will.

On the Second Day, after highlighting your recent work achievements, and I’m sure you have at least one, respectfully ask your boss for a raise, plus an additional week’s paid vacation.

On the Third Day, plan to go into work late if it all, having had brunch after sex in the morning…relations with your wife, I mean, buy her flowers, a shtickel candy, balloons and a card, calmly and coolly outline your reasons for not wanting to take her mother, your mother-inlaw, on your vacation, which, as a direct result of my method, will have been extended by a week that you both can afford.

On the Fourth Day, Mister Jacobson—nu, that was His name—make the decision to switch accountants, and you’ll find one, through the recommendation of a coworker, I’m sure, or try your accountant’s accountant, who’ll subsequently save you a swindle; remember—feel free to deduct the tuition you’re paying today.

On the Fifth Day, Mister Jacobson, make sure to thank your coworker for his recommendation, and you’ll be asked to engage with him in a multitude of racquet sports, followed by a shvitz, let’s say, with him and his friends who’ll soon be your friends, too, perhaps due to the newfound confidence you’ll surely exude.

On the Sixth Day, invite your mother-inlaw over for Shabbos just so that there’re no hard feelings and, never forget, on the Seventh Day, rest—I’m sure you know how to do that, Mister Jacobson; you seem quite capable in that department…hahaha, but seriously.

On Days One through Seven, you, Mister Jacobson, by first identifying your four beasts, ranking them, then dealing with them manageably, one at a time, will be able to get control of your life—and if He can do it, chaverim, then you’d be pitiful not to! Raving applause, Ben palms His forehead with a complimentary towel unrolled from a tabled hot stack. And now, the mensch won’t get held up in inspiration when time, which is five days older than mensch, means money and so much of it, which is far younger and more attractive, more useful, accommodating, understanding and pliant, we’ll break to take questions and refreshment, he says, the carted coffee and coffeecake rolling in to the rear, but make sure to be back in time for Session Two: The Book of Job: How to Be a Friend in the Midst of a Whirlwind, for which I hope you’ve all paid in full. Save your seats. Only six more weeks to go…and thank you, Mister Jacobson, for allowing us to make an example of you. You’ve been good people; have a slice, a sip, take a bow.

In the multipurpose, eminently convertible room opposite, opening up at the western end of the lobby of the Grand, this Ben, often billed as the Fantabulous Neb Disraelien, affectionately known as the Nebbish of Northern Illinois, in high demand at yeshivas, kollels, rabbinic courts, and community fundraisers, lifecycle rituals large, small, formal, semi, hemi, and demi, as Host, M.C., he’ll do your dishes, your windows, or just spend quality time as a reassuring presence, work whatever room you want him to work (Madison Square Garden, hotel, showroom kitchen or broomcloset) as a straightmensch, a narrowmensch, an eyeoftheneedle mensch, even as his own “beautiful assistant,” takes all comers and kinds shaved, waxed, and inordinately plumed, makes appearances at among others the first hopefully annual meeting of the Schnorrer’s Lodge, arriving in from the hallway’s wings on a unicycle and juggling babies and utilitybills mind the vomit and papercuts, then humming while pretending to play on a homemade varnishspattered prop of a Stradivarius violin: discontinuous excerpts from the classical repertoire, two bars each all he knows, interspersed with hot klezmer variants and sung parodies of zmirot, liturgical gems including but not limited to a flatulence/syncopation version of a popular Shabbos niggun, and a strained Arabian arrangement of the Kaddish entitled Muezzin on Up; and maybe just maybe if you asked nicely or took to justify to him a special occasion, a favor or bris milah belated, when he had to stretch or just the gelt did, he’d close with a set of magic, always the same tricks: doing two things at once, doing three things at once, which multitasking is perfected in his signature disappearing act, being in two places at the same time. Old hat, you might say, but the new one’s in the mail, he assures, being blocked. That’s how he makes rent and meets obligations, him and the other impersonators though maybe not all of equal skill; they make do how they make out: some doing alright, fulltimers with talent and good representation even impressively, you’d be jealous, while others limit their incarnations to secondlives, moonlit impersonation, Shabbos night pillowstuffing, deluding themselves backstage, on breaks in whispers to their agents their stagey, smothering mothers: it’s a hobby, it’s only a hobby, don’t take it so seriously, you know, the amatory amateur, I do it for the love…or else, making progress, I’m almost there, the big’s about to break just around the corner—and all of them, despite the dilettantish dereistic, and regardless of income, reported or not, and whether or not their involvement extended or ever will into an investment in a multitude of surgical options, whether loved, respected if not acclaimed, or just pitied or reviled for the fallen stars in their eyes, all are false, counterfeit Bens numbering in the hundreds of thousands (that is, if the original’s even real), each with alimony to think of, and court costs, the price of getting another Get, and, always, there’s the mortgage to make, mouths to feed, life.

Surgically enhanced, Continentally trained in impersonation, the Nebbish’s echt making a decent little living for himself a parnassa, a sizable grubstake of remunerative usurpation here—out in Holywood, the leftmost wing of Angels, having been cordially invited the week prior to open for the Kings, to warm up the room for their now quarterly meeting during which they’ll debate for its entire scheduled duration what the first issue on the agenda should be, with Neb (full disclosure, a minority shareholder in the Mattress Kingdom holding of Laz-R-Us, Inc.) doing his fifteen minutes, his shtick wellhoned, how the Envelope King slips him his pay in an irregular surplus model #1B, and only then do they all sit down to their business. Holywood now finally emptied of its Affiliated directors, producers, the kooky komedy writers, neurotic or not smart or witty enough and so nervous, or endearing, your call or both, polite, dark, and hairy and hairily funny—actors and actresses just sitting around, just like always, waiting for the phone to ring role, memorizing themselves: there’s nothing to do, no runways to stalk, no parties to crash with crass flash, only hitting on the hick rube but already Goldberging interns still making coffee for what.

Around this table are the Kings, the newest elders, the heads of a revived operation: eighteen on one side, eighteen on the other’s how many total, each regal on whatever side makes for their more successful profile as surveyed from the head—the money wing and, also, the mind of the allpowerful, allseeing poultry: this quarter’s mascot, a muscled, possibly steroidal, bespectacled fowl, in honor of the president, newly installed, Plosher, formerly Perdue, the Poultry King, who sits squawkily at foot. Appropriate to the sham it must seem like to those who paid for the Studio Tour, this sitdown takes place on a set so stripped of glamour it just has to be real, which is merely the irredeemably fake truly felt: fans to stream screeching names of God down the Hills into Holywood proper, mobbing for a mere glimpse of the action on a lot on a soundstage once used for the production of oldie tworeelers and talkies, since disused, doneup in its storage capacity in an unintentional style called High Kitsch, it might be, fin de stickler for detail warehousing for shtetl scenery not presently in service—coops, two bits of fence, foam-rubber gravestones rubbing up against withered polyurethane trees that instead of backdropping coached guttural wails and travails must now provide the setting for this, an unprecedented (meaning they’d just never gotten around to it before, couldn’t make the time, schedule it in) meeting of the principal thirtysix, heads or designated representatives from entertainment, goods & services, industry light & heavy, all the big macher big money big idea movers & shakes (nu, hope they don’t move or shake too hard: among the thirtysix how there’re only half that many kidneys and, hymn, a quarter that number of lungs). Moguling takes it all out of you. Wheeze the bowel’s bottomline. Roll’s called, checking names off the blacklist, but that’s only its type: everyone who’s everyone, who’s anyone, too, your invitation must’ve gotten lost in the mail, don’t hold it against them, you don’t want to be schmeared, misdenounced—them throwing gavels, yelling, demanding to make their demands, as Plosher finishes taking names but where to: the Apple King, the Aspirin King, the Bathtub King, the Brassiere King, the Candle King, the Coop King who he’s in tight with Plosher, the Diamond King, the Ear King who for Nose & Throat refers to his uncle, the Envelope King, the Fish King, PopPop’s old Miami neighbor Freddie the Fur King still making a fortune since Feivel, no his name it was Faivish he died with the rest, the Glove King, the Hair Replacement Product King, the Iodine King, the Juice King and his seedmoneyed son-inlaw, Fruchtfleisch, the future Pulp King assisting (along with His brother, the Prince of String just here to learn ropes), the King of Kings at the head of the table (presiding in matters of judgment, which matters never arise and so no one knows what he does, if he does anything—not that they’d question), flanked by an Insky, an Outsky, and their muscle, a goy just in from the Pale, calls himself Caldo “Cold” Sorvino, backingup Shimi Bellarosa from Belorussia, the Kipper King the oathed enemy of the Fish King because who can swear anymore and on what flipflopping around get a grip…the Laundry Detergent King with Fabric Softener Included, the LaughTrack King who he’s always got the best lines, the Mattress King, the Microphone King whispering—present, but no one hears him and so he’s marked absent, the (egg) Noodle King, the (pitted) Olive King, the Pillow King you’d better believe it sitting on his own product, Plosher the Poultry King, again, plucking himself up in his seat as if shocked at his saying of his own name, nominally presiding at least in matters of order, the Queensized Fashions King, the Quinine King THE maker of tonicwater being waited on by three of his top distributors, the Retinal Reattachment Surgery King, the Shoe King with two of his foremost athletic Supporters, the Tea King with sugar held between his teeth to prevent him from making a point, the Utilities Regulation King, the Varicose Vein Removal Kream King, the Wishniak King (purveyor of fine flavor to the tastemaching trade), the Xray Machine King, the Yo Yo King his menschs out walking the dog, then the Zipper King with his heat, the Zealous Kid (AKA Maxx Gross) lounging louche into shadow, demonstratively puffing, inhaling his smoke down to the filter, then exhaling winter out into the studiolights.

To begin with, a few questions; junkets come with the job…what’s the occasion for this assemblage here in the midst of deep white, with flights outbound to anywhere delayed, then cancelled? Their meeting. And what’s their meeting about? The occasion. Okay, okay, alright already, nobody knows, nobody’ll admit to not knowing. Tightlipped. Burnttongued. Closed set. What’s that about? It’s about time, again. About time for what? For this. All under the lettered sign on the hill. Who stole the L, what’s it stand for, how much’s the ransom? It’s not stolen. One night, it just flickered away. Lalala. Plosher pounds his head against a gavel pounding, echoes giving way to talk all at once…everyone gossiping, doing deals, making rain check your bill then snow and then hail, selling, buying, trading, bargaining down and, finally—coming to shtum when the Zipper King, he whips his out and one lone hoarse voice remains:

I’m telling you, we owned New Amsterdam, we took New York, we had the whole island, the inners, the outers, the nation, the entire goddamnit world.

Anything was ours for the taking—

We had all the reservations, all the restaurants and tables in town.

You want a house, you got a house.

You want an election, it’s yours.

Jesus God they named streets after us, can you believe, squares and parks. We had the press, the television and the movies, too, we owned the networks and the theaters, the unions and art.

We wrote the books, then we’d close them on anyone who’d presume to oppose.

And then, nu, you know the rest…this is the Laughtrack King talking and, hahahamutterfutzingha as he’s drinking the Tea King’s wild fruits assortment, he spurts it out his nose then back into the cup and then drinking again, spurting and yadda—how we knew everyone, presidents and senators and actors, how we knew the presidentsenators, the senator-actor-artist-&-athletes, all the way down to the shvartze jazzsingers whose contracts we canceled and wages we prorated, held against their habits (here’s a swell, a whistling Dixie)—we were the sitcoms and Broadway, deli and stocks stacked high on rye, the funds hedge and mutual, medicine and law, the military’s authority, the conservative bombs and all the liberalism in the world with which to apologize when we dropped them…they’re talking at once when the Shoe King takes one of his support’s loafers off, pounds the table with it as a secretary emerges, struck from oblivion to shorthand, the Shoe King takes one of his support’s…

THE MATTRESS KING

How we knew all the titles, their acronyms, the big machers & the contract menschs, the personalities, and the gossipedabout.

How we worked all the angles, had every number, knew every score, played hard on all schemes.

We rose to their equals, then we raised them one more. Our hands were everywhere—even they were in hand.

THE PILLOW KING

What we bought, we sold, and what we sold, we bought back then sold it again, for a profit margin higher, always higher, toward heaven.

Let’s talk rate of return, taking a piece of everything then putting them back together into new wholes: threehalves of any percentage always to parties of our own imaginative accounting, leveraged in the greed that only in America’s known as ambition.

The vig for living free, you just have to deal.

But aside from family immediate and extended, a congregation of maybe arsonhappy brothers-inlaw, it wasn’t a Syndicate, wasn’t a System—it was a loose thing…

That’s what no one ever understood. Family—

And that’s a wrap! says Spielgrob.

Print it! he says to the soundstage, emptied…even he’s not there, anymore.

A promise, though—we’ll patch it up in edits…

Always, there’s post.

All the while all the way back east—being the manger of opinion, straw-thought, dungwonder—the tsking siskeling critics, the talkinghead commentariat, latenite pundits, qrating mongers and their PR meisterminders they’re asking, for once without rhetoric and in unison, from a deck above the reader’s pew…shtumup, where is He?

Benjamin. Ben. Mister Israelien. Give Him over unto us. Produce Him or wither upon an alien vine.

What’s with this journey dorf-to-dorf, this khuter hopping, this zemstvo zip…is it a quote unquote quest for identity, a search for roots, an undertaken Wander not quite though by now almost jahr, a pilgrimage and if so then, to where—who owns the rights? Listeners and viewers at home, by now they’re not even encouraged, they’re urged, to send in their votes, any ideas, tips hot or not, c/o any dark rider headed through the night to the next town, just over the river.

For a moon, though, it’s none of those.

Here’s the spiel, the lashon hara, it’s said: He’s on the sacrificial lam, evading authorities, subpoenas unto even the poenas below the subpoenas, subsubpoenas to appear before, nu, it’s either a Judge Cohen or Coen, it’s forgotten, a Cohn or a Cone maybe, or else, then again, maybe a Koen or Kohen, a Kohn or even a Kone, it’s been said, then again maybe a Cahn or Kagen, a Kahane or a Kahn; hymn, others say she’s a female judge, like Deborah, perhaps, who, it’s said, would hold her court and prophecy under a warm shvitzy palm as if to say, pay me—but this with one of those hyphenated-names, Cohen-Cone or the like, formerly with the firm of Gimme, Loot, & Hasidim, LLC…whatever name the robe elected before taking the bench. Ben’s being sued for damages, is it. Character defamation. Misrepresentation. For Impersonating the Savior. For False Messianism. Fraud. And she’s naming names, the whore-plaintiff: I sold everything I owned expecting the End of Days, the Eschaton. My husband, who he was an Affiliated, May His Memory Be for a Blessing, died for this schmuck. And for nothing. For nodding. The woman, who wouldn’t convert for her husband over my dead body left to depose of—her husband’s family and their plotz (buried up in one of those shoulder cemeteries that are necropolitan northern Joysey, on a strip right by the side of the Turnpike so that when a big rig would come through, eighteen wheels and more how those stones would shake, in their graves the caskets would rumble, rattle like seeds in a shell—like loose teeth in a cheeky mouth, bellied to laugh, that tumult of chattering coffins)—but anyway, long story short did after his death and theirs, convert, now refers everyone who’s interested to her new husband, also her lawyer: they were married on the steps of the courthouse while waiting for their case to be heard.

My client, also my wife, the lawyer says, is seeking compensation for emotional trauma she experienced in being grossly misled by a mensch pretending to be the Messiah. Period. Paragraph.

Manipulation. He less talks than dictates for press; when he raises his voice and an eyebrow, which, that’s a headline in itself, period, paragraph…my client had invested much faith, time, and money in Mister Israelien. And she’s not the only one. No. There’ve been others, too afraid or embarrassed to come forward just now. Their loss has to be worth something. My time. I urge them to contact me directly. And now—a miracle, what a classy action, a tort. We’re asking, he says, for a thousand shekels a day, let’s say each, for every day my clients were under the impression of Mister Israelien’s stated symbolism, and purported power—in addition to half a million each because, don’t blame us, we just want it.

Don’t you think Garden, Inc.’s behind this whole mishegas, the Administration, too—you don’t think Ben’s smart enough for this kind of scam?

Glad you asked.

We’re presently engaged in a separate suit v. Garden, Inc., relating to product failure: the Hanna Wig™ (representation flaps it aloft, a dead thing, this kaporos of the presspool) is responsible for the fatal choking of my client’s beloved parakeet, Duke.

He straightens his toupee held down by his yarmulke.

They were very close—apparently, the bird knew her by name.

The woman’s first husband, an Affiliated by the name of Avram or Avraham, in the one time they ever took a vacation photos allowed release by his widow and her lawyerhusband: an apparently insolvent, incontinent, bonebald mensch who’s standing short even in his orthopedically reformed, Pittsburgh platform shoes and Cincinnatty cap, his frame largely fat, slowmoving, his pugilistically puffy face distinguished most prominently by its soured nose, an embittered, prickly pickled bird’s, it’s described. And soon, the rumor mill’s up and run by a blind, threelegged horse: how he’d been a travelagent, and that that’d been kosher, not a front, though he’d WITHHELD—diversifying his portfolio, selling illegal spices, Eastern Bloc paprika take to American table back in the alte days, his mittelmensch’s name it was that of Laser or Glazer Wolf though that’s probably an alias, also he’d owned & operated a chain of the bathroom’s in the hallway motels up and down the Gulf Coast (storage they functioned as, deaddrops to launder the stain: Szeged’s product being cleared out from Miami and up north through the service entrances, until a bust the year before his death—only a handful of bellboychicks had been caught redhanded; despite whatever deals were pepperdangled, it was all too spicy for anyone to talk). Not that my husband was ever aware, she’s sure of it. Anyway, he’s dead, spit spit spit, isn’t that enough of a punishment—and, nu, so her husband it’s revealed after further investigation, gravedigging into the unmarked files for the worst of the wormiest dirt, had forged bonds, would deliver them to associates bound in prayerbooks, opposite the Mourner’s Kaddish. He’s dead, spit, don’t spite his memory. My wife, also my client, maintains her innocence. Boilerplate. And then a boilerroom scam, hardselling off futures, options, foreign exchange, half the Dead Sea’s salt to every resident of Central Brooklyn, coldcalling at furious heat from a basement wholly unfinished just east of India, the one with the dot. Another rumor awaiting verification between a mouth and an ear has it that his brother, hymn, his widow’s brother-inlaw, also dead, had been a ritual slaughterer for a foreign interest shadily in the black. A former bombmacher with one finger left triggerhappy. Statesponsored assassination, it was. He had terrible gas.

No comment, she says in the line filing up the steps to the courthouse.

What she said, her lawyer says to the microphones, or else she denies, I’ll leave it up to you to decide…turning from the steps down below her grown full of truffled fedoras to trip and fall over this pig wrought if only ironically idolatrous in the form of a pushke, a charitable repository, a box tzedakah, and so stumbling upon even more litigation—sarcastically speaking, though if anyone takes them seriously don’t think they won’t serve: one of an inedible, incredible many of them these porkbarrelled porkbellies lined all the way up the steps in two rows on both sides of the line—little fourlegged piggypink banks soliciting for every cause under the expenditure of the sun.

For the Training of a Mute Cantor

For Tractor Parts Urgently Needed in East Texas

For the Int’l Brotherhood of Shriners to Visit Palestein

For Recently Affiliated Proctologists Wanting to Establish Galician Descent and Needing to Pay This Mensch You Know How It Is to Deal with the Papers

For this Woman Listen Her Name It’s Not So Important Whose Husband the Schmuck He was Affiliated and Died Old Story I Know You’ve Heard it All Before the Long and the Short of It Both but He Really Left Her Without a Shekel in Life Insurance and—the line’s essentially endless, and selfserving, snaking down the most civic of streets from City Hall to the Battery to wall all of lower Manhattan in bitch lately kvetch, advertised large; everyone complaining to bargain whether a plea or a promise, demanding a hearing, a ruling, advice, God the Law, someone asking is this goose kosher yet (it’s been spoiled a week she’s been waiting), another wanting to know if she should immerse her new plates in the sink or like what, you want I should go knock a hole in the ice of the Hudson, my husband won’t grant me a divorce, my son’s possessed by a dybbuk but the dybbuk’s better behaved than Sammy ever was, what should I do? I’m sorry, she goes on talking to an infertile woman seeking interdiction, divine or not, whatever you have, intervention, I’ll have what she’s having, a willing ear, an open coat to cry in, you call that a lining, call that a line—I placed all my trust in Him. He said pray, God I prayed. He said fast, futz me I fasted, right quick. I lost sleep over this. And weight, too, but that I don’t mind. I’m talking a moon of my life getting squared with the shylocks. He said if I call in the next ten minutes He’ll throw in a set of knives at no extra cost. A totebag our gift to you, an umbrella free I could really use now. Winter prevailing. A week later, still in line, her matter unheard by the court, she’s sleeping on the steps along with the other supplicants under the weather, that indivisible democracy the sky and its heaven holding their Law above nature’s, above rules & orders menschmade, tented out in the freeze under the waterproof of the lawyer’s suitjacket, spread over the hang of the higher step and held there in place by the sound sleep of another: his wife she’s moaning in dream, mumbling she’s talking, exposed…no widow, how she was only Abe’s lover, and one of many at that, what’re you talking suspected, we knew all along, his old shiksa receptionist, couldn’t you tell, I mean just take a look at those thighs—booking package cruises out of the Port of Miami by morning, afternooners he’d called them a quick shtup under the desk or in the trash alley adjoining the kurva, the slut, poo poo poo my wife, her lawyer says, notified Him in writing, a letter, notarized, it’s gotten a smudge damp if it’s not just all wet: her pilgrimages detailed, receipts stapled to prayers, itemized her 1.) hopes, & 2.) dreams, waving a sheaf of them under the nose of the press, sniffling, dripping ink to tissue the morning editions…Gottenyu, she’s saved everything.

Menschs in departmentalissue white, laundered daily at a host of area prisons, stream down the steps into morning, keep the supplicants in order with their shepherd crooks, comedy canes.

Ben needs to be found, the woman’s weeping drastic mascara by noon, and the court needs to find Him, hold Him accountable.

Clapboards clap board—we need to do it again.

Slate the docket.

He’ll pay for His sins upon the Day of Judgment, says an old mensch seeking a last name change to a calling surely unpronounceable. Little Timmy Czyczwitz-Szyszkowitz. If that’s still available.

Too late, she says stifling, too late for me.

A finger—which one, unwedded—over a handful of hours earlier for Ben way out on the coast, catching wind of what westerly passes for calamity these days: dirt unearthed to be made verity as scandal, a dungheaped museum or monument, the pile aside the wait of a grave…received ideas convening conventional wisdom, what courtroom’s that in, by closing an adjournment to truth too lazy to check up on or within which to bog down, just the facts.

Having arrived in the realm of Angels, He’ll read the news in the paper this homeless mensch, His benchmate, has folded into a skullcap over his burgeoning fro. His tallis a trashbag ripped through. Womenfolk poodle down the promenade, leashed to their menschs by tzitzit, tefilin, how they’re stalking their shadows, their noses buried a moshl, a nishl, in the middling pages of books. New beards scratch on old chins. An icy gust of skirts. Scarves and nippy mittens and hats.

This trouble out east, and the homeless know, breaks the ice, what a case…the Garden’s trying to put Him back in the news, keep Him in headlines. Here, read my yarmulke, my kippah, my kopfcap you call it, and he takes it off to let Ben unfold it all for Himself. Total conspiranoia, the mensch goes scraping at his scalp. Turn it over. A2. Me, I’m not buying what they’re selling. Listen. My sister’s my sister, and always will be, but I’m not with her on this one: either she’s in on it, or she’s being set up.

Never mind, his sister, Abe’s exlover’s saying on the steps amid the plink of the pushkes. Abe would’ve married me. He couldn’t stand Elaine. Let me explain. Eileen, I mean. Whomever. Of Blessed Memory.

Ask Abe, the homeless says, if he was alive and he’d tell you. He’d be the first one. Abe, my brother-inlaw, okay, so maybe just my sister’s gentlemensch friend, but we’d met, over the phone, he’s good people. My sister, his lover, alright, his receptionist—she’s family but not to be trusted.

My brother? the woman’s spieling to a grand jury after the complaint’s finally cased itself in front of a judge. His health isn’t what it should be. A lawyer, too? If he was he never practiced. He had to quit after what happened happened.

Or, he never passed the bar. The firm that’d hired him to file had gone out of business.

The homeless turns to Ben and says, if you ask me, He’s not a False Messiah, a faked Moshiach, He’s no fraud.

It’s just.

You really want to know who He is?

Suddenly, a mortuarily fat and pale Oma sullen in a skirt three bolts of cloth past her toes tripsup to them then sits down on the bench between them, obstructing. You poor things, she says already tearing, becoming of charity the sight of them two, you’re not well, you have to take better care of yourselves; maybe you should both come back to my place, a shower, a hot meal, a bed for a schlaf.

O, I don’t know, his sister says, he went out west for a while, Los Siegeles, I seem to remember…she holds up admirably under Torque Mada’s inquisition, her lawyerhusband unable to make the session due to an unfortunate accident of the type pathologically reported within marks of quotation.

No, I don’t think so, that was so long ago. Who remembers. I was temporarily exhausted. Shleferik, those were the days.

The Oma goes to embrace the homeless mensch—you’ll make a success of yourself yet, ignoring Ben and His cry as, not to meddle in mazel, she throws a pinch of pocketed salt over her shoulder that sprays Him in the face, an eleemosynary lick at the eyes.

Ben’s stunned, rises from the bench then turns to confront, and there—beyond them, a miracle of decoration as she’s describing to the homeless her house in every amenity (you’ll have your own room, I can cook, I can clean, I can learn how to love), they’ve carpeted even the beach, the outermost world wall-to-sky…O the ocean forever—enough of it to still even the most determined of currents wandered from home and its humbler shore. Off with His shoes, both of them the laces of which He worries into a knot then holds the whole in a hand, He goes out to the sand and its give. A cool and cooling sink amid dunes…and the air, that weighted, saltfraught freedom—it’s always right behind you, a wonder. A bench become shrouded within the mist of the wake. A symbol, a sign, turn around, there’s no more.

Having made it through to the city of Angels—through the protocols of the city of Devils, it’s said, which is every other city in the world not gifted with this peace, such pacific quiet and calm, Ben’s arrived: the deadend, no pass, the end of one end, the other ocean, deeper and vaster than ever what He’d been used to before. He stands on the shore just taking it in, pajamapants under robe rolled to His knees, then over them—a wisedup if not yet wizened American boychick who should’ve been born with rivers in His veins and huckleberries in His eyes, lost once gone wading in a world ever stranger…fixes His self and senses to the waters’ descent from the sky, and with hands on His waist, legs held proudly if embarrassedly wide, soaking, submerging, icing His great Rhodes’ toes, their nails fallenin in the salt and polar suspension, toes then feet and then heels on up to His shriveling scrotum, tittytwisting numb grained with floes of ice atop the whiter sand, wondrous to Him in how naked it is and how placid. He wades to His waist, then stops, drowns no further. A beach behind Him seeming of one long grain, stretched out longingly, beached—a minyan of menschs in waterwings and varicose trunks engaged in prayerful splash; then beyond them, partitioned, screenedoff with cloud over which He can only tiptoe and squint: modest womenfolk, just girls if recently marriagable lazing on their stretch of sand set aside, simple, sallow, though gorgeous, too, though only their insides are tanned, if only with passion, their legs probably toned to perfection under their cabañas and umbrellas of skirt…He’s thinking, what Miami would’ve been without the deathrate. As here it’s open and pure, and all wrong: this is the wrong ocean, it’s false; this ocean has no history, is no revelation. A flock of schnorring seagulls takes flight, an eclipse of their wings, two-by-two pigeons following as Ben steps, without turning around, from the water to sand, one foot in each, nothing’s firm. He can wander no further, He can’t conceive of a further, has reached the edge, the limen littoral—genug, dayeinu, enough is enough. Must limit at the risk of destruction. Help me help myself. Know when to stop. Saideth Hanna, who was Israel’s wet frolic.

We here on land break like the waves, constantly, relentlessly—but to think that each of these private breaks is impermanent, soon assimilated back into the flow, and that all of this breaking, such cleaving, serves only to strengthen the race…at least, that’s what we’re constantly telling ourselves: you want out, you got out; forget, forsake, change your name and your address, your nose and your friends and those pants, see what I care, go and intermarry the winds…a foam of white about the mouth, an angry trickle, a receding life. Ben’s no longer as young as He once was, and spring, it’s forever past. Despondency’s to put it pareve, neither fish nor fowl, nor the milk of the fish, nor the milk of the fowl. Not the land nor the sea now, He’s returned to the middle, the eminent neither, call it the shore: hateful in its indecision, inconvertibly so, willfully unsure, and unsettling. To break or to cleave is the question of any next wave, curled like a questionmark, cupped—which is to ask thusly of its wake, quickly withdrawing: to cleave or to cleave, which will it be, to rend or, to hold fast. Depends how you ask it. What shades you put into your own private gust. Nowhere is next. He is where He is, and is lost.

Ben quits the shore as if leaving the presence of majesty, facelessly, in reverse, having done what He’s done, having had experiences, tales to tell the kinder, the grandkinder, the spiel of stories late at fiery night and, if ever, Shema—and it’s only then, when the ocean’s finally small, then the beach and its promenade bench out of mind, does He turn Himself around, to wander on east again, His nostrils winding fallen feathers from His progress, a weather of that and their gulls’ sullying shpritz to flap down upon His head as reminders, toward the quarter of His arrival. A memory of the first ocean to lap at the shore of His mind. The floor of all creation from whence we arose to beach ourselves back when, the seabedded bodies of His and our kind. Having nowhere else to wander, having exhausted this space in its manifold states, now only to head Himself back…where to head to what though’s the question, another, a last; to wander still and always. Return. A sigh awash with realization, kelpy knowledge. A homecoming, then, an ingathering to prodigal prodigy-hood, say—where I was still young He thinks, when loved and perfect and me…even if that might mean Joysey again. And to show for it all—to exhale the tongue, to save with His breath—only the salt from His tears.

In Holywood, map in hand, I’m being Frank with you Gelt searches out the homes of stars. Ringing bells. Knocking wood. He doesn’t have a hint, starts with an h, Holywood…hasn’t an inkling tip, not a twinkle of a notion of what he’s up against in trying to track Ben down, get Him home wherever that was, back to His intended safe without sound; doesn’t have any idea save that he has to do it, that the duty’s his and his alone, we’re counting on you Frank, get a clue (sold by the friend of a friend who’d fleeced him the golden map without key—doors unanswered; it’s a mezuzah, bulvan’s what they’re saying now, not a clapper!): the price on the oversized Israelien head more than Gelt would’ve earned in an eternity in the service of his nation, whichever it is, if it still exists in any form recognizable to the past’s pledged allegiance—and so to become his only country, this work, and his only governance, too, underworlded, with every liberty, without any law; soon less a nation than a borderless sheol, this labor he’s been condemned to by fifty fires wrangled by prison stripes…to smoke Him out of our hole. At Mittelwest’s what they’re calling it these days the trail’d gone like the weather, burrladen cold, chattering, showing nothing and telling even less: indications syndicate the possibility of Polonia, Chicago, Illinois, the magnetism of a third pole; the wild of the call, the beguiling sirens of the Canadian line—or maybe Kentucky, perhaps Tenessee, the O-hi-o, I don’t know.

Gelt’s made every mistake in the book thrown at Him, if the book is long and its font is small and its covers are to be found beyond the pale, bound only by oceans—without index or other direction, only following instinct, the offhand and onfoot, he’s hauled himself north or so to dwell unnoticed up in Mormondom a spell, old stomping grounds of Heber’s kin and kind, Gelt only guessing Ben’d think to hide it out there, a last preserve of faith against the relentless incursion of the Affiliate; Mormondom’s borders almost totally closed, and if you want to do it legally the paperwork’d take moons no one has, not to mention extravagant expense. And so Mormondom’s just the place for Ben if He could enter, it’s decided: how despite, Gelt should venture, gets the clearance of requisite backing, slips through a border checkpoint unnoticed, on a fake ID and an unmodulated, undifferentiatedly clumsy cowboy drawl on loan from a friend who’d worked with him for a year in Virginia ten floors underground in a room whose door was once stenciled humorously or not who could tell Intelligence, spends a Shabbos pursuing his meat around the salted rim of the lake.

As he could pass, Heber’s been turned loose himself, as a gobetween, a messenger, sent up north to unofficially monitor Mormon HQ, to relay reports from the Quorum of Elders and its High Priesthood lately governing the territory while engaged in seccession talks with D.C.: one generous jowl they are, an entire wifeload of trustworthy deportment—even with a volunteer army and, gevalt, a reenfranchised militia or two massing at the southwesternmost nib of Wyoming. A deal’s offered to turn him doubleagent: Ben for a pardon’s what they’re proposing to Heber, come back to the fold, ingather, deliver your mensch and avert the wrath of your people, your father you escaped for opportunity east—that and just name a sum involving as many zeros as fair and smiley enough that you could drive your limo dead through them and into any future that pleases…Heber—having been uncovered, blown as Gelt’s facilitator, zeroing in on the holes not only in their thinking but those in which Ben might’ve been abandoned for sale in the west (peering in pits, casing the caves)—instead failing the directive to become his own brother-in-arms’ lock-&-keeper, to make sure we’re both in the same interest here, on the same page, which is blank…IA not just the acronym of the home of the recently influential Des Moinesher Rebbe, it’s also the abbreviated shibboleth for paranoia, affairs as internal as they’ll ever get: not trusting your left hand while his right grips the wheel, pulls southerly out, deported with escort through the pearly gates and back through Nevada into Californ-I-A and its Angels on a wink and a prayer, with nothing to declare save further disillusion. Wives are huddled into a single skirt. Splinter factions are formed by the wind like the violent sharps of badlanded cliffs. A blond nation’s laying in supplies for their lattermost days, growing blonder by the night, accounts have it, unto transparency, is what a handful of Mormon defectors report; until you could see right through them, see through the whole state to the other side, eventually, and their intentions, their modus immodest: a nation of light, pure; up there days’ll last forever even in a winter as wintry as this should’ve been summer, and so maybe Ben did have the time—or else, Gelt thinks, maybe ursine He’s due in for an appropriately unseasonal hibernation, Yo Semite National Park, or a low lie in the Dakotas, those Badlands then the worse lands and then the lands that get just evermore progressively terrible up toward the Canadian border, dynamited Rushmore territory and further, Alaska, when Gelt he’s in enough of a rush already, out here alone, payphoning collect to the opposite coast, will you accept the charges back to the Garden and Der, who’s returned to the east himself, to plan for any eventuality, his own and Ben’s both. Not that it’s just hushed, unofficial, that they’re biding their bidden: how it’s public, too, citizenry called to account—they’re told, search Him out under your beds, in your closets, pianos, bathrooms, stuck one leg down your laundrychutes, where. Warrants might even be waived for futz anyone knows, issuance, free license to bounty Ben made implicit; I swear it’s around here somewhere or other, and Gelt pats himself down.

Not alone, Gelt has judgment on his side, though it might be as impetuous as it’s interpretive, perpetually arguable, given down in a stone that can always be smashed in confusion. After all, this needs be held accountable to a Law ever newer, or older, just greater: pursuant to article, nu, who knows which, and which is whose portion, who are we to prosecute or judge (the punishment for the sin of a tiny quill slipped amid margins, the only sign of a letter omitted from record—that’s why this detail, that’s why this depth)—unless, that is, suspect heads for a refuge, one of an ornamentally small but for now holding steady number of participating outlets that still dot the interior, stipulated autonomous; the suspect, the large-at-large, having picked up this useful schmeck of information, follows His own finger pointing due east, makes it inland to the foot of a hill, there stops a mensch and his whinnying, reeling horse, the both of them stuck in the mud.

Know where I could find a haven around here? Ben asks him or the horse, rolling up His sleeves, off the cuff casual, and the mensch points, a hairy stump raised to a sign up the road iced ahead, summitting its hill, a tatter of poster tacked to the flesh of a leaning oak:

Refuge (nearer than you think)

Ben thanks the mensch with involuntary gropes and grabs, hugs, kisses, throws His weight under the horse’s sagging stuck belly, one thrown rider more away from being turned into glue (with which to bind a book, perhaps, whose pages, hymn, let’s only hope they contain a ruling against that that prohibits even the emergency consumption of the species), and the two, peasant and pursued, groaning, with their shoulders, bone bursting under their skins, free the animal, which stomps then kicks wildly a tack of knobby limbs. To quit them then ascend the hill, Ben slips down the slope with the wind, in the direction of His ascent down to the most starved flank of the horse unstuck and the mensch just past tugging always tugging, who kindly points out to Him the sign again with a wave to stay away. And so He goes to ascend again and then again slides down on His haunches, atop His tush, His face forced down against the wind, squinting, a nosebleed…and still behind, the horsemensch heading in an occidental direction. And so to shimmy up on His stomach, to snakewriggle, sidewind atop ice—to top the violently sloped, cloudbound hillside, then right Himself at its summit with nicks at the elbows and knees and stomach scraped red under the useless white of the sun and the shadelessness of the leafless oak.

Incomprehensible walls line the interior of the valley below, obscuring, this delimiting haze regular and yet in motion, rising and falling only to rise again, then fall—lips of mouths, they seem…teeth, they’re masticating furiously, falling and rising on their own, individually, the entire eastern slope of the hill a vertiginous swarm of rusticated, unserviced dentition between the individual ords of which, deep amid their crenatures, hang other people, flayed carcass and spewed corpse, the face of the whole an inconstant, dizzying up down up down that’s impossible to focus on simultaneously and so He shuts His eyes to understand—to chip and chew at an image frozen, this newest memory, a revelation made of shock. Not walls now or teeth, but teething people…or the walls are themselves people, babies crying, wailing, walling. This is a city of people, of maybe thousands of them, a million, who can count, He wouldn’t know where to begin; the valley nests them, holds in their reek, their scum, their noise, and is them, as well. Bebabbled kibble. Heedlessness sustains. Ben sits tushed at the summit, gazing down upon the valley’s munched mass: moving forms, shadows, moving so much now and so fast it’s as if they don’t move at all, tornadolike going nowhere, a stationary whirlwind as if the about to address you presence of God Himself, His vocal wrath. Ben slides in, Pyramidal once again: down He goes down the iceflume, accumulating speed and mass, weather rounding form—to hit the wall, wall’s people, knocking them inside, sliding directly into the dead, exact middle, into its totally trampling rampage, to surface from out of that maw of knees, elbows, shoulders, and palms to air, only to be swarmed, then trampled again to the earth packed hard with the stomping of feet on the frost.

Name? a voice rasps, its hands or another’s tugging one of His ears wide, and of what are you accused?

And none of that I am that I am shtick, says a voice different but the same, whatever name you want, choose your crime, your victim, flatter yourself—you think we’ll know the difference?

I myself was a saint, name’s Kraus or Krauss now, I forget which, how many esses we’re talking…Ben keeps His silence, too scared to talk, a step upon His tongue; the mensch inquiring drops Him to the enormity’s floor, that darkness stomping still. Another leg up to the surface, a grasping gasp.

Not that it matters, yet another voice says. Silence is an alias as good as any other. An alibi lullaby, you put me to sleep, the z’s.

Hands hold Ben flat, face up to the sky, borne in triage above the muddy throng. His pockets are emptied, of empty, nothing gained, His holes prodded, He thrusts hands to prevent violation. From atop, the valley and hills on both sides, though human, have been reduced to an animal rout.

Don’t think you’re the first person who’s known his rights, is heard. And don’t think living here you’ll live any longer. Hell, don’t think at all…

Registration’s at the western slope, an orientation meeting to follow—hahaha, a general hilarity, which manifests in a gnashing of rank gums.

Stop confusing the boy, an older denizen says.

Refuge, he goes on, asylum, you dig?

Shalom, welcome…groovy, hip, here goes: make love not war but both are money, peace be to you, all that.

These are the rules that aren’t: if you make it here, you deserve to live; if not, not, easy enough—and, another adds, deserving to live doesn’t mean that you will.

But, to begin: no one here’s anyone’s anything…we’re all equal, the same: farout degenerates and dippy dropouts, gratuitous grudgeholders, zonked lowlifes, and petties; the walkingwounded veterans of private, unsanctioned aggressions…

An older refugee it has to be, another atop the swarming, the whirling whorl, how he shrieks out almost unheard to Him, God, I know you, I know you, I do, how he’s insistent this putz, won’t give up: Israelien, remember me? I was there that day in Mudville you wowed them all? Under which rock you been hiding? Not here. Been stoned? I would’ve noticed, even in this.

Yet another and another passes and greets with a twofingered, onefingered, nofingered grope as Ben’s passed around for recognizance—as if one of their own, and despite.

I’m sorry, Ben’s crying, help me, forgive me, forgive (lines from the Show, the Tour’s patter His memory can’t quite shake, or won’t) and a voice says back to Him, wait up, forgiveness? you’ve got Refuge, brother, you sure you’re not aiming for Exile? asks a mensch depluming his chin, feeding hairs to his protector who done chomping gummily asks, where’s that? Answer is, a day’s walk in any direction. Ben’s handed from mamzer to shmuck down to schmegegge to schmendrick, the greasily unwashed and the gracemad, the hippy hippie fallen on hard times, no great shakes, the losing, the lost. A commune bit dust and rusted and aged to entitlement, rage: burntout bug vans and veedoubleu’s, overgrown with tiedye and hemp. An air dayglowed with smoke pungent from where and with failure. An exceptional deformity rides up to Him on a bubble bursting, is passed on from hand to mouth in approach: he’s eyeless and toothless, too, with a nose just nosing on. Psht! he asks in a whisper, pssshht, I’ll trade you an eye for an eye and flashes the ripped fray of his jacket to expose mucosal wares. No? Howabout a tooth for a tooth? I’m talking top quality incisors, none of that denture dreck. Limited time offer, friend. Going fast until you’re robbed broke and blind. You’ll find me if you want to. As he’s hauled away he yells behind him, ask for Mendy, then when they tell you they don’t know from no Mendy you should say, you know, that Mendy…it’s obvious, then, that there are darkening markets of ever darker markets here, unto pitch, and that even their goods and services are tightly rationed by avarice, or secularist greed, the extinction of latest hopes and radical will, the triumph of desert over a dinosaur’s dream; obvious, too, that everyone robs everyone, that robbed stuff is robbed, rerobbed loot robbed then robbed again, as the dead pile up underfoot, counter the culture—there’s no Law, and everyone’s in on it.

Freestanding, eminently wandering, emanatingly wanderable, these refuges providing shelter for the homeless, the broke bust heimatlos, whom society seeks to destroy and now more than ever before, have been set up on no money, only grudging permission, and’ve decayed from the first, becoming less about honoring the provision of the Law than about finding any loophole providing, then—inhabiting it, a temporary noose, looser than most. God Above, how excessively fringed, how faded: intention, respect, a sense of place, standing, a feeling for land. Debauched without habitus, amid the spiraling mud. Though it’s important to make this distinction: this city of refuge is not a city qua city, classically speaking it’s no city at all, only a gathered mass of land, of lands, and their refugees, formed to the give of a valley, the left mess of leftbehind people, outcast undesirables sleeping on each other, waking up on each other, as each other, eating and drinking one another, it’s sick: with no aid from the outside, no intervention, how these people have become their own beds, knives, forks, spoons and cups, transportation, people are shelters from the unaccustomed harshest of elements, people as floors over the earth, people as roofs, sexual implements, sites of excretion, means of execution; the people are the city and the city is the people, and so the decay it’s transmittable, transmutable, how it follows them, waxes and wanes with their migration, their wandering devastation as if they’re a swarm of locusts, not a disorganization of parasite humans—destruction the legacy of this city that’s no city, the sole and so lucrative if ever desired export product of Refuge. And so the exact, on the map location of this city of refuge, of all the cities of refuge, of all the cities that are the one and only city of refuge, up and moves often, is moved, inexacts itself, imports itself then takes leave, wanders and roams widely with its refugees and as them, too, in their tight, evasive spheres, their madmuddied paranoid spins and loops, backtracks and longcuts and yadda and blah—and so the pleasant, peasant mensch with the poor horse stuck whose route of trade takes them past or around and around the Refuge wherever it is often thinks to move the sign, an oaktag placard of his own design if and when his ride obliges; his ride that is his trade, and his only possession: he’s been trying to offload the horse now for moons. Traditionally, though, the refuge roams itself coast-to-coast, accumulating refugees all the slow slogging while: wandering’s forever, as people that tightly knit and wound, grouped for safety, survival, braided and dreaded in curls, they tend to trip each other up, sort of fall for and backward over one another, on top and under, in an intoxicated and intoxicating to participate in or even observe stigmatiferous staggering from platz to plotz, it’s hypnotic.

At Ben’s arrival, they’re heading east again, if roughly, and this valley’ll serve for a pleasant spell, recently popularly voted to be surroundings suitable for a welcome moment of repose, a refuge from Refuge pop. ilimitable, before moving on to ruin the next town, to leave it smoking, wasted; there wherever a mouthful of people to move on out to the edges, daring to, feeling strong enough it’s tempting, to transact business with shops along the way, to purchase sundries and packagegoods at the price of favors, humiliations, disgrace, to say Shalom, send a letter or telegram, make a phonecall, find a new mate or victim beyond the walls of the city unwalled. The people of the wall are regarded by many scholars as those possessing the most guilt, those who’ve decided, freewilled their own standing out there on the outs to functionalize form, structure, stolidity; the most unfortunate of them, edged up against the tumbling hillside, becoming eternally crushed. Otherwise, the wall that is all of people are those who just happen to be, whether through fate, the leaning fall of happenstance, abated natural strength, who happen to have found themselves left to the skirts, banished by the decree of no God they believe in out to the periphery of such a violent, illintentioned throng, the unwilling fighting and gnashing to get in deeper, to the destruction at middle where it’ll still hurt but you’ve got a better shot at dying by the hands of your own brethren companions (if hands they still have, and free), which has to seem, at least in the way of dignity, preferable to most to death from without, to being murdered by those who lie in wait for a refugee remade. In the interior, amid the ruin of tattered tents and leantos and threadbare teepees and hogans and wigwams, among the remains of doomed domed gardens and farms and a dry, witheringly lumbered pen for the raising of livestock gone missing, which animals they’d agreed, or once thought they did, to maintain and care for communally and then to slaughter and divide up equally their flesh fed on dream—everyone’s lost their personalities, also their ages and sexes: female like male, kinder the elderly, kinder who’d done their parents wrong, elderly who’d sinned against their kinder, who’d murdered to enjoy the sorrow of outliving in anything but this peace and quiet however deserved. An encampment of families mixed and broken, converted to lives without name. By dint of sheer width, Ben—after His initial inspection atop the mass, after He’s strangled back down—abides like a lodestone at center, immovable but molten, a star’s burning core; liberally not planetary but sunlike, that around which all must revolve. In this middle, the epicenter of such seismic scorn—with limb shattered to limbs, throats stomped to sucking death—everyone’s trod upon, but Him, He’s the exception, always is: there wombsafe, coddlecradled, a babe.

Ringing the valley, pulsing, on the hilltop, are obscurant forms, establishing, establishment shadows—businesstypes, respectables, former congress-menschs they look or talk like, MD-PhD’s, editor/esquires…people in waiting. Mandated to remain outside the Refuge, they wait to exercise their right to exact punishment from the refugee should he, she, or it ever take leave of the city and so, its protection, should they ever quit the company of their sins: ever prepared, dysnfunctionally vigilant and yet patient to win such vengeance with axes, splinterhandled, incomplete sets of kitchen knives, with swords of elaborate letteropeners, factorysecond nailfiles, cactiburrs made maces, found hunks of masonry, unfinished railroad spurs, ties, rocks, meltsharpened icicles, wormlengths of scrapwood. Passing the time, dust from sand they sieve with their mouths, hanging open, panting, not shocked at the valley but impatient for its opportunity, when—for a future not to be occupied so wastefully; their ties slung heroically over their shoulders, the sleeves of their suitjackets rolled up as if for heavy lifting, for toil.

After rimming the valley thrice, circumambulations conducting him down and up hills, a goy rare to these parts arrives at the hill further to wait amongst these revengers revenant in their eminent labcoats and lawrobes, others legitimizing in the uniforms of the police, fire, and military, finally takes a seat on an outcrop, down next to a mensch who’s palming a pipe.

Waiting for anyone special?

The schmuck who knocked up my daughter, that’s who, the mensch says, and the moment he gets smart, takes one step out from the group…

And what’s your spiel? asks a mensch sharpening a butcher’s cleaver with the thick of his thumb.

I’m out for a mensch who, Gelt’s thinking…He killed my father—let’s leave it at that.

Gelt’s arrived. That, ear to the ground, is the word: having heard about these Refuges lately cropping up, not as much blossoming as rotting away from a wither, an invocation of Scripture, its manifestation on the map, organic but foreign—he’s flown in from Mormondom via Wyoming to investigate. How exactly he found out Ben here’s a mite misty, unscholared: intuition smokesignaled, or arrived upon the wings of an eagle, following the sand, the trample of shrubs. Whatever the source, the intelligence that is hope indicates his quarry’s below, must be, and so every rise of the sun he rims the valley again to the opposite hill, the mound topped with that large leaning oak, to ensconce himself at its summit in privacy from his fellows waiting, sitting, standing, more often than not up in the tree, hidden amid the dense naked wood. It’s Scripturally illegal, not to mention otherwise inadvisable, insane, for him to venture into the Refuge: officially, there’s no admittance; he’s not running from any rap, hasn’t left a passionately unsanctioned assassination deep in his past—and while he can attempt to pass himself off, obfuscate you know the darkening drill with all the militant prowess he mightn’t possess, they’ll know, they’ll beat it out of him, he’s sure as the night. Also, the Garden’s issued orders to respect the new Law of the land, derech eretz: wait it out’s the idea, and we’ll have Him; it’s inevitable, intended…like how am I expected to work, Gelt thinks, for an organization so goddamned mystical, when times get troubled by facts. Ask the birds, most of which are flown or dead, icy wings. How, he’s patient is how, full of schemes to subvert, pass the time, the gestatory pneumonia if it’s not already onelunged to pleurisy: flying any pigeons he succeeds in branchcapturing, netting in leaf, claycolored ill squabblers sent out high over the wallpeople, carrying his notes folded then tied with the midribs of leaves to the tips of their talons; the vein of the texts offering lavish rewards for turning Him over, Gelt makes the sums up out of thin air, windy figures. Then, when they palm and pawn the pigeons on the inside for food or eat them, Gelt still without sin throws over rocks, again with his notices attached just with sloppier scrawl: stars shot without heed across night as if to effect an impertinent sky; he tosses in strained arching lobs.

Gelt standing out on the westernmost rise of the arrhythmic atrium of the heartland it is, the beating bursting organ of the valley below, hurling his finds over walls of shrieking freakpeople, shirkers and droppers, back-sliders knocked out cold on the freeze, sinners and even, if rare, the goodly Godless, too, beatitudinally crazy they are, wild with love, even if only of themselves—stones strung with scraps of shirt unwound he writes on in blood, which is his, too, then sitting to wait, lying in wait, up in a bare bough and peering over the encampment, stretching his arms out to hurl as if in a benediction or blessing foretold: the stones he throws hit people, people with memories, egos and aches, knock out more eyes and teeth to be traded for favors inside; the notes attached are brought to Ben to read but He can’t really make them out, the smudge or His incapacity to believe the worst, His inability to take a hint, or perceive a threat, and most of the others except the elders here have forgotten how to make sense of words at all, have allowed themselves to go rusty.

WANTED ALIVE

A Refugee Among Refugees

Purse Offered Weight of Suspect in Gold

Significant

Description Fat Glasses Robe Unpleasant Odor

Answers to Name of Israelien

Top of Western Slope

You Know the One I’m Talking

With the Tree

Reward Upon Receipt of Above

Purse Includes Purchase of Apprehenders Silence

[Signed] F Gelt

Unethical, declares an elder, the never made good son of a patent attorney who’d done, the son, two years in juvie before hitting the road as a trucker, and a singer in search of a band or a song…illegal, is how another of them whose mother still writes, sends cards and carepackages never received she just retired six months out of the judicature, weighs in: while not in violation of the letter of the Law per se, apparently, an action like this most definitely violates its spirit, and as such any persons or information obtained in this manner would not be acceptable to, nor admissible in…this is going too far, says yet another of them just tuning in (male, female, both, any gender’s lost in its hair nappy down to the knees); even my ex’s father never resorted to this—says the son of a mayor and medic, inlaw to a certifiably cruel public accountant—and that goy, he’s a schmuck-and-a-half.

Sensing the futility of his enterprises both flying and lobbing, Gelt ties himself off to the trunk of the oak, waisted with woolen rope he purposes in unwinding his trousers; with its ripping assurance, giving him slack every footing, he sidles slow down the hill down its slope to just outside the grasp of the wall, passing his message to outsiders in gestural hoots, people passing the word to each other in shouts, in screams amongst, whispering in a massing roar the information onto the interior, related from the periphery deep into the pulsating middle, toward the flaring thorn in the heart of its heart that is Him: some try to grab Gelt despite his caution, their care not to be pulled themselves out, to become exposed, to pass him on in, warming flesh; others push their ways inside to find Ben, to prod Him hot to the edge, to betray, and connive, to give Him over to the wilderness, the season of open territory left for dead and in recompense, Gelt—attempting to arrange His handingover and in doing so further deserving their settlement herein…but thank a God not many here in this Refuge believe—in that the elders, Fathers, selfappointed, the oldest being the most religiously averse, don’t approve: such specific action would violate the ideal of Refuge, the entire concept of a city such as this, its rules interpreting regulations anciently set out in the book of Numbers, within the sunstilling book of Joshua, too, providing for these cities laidout as sanctuaries, sites of Refuge once delineated upon the plains of Moab, at the Jordan at Jericho transplanted, relocated to this desert these lesser, designated asylums for the menschlayer, the unintentional murderer, you’re killing your mother—the beady lustcrazed, trippydip outcast, the misfit, the degenerate gone to dreck then sent away; a halfway house halfway home, in which to sit in, to lie in, to protest by presence alone their own guilt…to stay until their deaths, in one interpretation, or, in another, until the death of the reigning High Priest, whoever he is nowadays; a voluntary prison this valley, a penitentiary metropolis of the unrepentant, and willfull—refugees from retributive death who’ll probably never leave, who’ll probably die here, fleeing angry fathers-inlaw, brothers-inlaw, and the like overacheiving, both the pursued and pursuing arriving to live together in the harmony that is the knowledge of their mortality impending, of everyone’s end: salvation, like if hell was truly heaven, and no one could tell the difference between.

And you’re Him, aren’t you? asks an elder, a Refuge father, meaning one of us and also, not quite.

Explain yourself—why here?

Summering in refuge, Ben says, same as anyone else.

As if to say, don’t think I think I’m better than any of you—it’s just my glasses, they do that to people.

You don’t understand, another elder says, you’re Him, you have to be, the High Priest, that’s who, you can’t deny it…and when you die, we’re all finally out of here. Free at last, praise whatever provision almighty. Can’t wait. Yet another adds, we’ll admit failure, give up and go home. We’ll relent and assimilate, try out a new life—get haircuts and shoeshines, jive straight & narrow, the briefcase that comes with the bedroom set, that sort of thing.

A bummer, let’s book, we’ve had enough!

But I’m no Priest, Ben’s saying, not a Levite, and not even an Israel, just an Israelien…a ghost haunting boo, a bargain dybbuk, or basement beheymah—probably no one at all.

Forget me, forgive…I had a veil, but it got lost in the shuffle.

But even if all that’s for real, you’re still the one after the Priest, the only next-in-line—the nearest thing we’ll ever have’s what I’m saying; we don’t get much priestly material in these here parts, can you dig?

He means what, my own grave.

Here’s how it’s going to happen…this a palepocked, needlelimbed mensch who’d asserted himself as a leader, an oldtimer with the scars and scarlike tattoos to prove, he’s hollering hoarse and wavery. Quiet already, everyone howling sh and hush up, farout like spaced winds their whisper, here’s how it’s going to work. You pardon us, all of us, and in return we’ll get you out, too: we’ll smuggle you out, as one of our regular nightly dead (there are a handful of these, how should we put it—the first elder adds, the one with the burly beard and the halflensed sunglasses and the whites at every knuckle of his last left pinkiefinger that once rung the insides of his rings that were gold—disease prevention measures, we’re allowed…though the Law’s damnably vague on it all); an offer you’d be at a loss to refuse: we’ll pall you out on the night of the new moon, you with me, pitch dark, right under that Gelt’s little sniveling schnozz.

What? I should pardon you, that’s what you want, that’s ridiculous.

That’s the deal, what’s that the kids are saying…tateleh: absolve us of everything, all sins and omissions, everything ever acted upon, ever willed, dreamt up, and even the thought. Are we doing business or what? I’d shake on it except I’ve lost fingers that way—what are you waiting for, a miracle, the hand of whose God? I could smack you, I should. Futz that, what’s yours is mine…why shouldn’t we kill you? I’d like to know. Best get yourself up and pardon away.

You mean you want me to pardon you now? Ben asks like who ever heard.

And they answer him you busy, schmuck, got something better to do, a prior engagement?

And so, standing in any proximate center of this loose and ever loosening circle, Ben’s awkward, with exasperation in the roll of His eyes, them with their own valleys to worry—who could take any of this seriously?—the burning sky, the weather of His head cynical, sarcastic with regard to the ironic, opposing fronts meeting only to flower the winter, to bloom it swollen with blood. He goes and waves His hands wildly, much like Hanna would do before guttering from between the flames of her lips the blessing over the candles for Friday; moans a snatch of glossolalia, a bit of showbiz shtick, stuff He’d pickedup on the circuit, crowdpleasers from the earliest days of the Tour. There in the middle of the throng, in the center fast becoming its clearing, the core of this disparate sphere, He kicks with His foot in the sand as if toeing a word, heeling out whichever line of His hastily effaced, kickedover, recovered with dust unto dust to mud, frozen mud—and soon this ritual, whatever it is, whatever He thinks He’s doing ridiculous, disperses a hole in the whole: people shrink from Him, they cower, step back, and huddle, braid, become knotted—then, they all flee. His gestures, giving and gravidly stupid, part their ways; dirtied limbs fly in every direction…it’s crowded even for a melee, maleficently black and hissing—as they refugee again, this once all at once, through the desert without passage, this desert of every passage, every option of open, through the air’s massed exit exploding their sphere, this seethingly tangling, beardbrambly tumble with Ben deep in the middle sent through it, through this shuffling, scrambling of feet shod, unshod, and spidery blue clumsy cold without nails; this wet web of flesh stepping, tripping, then falling and trampling, leaving the dead behind saprogenically still; a massively tumultuous pushpulling up slip up the icelick opposite the oak (in that surge no way Gelt can spot Him, draw a bead, take Him out), up that other hill then over, overtaking the surly waiters patient for vengeance, overwhelming them in a furious, animal tide…a stampede of shoeless feet then legs without feet, tromping stumps, up and over the hill then down down and down further, as they tip into the valley next, its fall, the buffalo cliff.

Amid this late exodus, Ben’s glasses are flung from His face. The overtimes reinforced strap that grannied them held snaps in the jostle, the specs go flying out into the departing crowd, are lost amid the flux of beads, bandanas, suedefringing strangle…Him falling hands and knees to find them, how He can’t by touch alone, more attempt less determination what with this gush of hair, heat, the blur of His disbelief ’s blinking, is trodden on and then, if not a grace granted, then don’t ask how: He manages to find of them a single lens, one round lens from His righteye, His left. He rises shocked, lost in His find to hold it aloft to the sun, the glass—is then as a concave wave pulled back into the momentum of escape, is pushed into pushing, again into a spectacular pulling, His effort at keepingup spurting sparks from His thighs one’s chapped the other’s chaffing to immolate what obstacles ahead, the people, the shrubs and trees that smoke and will, just as well, be consumed. The gauntletrun, deathmarched weak left for dead, how they manage even in their last breaths to laugh at Him now, on the ground, doubledover fetally in their last fleeing life, holding the ache of their sides, which have been split then the blood binding spilled. What’s so funny, doesn’t know, maybe it’s a fat mensch in a rush, like the majority (leaders, followers, stragglers and taggersalong) heading east, if vaguely…about to lunge up and over the far hill, the modest mountain of the latter Law, and there to its summit, murdering underfoot—and maybe only in order to latterly deserve His dwell amid the Refuge He’s just exploded. Ben crests the hill, and beholds in the valley below a drastic emptiness, the hollow given hole between the fallings, constant, as if the earth’s gone agape to swallow them down—these refugees He’s stepping down on from the summit as lightly as possible, which isn’t very, though as if apologetic, nimblynamby leaving in their faces a slippery wisp, heeled dimples, a shoeprint’s dolloped swirl. Him to avert the earth’s gorge and its endless depth only by making His way over the bodies of those crashing down, shrieking, then unheard, unseen, His weight to crack their bones that skein the surface as if winding trails of limb, the chattering teeth of boulders, and a glimpse of rivered tongue, lain flat below and cold; using such casualties as human bridges, collapsing them on His way to mount the summit next, the cliffward hill distant, that mounding one over larger and greater, a mountain even, then beyond the rage of its peak—the westernmost rise of the Rockies. With one lens held to one eye, the other arm thrust out for upright, to fumblingly use dumb heads downed as steppingstones, paths of skull across air to spring from as the bodies under His stride—open mouths that snag, silence—slip their deep and slow sink through the sky, deathrolls entwined, goners givingout their last scattered breaths that storm through the night into clouds.

As it is written, at least here: He knows but does not really know, hears but does not listen, He sees but does not really see…His eyes are open but to them, the world has been shut.

Moon gives way to sun through the window, its sill stooped from having to shoulder the feedbag heft of the light: illumination scattering across the planks of the floor then the filthy wallow of throwrug and then His form, His face; withdrawing from sleep, there’s a waft, the slight smell of brunch cooking, then burning, and then the sensation, it’s pain, a sizzling sprung from His forehead, fire focused through the lens left atop His sleep, beaming to concentrate morn upon a worrisome furrow—Ben beats His head out of wrinkles, snuffs His hair, then fingers the smoldering mark.

Goddamnit, to be awake to such hurt!

Ben holds the lens up to whichever eye’s imperfections it wasn’t made to perfect—blindly guess which He holds it up in the air to His eyes, which squint to see through it…emptiness. A wall, a loin of log. He groans, takes the glass off and away. Without it, there’s the hock of a chimney and furnace, coldbellied, gray. An eye as if rendered to lard. And then, the blur of its veins, which are cracks; the roof ’s leaking, too, that’s the wet on His head. There’s a scar in the pitch, plipdrip the sound. A balm, so cooling.

He forages for the glass again, rinds it into His lids. Through the scratches and dirt, the snoutings of knuckles and thumbprints gathered throughout the untold glut of His sleep…a foursquare logcabin, His shadow like blood clot along its slats barked toward the ceiling. Furniture and fence hacked into kindling, piled in stacks in the corner against the foot of the bed where He lies.

Ben tries to sit up, falls back. With the glass off, all’s fuzzy again, unfocused, bright—how the comforter of the bed’s white tucking toward pink, and the pillow under Him, too, but the sheets staining the mattress darker, they’re mudflecked, covered with streaks of pests exploded, crushed between antic fingers. With the glass off, the chair’s upholstery has come unholstered, a cheap recliner its seat and back slashed, degeneratively red—the curtains of the window, though, they seem to be only His lashes. With the glass on again, He can espy the webbed patterns of doilies draped, lace, a shatter without glass. Then, He holds to the other eye, to take sight of the shelves across the room, empty, undusted, sagging: what’re only spare troughs and farrowingcrates shelved for the mending; their books must’ve already been burned. Must be smoke. A sty. He raises His other hand to remove the lens but can’t, finds His wrist bolted, chained ostentatiously to the knob of the door. Sitting up, He has bruises upon His arms and legs, a prodigious spoil nipples each breast.

A crucifix on the wall, used as a hatrack: it’s empty except for a cap whose logo says, Affiliate Now!

A jeansed mensch comes to the door, knocks once then opens it, sneers his chaw to a windowside spittoon. He takes the recliner in hand and screeches it across the room to sit opposite Ben who’s itching at the gargly marks left by bedbugs.

He takes a pistol from a pocket, takes it apart then wipes everything down; when he’s done, he can’t put it back together and so he sits in silence and mopes—only to startle, throwing the gun exploded to parts to the floor, then kicking them to clatter under the bed, at three sudden knocks at the door.

He rises, knocks in response, lets her in. Amateur, like.

She’s young, younger than him, just in from the shuttered piggery in flannelplaid, spandex under a skirt, workgloves and slopwaders; she’s carrying a tray topped with two glasses, vodka in a flask and a case.

Honey, he twangs to her, meet our new investment. Take a good gander—does He look like retirement to you?

She blushes to the color of a cozy carnation; if possible her hair shocks even higher and sharper, like the electrified spikes they’d used to keep their pigs in the pen: their backfats and baconers, feeders and sucklings, barrows, cull sows.

The mensch takes the tray from her, kisses her away, opens the case and hands Ben His new specs.

He pours out the drink, takes both shots himself without intelligible blessing.

All is clear, or soon will be.

You took quite a beating back there, the mensch says. There’ve been riots. Unrest, with you sleeping. Army went in, the reserves. You’re lucky to still be alive. Let’s just say it was costly, a whole heap of payola. I mortgaged the farm, that and the money I’m making not to raise treyf anymore. But don’t worry about me, I’ll make it back double. There’re people I’m talking to, I’m learning the language. I got me a primer, and me and the wife we’re studying nights with a rav.

I’m your new host, the name’s Adam.

Believe it, I didn’t have to change it or nothing.

Utz all you want that this has been welcomed, deserved, that He’s all this time been asking for it, begging on knees and on the stiff merit of boredom, even that in the end He’s better off bound with gags—slavery’s what He’s in for, to be bargained for, bought and sold, His person possessed. Anyway, the most inclusive of our interpreters offer, slavery means different things to different people, that there are as many slaveries as there are lives, and that bondage can just mean like you know respiring, bound to life, gettingby: Monday morning, Wednesday’s hump upon which the moon was created, then broken for the healing of Friday, the weekend, a job or a spouse. Through the grind. And to be sure, our sages agree, Ben’s isn’t a subservience of the hard labor stripe, which if more slimming is still that much too productive, worthwhile, ensuring the fattened happiness and health of another: owning Him matters more than working Him, which—working—is not quite His shteyger. And so what if it’s not Egypt the real, or Moses with Abraham Lincoln goes south, should that make any difference to us, temper our sympathy for one so abused, ultimately, by Himself? A slave to sciomachy. If not slavery then how else, please, to explicate such a geography of wandering: from family to family, from house to house; nothing this looned’s ever done on your lonesome. Master to host. If not slavery, how to explain such unquestioning surrender to others, their wills, His fate, to a God He doesn’t even believe in (others, wills, fate, God—the same, if only we knew what that was), to a God now—God knows why—Who’s worshipped in every burg Ben’s sold off in, exalted in every dorf He’s auctioned off to?

Might a representative from the midst of the encampment walk a line in the sand, a map to be keyed against the wind effacing everything save the homes that He’s known: Joysey, Island’s Garden, ho and motels, the desert, the Spa, forced home hospitality, revived synagogue poorhouses soon, and then—nothing, with nothing unexplored, nothing else might exist: show them only the stopoffs in a Wander three, ten, twelve unto six thousand jahren, and the people one meets! hands begging shaking, hauling a wilted odd number of flowers to strange, rearranged, reAffiliated houses, logcabins and trailercabs and just for the night, remain vigilant at the threshold, beware the domestic snare (the carpet unfastened, the rug that might catch), the averted clasp of Ben’s welcome…Shalom! this greeting people with a gratitude feigned who wouldn’t have otherwise acknowledged you to spit on you, with their half flung open stabledoors, haylofts, ladders that go up but not down; the lice and ticks of flight through wheres and their afflicting nights that sleep every one of them the same—paltry hours of one shut eye, His shoes still on, still laced up.

Ben’s sold, then resold, sold again, from Adam to eve through to manumit morning. His arms and legs, people own shares. He’s quartered, pulled this way, pushed that. Not that He doesn’t attempt an escape: halfhearted, onefingered dials to reach the Doctors Tweiss fail, please leave a message not returned. Why them? He should collect on His own bounty? Why because He needs some advice is why, is seeking some counsel: needs an image of Himself that’s true, that’s not as-advertised, featured on dayold breadbins, discounted tuna tins, packets of salmon, on stickers stuck on the peels of desiccated citrus, Missing on the back of cartons of milk, Wanted on jars of honey, Him or alive—and wants, too, a measure of respect if not for His self (loathsome, fatter, uglier), then for an unknowable deity that’s His and His only, altogether some something justificatory of further existence: a company of selfregard, which brands might hock for 19.99 shekels shipping not included, a quality of worth religion lets go for the price of a soul. Ring ring rings but no answer: recovering from the Hymie visit up north, boondocked in the Berkshires, phoning into their answering service, the Doctors think it’s a hoax, a prank hallucination, they’re sure of it, and who can blame them what with all the collaboration conveniently going around; inform on your neighbors, report on the mirror—how Johannine’s flipped, shushingly, only a day after the Vice President went. And know, too, that when He breaks down on a host’s phone and calls into the Garden, it’s just a matter of importance, a mandate of filters, of nonresponse, of who did you say you were, right, uhuh, very funny, you and sixmillion metro area others screenedout, lost in the switchboard…go chop down the phonetree, with which to burn up the fuse, the last line. But I really am, He says and gevalt, get over yourself, sell it and a bridge to a party who’s buying. Apparently, outreach’s gone the way of ways, ingathering initiatives for those misguided, lost, single, divorced or even, gasp, intermarried still as dead and gone as His parents—Hanna’s emergency Development meetings to address yesterday’s slights, Israel’s lawyerly panels of pressing issue; and the sleazy, hogging attention His parents had understood as early as the first trimester (how Hanna’d begun showing immediately after conception, that night even, the flailing prick of fading pleasure, her body without calm) now fails to impress anyone as more than a ritual, another enslavement He has to rage against, freedom from which will require either serious will or further professional help, paid for by the hour meaning fortyfive minutes and no, no personal checks accepted.

And then, for dessert to finish off His final dunch, this family’s farewell—indignity poured atop two scoops of consolatory chocomocha (His tush, amply kicked), He’s freed, physically turned loose from a basementcloset slash guestroom He’s been locked in, below the spring jackets and wardrobe for summer, amid the trashbags of shorts, tshirts, and swimsuits, the unseasonal hold. Ben’s let go, again and again having proved Himself worthless: as friend, enemy, as love, anything but the flesh on His bones. Not even fit for bondage, how low can you stoop before bowed. It’s been enough, I got a better offer. Times are tough. Who asked you. Enslaved to another, chained to the bold, He’s remastered, He’s hosted again.

To serve no one but yourself is to live too freely, among so much Developmental openness, amid so much possible, potential, God how to live up to it, how to live down or at all, how to remember when you’re free to invent? History goes garbled. More libraries’ books burnt in irrelevant fire. Tapes get erased. Herein, His degeneration: Adam the former pigfarmer and futzer of that other Manhattan, a landlocked, hillflinty little apple located in the northeastern negation of Kansas, will sell Ben able to Cain, who would altar Him to Topeka Seth; Methusaleh the goy said his name was of Lawrence to hold onto Him forever. He’s a stooped mensch, caneclawed, from another age: he carries a briefcase wrinkled deeper than his face; to negotiate he sets his hat on the table crown down, as not to destroy the meticulous brim. He’s tired in the eyes though the mouth says froth, medicated excited but worried, too, around the rodential twitch of the nose; he’s splurged his whole pension to acquire our schmuck. He takes Him home, feeds Him until the food runs out, the taps go dry, the breathing becomes labored in vain. In the morning in his waincart he carts himself he hauls Ben out through the flatlands toward the Missouri line, leaves Him there with a sigh and a sandwich not on rye but of it, a nod toward the promise of St. Louis, just now in the process of being renamed (a referendum’s been called, streetside prophets casting their tongues).

To wander the river’s edge, icebound, and bound, too, to a calling: the Mississippi, it is, under the sinlessly white rime of which there’s only a trickling sheen, slitherine…Ben’s roaming the bordering bank north to south, toward a loose assemblage of insipid figures draped fittingly formless in a pale that no one should have to behold in the light of the sun this early in the winter of morning; it’s blinding, a blur. Too bright, and the bright it’s too clean. Heavy, though, even their smiles are heavy, lumberously overweight. He’s interrupted some ritual or other ongoing, walked into a ceremony in which He doesn’t belong, whether as honored, honoring, or hardware. Call it a mass debaptism. A disconfirmation, an unconsecration—it’s a Kashering, a making holy, made whole. Holes’ve been smashed into the ice, to the water frothing below, cleanly bleached from frost by the sun above the sunken silt, the muddy crust at bottom—and around clear to the other bank, are tiny tchotchkes getting dunked. People in yarmulkes, in their too short, too tight white kittels where do they get them (their bedclothes repurposed, sheets and slips), are sinking their plates and pans and pots and utensils down into the water freed to soak, led by a mensch, longhaired, neatgoateed, quiverlipped and tall, standing far out on the water itself, it seems, miraculously, not quite, mundanely descending a shiver into a hole he’s destroyed for himself at a shallow; submerged now to the knees, with a sharp rim of ice at his waist he’s mispronouncing vaguely Affiliated words from the sides of his mouth, givingout snippets of prayer, liturgical snatch delivered in a terrible voice mired in schlocky melisma. And not just household goods, provisions of the sleepy domestic—everything’s getting anointed today, must go damped down to holy: pets herded toward the lap of the frozen, womenfolk tugging roped their families’ goats to slip hooves out over the icing, old television sets and stereos and refrigerators, obsolesced computers and calculators and radios and telephone units, impractical electrical appliances still plugged by extension cord into sockets hosted on the only interior walls of neighboring mobilehome units, elders’ doublewides, parking the riverbank (an electrocutionary risk illadvised, but God will save us, always does), newspapers runny, clothes and socks and shoes, officesupplies, paperclips and rubberbands, pottedferns and filingcabinets removed from the offices and backrooms of storefront and stripmall churches defunct, their Sunday School desks, tables, chairs, and pews, sand, shore, and the river itself, getting wet, rendered allowable for household use if not that of the sacred; cars, vans, and trucks fishtailing out onto the scaling, towed by horses and mules and then their own owners, them, harnessed with ropes tied to chassis and bumper, vehicles hauledout to fall into their own weight, to jut up their rearwheels as if icicles expurgated from other holes stomped into the river’s midst, spouting stilled, jagged metal springs: a technological potlatch, a mass giving up, such divestment of the profane.

Ben shoves the survived of His mother’s robe down into pajamapants, which are suborned with stripes, inherited from a recent enslaver, rolls bunches of fabric into fisted cuffs, then holding them high wades out and over. Assembled, they stand and stare, their mouths hang mailbox open, flags up the flabbered nose; but while some chance to pick at or cover their gapes, others hold tighter still in fellowship and psalm: it’s Him…the gospel’s that He’s recognized, silence; not a chirrup or a shatter of ice, not a plash nor a bird’s flying song And then, without signal, as if tranced, made vehicle themselves, takenover as prophet, what do they do—they congree and give Him the bumrush, they grab Him, lay hands upon hands…the adolescent mensch in the markered goatee, it is, holding Him by both arms crossed as if a sarcophagied Pharaoh: to sink Him down with them together, some seated on His chest buoyed with breath, others up and stomping on His shoulders, neck, and head dunked through the give of the frozen, violently deep into the slow, ropy water below…the water displaced, now rising up, now gurgling over, through His hole then the other unfished holes, too, as if they were throats flopping over the rims of their mouths this freezing vomit—the flooding of every hold that might hide His heart icebunched, bonehardened…

Kinder assembled on the bank they’re snapping photos of the dunk, staging the scene for posterity’s too obvious—within the frame of their ready youth, their rummaged souls, there’s a memory in the making and a history, also, they’ll admit: the fleeting innocence of such revelation…a sign gets tacked onto a tree at the back, lightninged to fall to the Miss, a bridge to tomorrow and its hopeful conviction; the poster there indicating in attractive lettering, Wanted Dead, Westernly sherrifed with serif…that here’s an Officially Recommended opportunity for a photograph, what’re you waiting for? and soon, flashes pop off everywhere, lenses loom, apertures widen to the horizon, the glaregolden set of the sun; despite the darkening, the f. stops keep going, keep flowing, the gaping mouth of the delta all down to the Gulf ’s flooding with collodion, gun cotton dissolved in ether, that is…the exposure’s nearly half a minute, a minute, more, longer, always longer: one meaningless motionless moment frozen as solid and as flat as the river just a lame handful of strokes north upstream; and in that time, not even an eye may twitch nor a lid shy shut (a traveling photographer, who maintains offices on the leftbank of last century, hustles into his darktent, to unpack his grip and arrange the trays of his developing outfit, his bellows, cranks, and reels): the plates have to be developed immediately, there’s no time to lose, never is, must be kept wet under syrups, thickened tears, honey dissolved in water, must be sensitized in a bath of silver nitrate spread on a plate of glass, or in cellulose nitrate, this substance more flammable than the paper it’s to be smeared on, the product printed, the image forbidden to even itself—and that’s why it can be developed, its reversal, that’s why it’s facing out…this is all process, understand, with the assembled—us—invited to select their medium, ours; how any souvenir can be developed any way you like, in almost too many ways: in an emulsion of gelatin silver, or with the technique it replaced, albumen, which is eggishly eyewhite, given generational hatch—whatever their nostalgia requires, we’re here to serve, whatever you want or your memory needs, we provide. A life macerated in magnesium, or developed in a dish of heated mercury, amid the vaporous essence of iodine, the balm of bromide from stenchy, unquenchable bromine, sodium thiosulfate, a host of other names none can ever know to pronounce, to concoct chemically in the lab of the mouth…this and more’s explained to these lost revivalist, whiteshrouded kinder lining as if in timeline the banks of the river—the pose, the technological prosaics of wonder; the photomechanical processes that make the widespread dissemination of images possible’s what: Do You Know This Mensch? all over the Sabbath pre-prints, in bulletins and circulars, at the postoffice, and waiting on line; an image strained through a fine screen, dispersed into dots, newspaper raster, each schmeck of Him every dark and darkening pore holding the secret entire, exploded hugely across the fold, a spread, a schmear campaigned to claim uneasy truce with flaw; etched then inked to the page, gravured…intagliod in halftone, in duotone: yes or no, it asks, the binary cleave, life or death, who wants to know; or maybe you’d prefer to know Him in solarization, that inversion of tones resulting from an image being exposed again, reexposed, to light during development—whichever, your wish is ours and, anyway, I’ll shoot straight with you, it doesn’t matter: as whatever the presentation, production, or reproduction by which we destroy, there’s always wear, inevitably tear, everything in the end goes to molder in sepia, or gray, which is the murder of black by white—memory’s tone, the past fading In.

O who wants to spring for an exposure of nearly six thousand years…this winter, is it, no, couldn’t be, has it been that long, doesn’t seem—an exposure infinitely exposing…stay still, say still, and hold it. Our lives frozen forever into one shot, indivisible, and eternal: as such is our venture outlasting generations, nations, languages, loves, not destroying, no, but preserving, even as any proscribed, prophesized against Image weathers the fires to outlast our forgetting, outlasting even itself, in its sin, that it’s forbidden and yet still exists. It doesn’t even matter if it’s never developed, never seen except in the negative, by the eye of the mind. Snap. This is your new house, Mister & Misses Israelien, yet to be built, of course. Click. This is the girl I was seeing before your mother. Smile. This is the boy I was seeing before I first laid eyes on your father. Here, this is what I looked like when I was your age. Shudder the wind. At His father’s work, atop his desk: twelve photographs divulged in an arc; tap open their glasses, then work the images through the vesseling shards. An album’s discarded, never replaced, another’s struck from the shelves for its ravage: Hanna’s had been leather, leafed in dundusted gold, must into the pages of which she’d meticulously pasted, plasticized, these keepers these how many years; flip the page, they lie empty.

Here, look here: His father in moustache days, laying hands on a suit high and thick with padded shoulders, Hanna’s, she’s seated, which is unlike her, though pregnant, which is; red, there’s writing on the reverse: Is & Han, Woodmere, with swingset and toy pony, it would’ve been backyard at the house she’d been born in, deep in what’d been known as the Five Towns, retroactively doubled to ten, fifty and further (neighborhoods expanding, the Affiliate sprawl), another island, another world to remember…another photo, this His father again, alone and younger, like what they’d take at a mall, or in an auditorium, lobby, or hallway upon graduation: gray screen behind him whitewisped, as if oceanwaked, hair’s styled wet, eyes, too, and on the reverse, another inscription, another hand: to Hanna, with love, XOXXOOXXXOOO; His PopPop, in a warmup suit, it must be polyester, he’s not warming up, He’s cool and removed, with casual knees seated at the edge of an unlit hearth; on the reverse, Dad, Hanukah, December/80; Hanna was always great with the details, organized was her life, she’d probably snapped the shot, too; then Pop-Pop at the ocean, in a suit, watertight, like a wet hand clutching his cluster, hairless, longnailed toes sinking under garish grains; reversed, Dad, Florida, July/76…relics, then, of the displaced, the replaced, made museum: Hanna’s father, her stepfather, stepstep and on up the stairs; recognition repurposed, reversed: some mensch in some country there in the uniform of its military, then the same mensch in some other country there in a suit and vest and tie; the same straw’s doll clutched to a breast by the same hands on two continents, who is she, she looks like Ima, but what about the girl holding her? MomMom’s pain if she ever even knew that emotion as separate, as a part of life, and not just all there was to it: PopPop and another, not Arschstrong, posed around the unit of the latter, condo’s hall and its tree for Xmas, mistletoedecked, about to kiss with closed eyes, with tongue. This’s your (great-great-great-)-grandmother, that’s her standing with a hole in her bucket and behind her, that’s Rus. See the trees. How the snow seems so white and as white, so pure, it’s so fake. Frames are savage, it’s been said; they’re terrible, as they limit the world, obliterating what is with what was, while also negating the future, forbidding any sense of what might still be. To be punished for this trespass in image—Ben should be forced to wander around until the end of His days, hung around His neck an unfinished frame, unwieldy, nailstuck wood. All this is mysticism, though, the world as we’ve posed it—this desire to know who we are today merely an outgrowth of our fanatical memory, our insistence on not denying anything its existence; the result of our demand upon responsibility, of our passion for Law; this obsession with preservation merely our own human, mundane, limited imitation of the next world’s coming to come. A reproduction in advance of this world to be divinely perfected. On every reverse is scrawled a last question in invisible ink: are we patient enough—to wait for everything we’ve ever been promised, being content to accept its fulfillment, however, only in image, in images of Image…in imaginings, hymn? Even here, amid this Eden we’ve so tastefully and expensively furnished and draped—nu, we’ll have to make do.

Thrashing under the water under the ice, He flails, He founders…He but not yet He, Ben not yet: only a dimness, a trifle of dark, diffusing in the depths of the bath to cleanse Him of He…purified, but into and for what: not fetal but unshaped in the solution, enwombed without form save flub, glub, and the bubbling—I can’t breathe, which given the wetness sounds only as ripples, as waves. Limbs liquefying, not their loss through melting but to become remade, to be crucibled. He tides into seas and oceans, turning up wake. Viscous uterine life. Maternal syrup. Paternal stick. Its eyes stinging, its nose, too, then its mouth and throat, then no eyes to sting, no nose nor mouth, tongue dissolving at the hint of honey, the faint taste of urine, then, of silvery poison: sensing its last…a substance that Hanna would’ve kept under the sink, always offlimits, kept locked.

Will you shut the goddamned tentflap? the traveling photographer yells.

Who’s he again, who does he think he is? A mensch time out of mind—he looks any way you want him to look, though most of the timeless you can’t see him because he’s looking at you.

Here, hold these—and there’s a great shuffling of glass sound, a crashing, the breaking of plates…pass that nitrate over here, will you, the sound of fumbles around. He’s yelling at his assistant, a slow, dullwitted girl disguised as a boy with bangs, the rest of her hair gathered in a pile under his cap, a slight moustache smudged on with tint; her first name’s Never, and as for her last name, Forget. Or else we’ll do the albumen, he says to him, or the gelatin; forget it, we’ll do it all, we’ve got the time. Smash those eggs for me, will you? And, this time, don’t forget to separate the yolks…

To stir, then tong flat—picked up then hung, they seem thousands of Him, they seem millions, Hims suspended from heaven by a pinch of the trees, their wooden reaches pinned to horizons. Dripping emulsion, He’s patted down with sheets, these sheets His selves in the sopped love of image engendering images. These padding clouds. He’s bent, then checked; memory’s done entirely inhouse; ripped already, pretorn, folded thrice, then shrunk, then enlarged: pores of an infinite process, He’s inhaling this whole time, in-taking, passingout, comingto, elementally, being assembled from every gradation of the mnemosynic bath; given focus only to dry: in a black & white encompassing every slowslipping tint, which if anything they might first yellow on their slow ways to, disappeared. To be developed, finally, then exiled out to the edge, posterity’s furthest diaspora. There, at last, to be framed. That is, if anything can ever contain Him.

Ben’s image will precede Him everywhere except here, it appears, amid these trees unknotted with signs, these forests left barren of martyring tacks through His face: this the most religious enclave of recent adherents, enemies of representation, of the modern, of even the olden made new—the land of the people formerly known as the Amish, the Pennsylvania Deutsch, if you’ve heard. At least for them, conversion hasn’t been tough; they’d already grown the hair, bought the hats. If yesterday’s habits die hard, what about its people, community, brotherhood. What else to do, they’ve already committed to black. In a field, Ben wakes to a rain, a drippingly dense precipitate, intermittent if implacably slow, deliberate, and thick. Ruddish raw milk, irritatingly unprocessed. He turns His face to the tasteless heavens, the pinked underside of a naturally nonhomogenate moon. He’s under an udder, bovine, that of a Joysey cow, not just any: a heifer red and so rare, whose bloodlet ashes would’ve served to purify the sins of His people back in the days of the pioneer temples. Exhausted from the trek, His owners who deep in their souls are the owned, masters and hosts of underground trade, that moneychanging hands passing hands fingering change, the cartrides then the horserides, the changes of horse and cart then the portage, hiding in steamers and trunks, amid bags, boxes, and crates, His entire smuggle wormhollowed, spoondug—He opens His lips now only to spit, as if there’s anything left to be said; this after having been ignominiously dropped, left in the Keystone, abandoned without ceremony or cerement as not worth the skin He’d been born shrouded into—that and His onerous appetites, this sleeping lazily late until too tired to wake—the pinchednasal kvetch of the slave whose soul’s the enslaving. He closes His mouth to the weather of this cow on the graze, turns away and sleeps on, the ingrate, not thirsty.

That night, which is that of the new moon, and so that of the month known as Av—the only moon not mentioned in the Torah, it’s related, a moon too dark to mention, we might, the darkest, as if so old or forbidden as to be no moon whether new or not, its absence tonight too sad and best forgotten or never lived through, the moon of destruction, the moonlessness of the dead—above Him appears another vision, a visitation of sorts…this mensch who seems like the grandfather He’d never had, never knew, maybe great, or greatgreat: his payos rustling in the slightest of winds, he’s bearded but without the moustache. Are you oppressed, my fellow? he asks Him.

Brother, might you be hungry, or a pregnant sister—ach, you need maybe a pillow, or are you good with the grass?

Hab rachmones, He can’t just sleep out here all night without a moon, says the mensch’s true grandson with the name of a prophet, which one who remembers: nicht nicht…a bad omen, bodes ill. And so through such an unpropitious pitch, a copse of trees is mightily felled from the edge of a lane, they’re chopped to size then their logs are planed, their boards becoming fitted and nailed. At dawn, their strapping kinder raise up a barn around Him; their womenfolk having spent the eve further antedating themselves, while at the same time updating the past, what with their knitting of yarmulkes and hermetically holidaythemed scherenschnitte, doing their laundry so as to be prepared for the approach of the ninth of the month, hanging their white mourning garb out on the fences to gather the darkness, then in their kitchens preparing a meal for the eventual wake of their arrival, busy with their stews and goulashes while cuckooing gossip to one another, which translates to prayers; a syncretism this eclectic mix of writs and superstitions, traditions and rituals, incantations of spells the recipe, a meltingpot blackbottomed, full of misgivings’ blue brew: prophecy’s invoked, stars are observed in their own light, alone: how in the zodiac, it’s lately Leo, traditionally the time to snip hairs to be pressed under pillow; then, how Virgo the virgin comes next, hens to be lifted to count their eggs out from under them and then, from that number, interpret, extrapolate. Go on. Plates are shattered, their remains are stirred in the fire.

How to rouse Him?

Maybe I should kiss Him on the mouth with the tongue of a turtledove? says a girl not yet of age.

What about me? says her rumspringa sister, a year older though already a mother herself.

His presence an omen distressing, how could it be anything but what with Av’s erev upon them. Almanac tells only of frost, perpetual, ferhuddling. After their work through to dawn, they pray away the rest of the morning then at afternoon hit hard a schnitz, beginning brunch without Him still sleeping, as if unable Himself to be raised without nails: they dig into their shoofly pies sided with greens, their breads spread thumbthick with apple butter, accompanied by bottboi and chowchow, pickled eggs to nosh, bushels of beets. Hardcider flows freely, without a mind to their P.ints & Q.uarts. Then, finished with their leftovers then with afternoon prayers, the daven of mincha, their meeting begins, if in a tumult of grievance gotten unrepentantly drunk, plowed with paranoia: pews are tossed around, scuffled across the floor, broken, beards are swallowed, moustaches sucked in annoyance: what portends this passedout mensch? our charge, our barnyard starred? He’s a spy, Meek Zeke shrieks, from the government, Intelligence, here to keep tabs or chits, checkup; or, He’s come to convert us, to lead us back into the corrupted fold, a wandering proselytizer if a touch sleepy, or sheepish…gevalt—a missionary inleagued only with death!

They referendum to port Him out of their barn newly risen (to be repurposed in repentance to an almshouse, if not to be razed), to cart Him unconscious still over to Paradise…by way of Bird-in-Hand, if you follow, then Intercourse, let them decide what to do—arriving there a day or so later and in terrible weather, to tax shelter under the gables of the former Trinity Reform, now a synagogue, the hochshul’s what they say, its hex replaced with the Decalogue; they sprawl Ben out on the lawn. A freshly accredited rabbi sits on the stoop—he looks just like them, introduces himself as Rav Nissen King, asks them if they’d consider contributing to the reduction of a mortgage. Forget it, they cart Him back, then into Lancaster proper, get orders from the community to wait for a responsa from York, city of the white rose, the light of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, or l’PA: searching for what, remedy, guidance, a party to assume their burden, their charge and its charity’s care. Tzedakah this mitzvah. This whose is He. Not one of us, meaning stranger. They store Him granaried, in disused silos and troughs, and in cowsheds again erected overnight, so as not to profane the sanctity of their own haylofts and homes.

On the eve of the first Shabbos of Av, Ben wakes to a sliver of moonlight, shining in through the grain of the slats. He gets up amid the small space, finds a rusting, whirlwindreaping scythe propped lazily in a recess, against the woodenwall sunk in straw, makes to hack His way through the lock, slices it down to splinters, rips a gash of door in the door in a single sharp sweep: there’s darkness without, still’s quiet, a night. Free and about to quit the cow-shed, make an escape, He hears a lowing the sound of a shadow within, a low and susurrant moo, full of loneliness, sympathetic grief. What else but the cow, the Joysey, the heifer red and as huge as its sound: red the shade of its odium, it’s never been yoked. Insistent on following Him from town to nowhere as these reformed Amish of greater York, they make their rounds to plead help; curiously, it wouldn’t milk unless it’d been allowed to follow, and no one intended to grieve it, foolish to even tempt at its vex: God forbid it should die or be rendered otherwise impure before it goes for undreamt gelt at Philadelphia market or auction, hope, to that mensch from the Temple up north made an offer, in the big city, who trusts them, who’d afford not to these days…that deal means future, survival—a refurbished kindergarten, just think of it, the new mikveh, the lease of a new cemetery, too, and a bier bought to own; and so they’d tied the cow off to the cart, led it on, never letting it tow, not even thinking, such defilement, shtum.

Ben stands—His legs flung doors apart, facing the open. As the heifer stampedes its charge straight ahead, at Him, determined and quick, its horned head down underneath Him, carrying Him over then onto its mass hairily red and pulsing in muscle, and then out and into the night. As if told to Him, but it’s no talking cow, not all of them are—revelation transmitted up from its beating, breathing hide dirtily wet to His tush and then into His mind, Ben understands He’s not to lead but to follow, to be led, only to ride. He surrenders Himself to the heifer, winding its ambly ramble down the pike east into the liberty of Philly, toward its columns and cobbles, its kites, keys, and cracked bells, through its ritzy, Rittenhouse streets, heading for the riverfront alleys, Penn’s Landing past the statues tugged fallen, monumental malfeasance, skyscrapers lacking for glass; the heifer hoofing them through the following dark, a slide across the Delaware’s ice, enacting Washington’s crossing but now in reverse; through the hushed middle night of wharf and warehouse collapsed, of boats frozen to shelter slips and gullish middens—Ben tightening His thighs around the heifer’s flanks, holding fast with the fist of His loins.

How much longer until we’re there yet, again…but even after having reached the other shore, this heifer’s not too big into conversation—remind Him, not all of them are; no offense meant, if silently taken. Ben without blessing dismounts from its back, clumsily, insulted as much—which the heifer interprets as a sign now to switch. Upon its two hindlegs it hurls itself up on His own back, scarpimply, hairy itself, a huffy hump stooped. Ben gives a groan under its weight, it soon settles, tips, weaves lanes forsaken, grazed of their traffic, the heifer steadying itself with its hindquarters to hooves wrapped around waist, held by the bulge of His motherly hips. He walks on, trudges, a slipsy route down the untrafficked interstate shoulder—its pines and within them, the myriad, secret sandy paths linking graves: the trails and paths dug between Turnpike and Parkway, between Expressway and local—them highstepping over and around the thrown tires and trash, then, back to the blacktop, slowing up on the turns, yellowarrowed reflectors they dazzle the eye, the forehead’s headlight, holes of uprooted mile markers set for the occasional stumble, the sharp clovens of His burden digging a urinary sting into His kidneys, its hindquarters pried loose from their hold under the lungs at the ramps on and lost off He uses as turn signals, alerting with hair and hoof their presence to no one around. Though Ben’s carrying, the heifer still directs, navigates its own load, leads as always in its snouting of lefts, its horning out rights, though it seems not quite sure where they’re headed, exactly—suspicious, this transference of bestial blame, as if a sin offering to the subliminal…what He needs, what wants, where the feet feel to walk: how this is beginning to be familiar, intersections these interstices familial, then known. Route 70what. The Mall. Ellisburg, what’s it called, Ellisberg, King’s Highway. Names, and numbers, too, these codes born of area, the zip that doth zone; the network, its treelike ringings and reticulations of tar, the grid wide and open, the grin of the turns and the looparound smiles, even the smirk of oneways—all the sudden and happy logic of connectivity, of togetherness…a gathering, more communicative than most, not taken but granted. Now how it’s all that old comfort made cold, still loving if saddened, a family there for each other if lately forced empty, forlorn; feels as if there’s been a death in the immediate parenting, a hearthloss, a graving of home. You can take the boychick out of Joysey, but you can’t, forget it. Take Joysey out of, you know. Wishniak Hill it’s called, a city of no hills, only plain, the inexorable flat—and then, above that eponym of a hill that doesn’t exist, that fat, juicy Wishniak itself, a cherry beckoning, gleaming high and yet outwardly impotent, a stormy and fiery sun.

All that—with the unexpected on top.

Ben loses Himself to memory found, rediscovered…the trike on the lawn, the umbrellad heap of patio furniture, denuded rhododendrons amid an ashen pyre of cedar split fallen—hollycroft groves the sharp of their leaves scarring the wind, remember, too, the poisoning balm of their berries in season…it helps to forget mind more immediate, that and the kidneys and the spleenstrangled stomach, His raw arms and legs and the spine between that’s bent and begging there on its vertebral knees for realignment, a shvitz, perhaps, followed by a dip at the Development pool, Israel’s Sunday hour or so at the Rec Center and then the crack of the chiropractor who’d once bought down the block for his daughter: reverie, idyll, distracts, diverts, it’s all coming back to Him now—until a mensch emerges from a unit showhousey spacious, if a model dilapidated, or as yet unredone, then hobbles over to face Him, and His load, the hefted heifer.

My, how he’s aged.

No animals allowed, says the Gatekeeper, it’s policy, sorry, and he fingers thought at his newly grown beard, infested with nitpickings and lice.

We already have enough of our own.

He heaves the heifer up to His shoulders to better steady His stand, and the thing—it begins a graze at His hair as if mocking.

Not in front of strangers, you schmuck.

What about me?

What about you? is what the Gatekeeper asks, having quit scratching his pocks, taking from his mouth the cigarette, exhaling his last then snuffing it out with his fingers.

Nu, who—you have any ID?

Ben spits to the ground, just trying to fit in here; as for the heifer, it lows—which serves as a memory of the sirens.

Then you don’t belong here neither, he picks brunch or a grub from his moustache. Sorry, rules are rules. Now stop shtepping me. Tenks.

Tell you what, He says, I’ll give you my ride if you let me in: ten minutes, five, one, all I ask.

Hymn…scratching under shirt at his underarms, hot, picking with smoke-dark nails the hatching eggs of his louse, flicking them a scurry to the ice and the asphalt—you might seem familiar…

Listen, it’s red, I’m talking real red, and it milks like there’s no tomorrow—it’ll go for its weight in gold.

You know, if gold’s your thing. If you’re into it. A heifer.

I can see it’s a heifer, he’s squinting through a face of all hair…I’m dumb, but not blind, not just yet, poo poo poo. You got any papers for it? Rabbinic certification? Aha, that old handl.

None, but it’s legit, trust me, echt, it’s kosher, glatt, a hundred percent, not a blemish, it never gave birth…reaches back, pries loose one of its hooves not to turn a left or right but a profit, holds it out for inspection and the Gatekeeper scrapes the nail of a forefinger down the thing’s leg, attempting to do away with the dye, but his finger emerges clean, at least as clean as it was before he’d inspected.

Amen, but you didn’t hear it from me…and I’ve never seen you before—you’ve got a deal…and he goes to the hut, raises the guardrail. Geschwind, whoever you are, hurry up. Welcome to One Thousand Cedars!

Ben with a groan unloads the heifer onto the sidewalk, where it sits, good boychick on its haunches as if to schnorr for littered scraps. Then, with a nod of thanking Shalom to the Keeper, He heads inside, scamperingly, and impatient, as if expecting what—for His life once within…His house to be known only through its other, with Him unsuspecting its grave, its cinderstood basementholed lot. Regard the Island’s, then, as His winterhouse—an investment in memory perhaps not worth the properties of its taxes: the burden, the fear of breakin, or fire; the Hill’s vacational double, its unseasonal reflection, an image of an image, resurrected because relocated, transported, only moved. He’s making for the house He remembers exactly—how else, if at all—from its stand upon a spur of rock at the edge of the Garden, overlooking the ocean and waste. Here, though, had been its hearth; here, His home itself was at home.

Ben walks unburdened blocks familiar, block after blocks. Up from under the freeze the sidewalk comes to kiss at His feet, to smack His soles with lips that are cracks. Brokenbacks. Obeisance, the denial of one self in the service of another. How habit, and this despite its particularity—even if grand and luxury and maximally moneyed—always seems humble, modest, and small as too known. This is because we can adapt, we must, get used to anything, get used. But still, we’re aware of this capacity, always, of our ability to change—and so the lure of origins, the tempt of what we have been. How being here, and especially alone, it’s like living again, for the first. Though it’s not so much that He’d loved it here (how could He have, how long had He been here), or that He’d lived for so long, not long enough, in its displaced dwelling, under its exiled roof; it’s not that He was born here either that makes this all, wasted, destroyed, so true, and so intimate, and this despite the lack of stroller or sisters’ share: what makes this Siburbia so comforting, so comfortable, isn’t the lapse of time, no, neither is it the impression of time lost upon the impressionable, the able and willing, the wistful or sentimental nostalgic, think again—it’s that Siburbia itself had been built familiar, that One Thousand Cedars was built to be familiar from the very beginning, welcoming, Shalom and stay a while, take off your shoes, take a seat then holy us with conversation over coffee or tea; how it’d been intended to be indistinguishable, immediately, from any other annex, extension, or subdivision of this Development we know of as earth, as America—the freest if most dangerous and perhaps damning of possible worlds: only the fundamentally uninteresting, the absolutely anti interesting, could be so familiar as to transcend its particular existence, its particular name, its geography, and specific time. In essence, without essence, nonexistent, no life: and how it’s this very nonexistence that allows us to encounter it as we want to encounter it, however—to make its meaning whatever we want, tophet or home, whether nowhere or the only.

Though who could tell from the ground, One Thousand Cedars had been laidout as a circle, as a concentric Abandon all hope centered around what had been the plot of the roomiest, the most spacious, house, the Israelien’s. From the eyes of birds, nested as if a target—the eye of a urus, an auroch, a sacrificial bull. Directly past the Gatekeeper’s, inside its perimeter fence, there are the poorest houses, or were: stubby ranchers set way the far back on these small stubbly lots, vinylsiding wrecks their roofs wanting for shingles, held up by the very fences they’re backed onto, wire strangling wood to splinter. And then a circular road, which separates one ring from its inset better: in this next, there’s a round of larger houses, twostories, the bedrooms up top, waking life down below, lawns respectable if still mowed by their owners. Development Maintenance had always been reserved for the homes of the three inner rings, that’s what help the prices here bought you: another road, then the rich threestory houses, colonials of ruddy brick and sparkling fieldstone; another road then the fourstory houses of better brick, never to spall, hand-made in shades mottled and faded, duskily suggestive of the old, of the made old and by hand, the venerable and the lasting; such houses a defiance of impermanence, an entitled dare to fire, privileged in their security when all’s wellinsured. And then, the largest and widest swath of fivestory houses: an inner, defensive wall of them almost, overprotective as they’re set on immense lawns lined with shrubbery of an immaculate levelheadedness, trim and fit and ready: houses with multiple drives, endless entrance porticos decked with flags in recent favor (change the regime, they’ll change the decoration), imperial façades clean and neatly marbled, their white the purest blank. Inground pools emptied or frozen, cement graves marked by the tombs of cabañas, a tiki memorial to gardenpartied wakes. And then another road, a curb, a sidewalk, an even, domepitched circular lawn—and here, set atop it, the Development’s jewel, purported to be its grandest, and most luxurious, the Israelien home. Or where it once had been, where it would have been still, if not for the Garden—where it’s since been converted into an imposing museum of Him, the Metropolitan Israelien, of late less and less visited, it’s unfortunate. Initially, it’s open only one day a week, for an hour…

He takes the arcing turn from sidewalk to sidewalk—how tiny it is, how have I grown, a miniature life…existence matured within the shadow of the demeaning, the diminutive, Benya, my little boychick, meine Zaimele, be careful, keep safe: despite no traffic He’s still pausing at each intersection to look both ways left, right, then left again. Ima would be proud, Aba, too, would’ve been. A hexagonal sign says to Him, Stop…hazardously topped with the putrefying nest of an absent stork. To keep feet within the bars of the crosswalk, imprisoned—Wanda would approve, would have, or just wouldn’t have cared, offered a cookie nonetheless, a finger of her milk. A left, a right, the knowledge in His feet, though His head’s free to look not only both ways, but further—He recognizes no one, they all look the same. Neighboring strangers, sojourners. Nextdoor in hiding. Not emptied of people, no, only emptied of life: people occupied, finally, with something other than themselves, with something maybe, shockingly, disappointingly, less. And then these new grates for the sewer, too, now stamped U.S. of Affiliated. An Underground sunken, the descent of dissent, an emptiness deeper, the septic tanks of the soul and those rank pulsing pipes…and then—Apple, the sign still says Apple, His old street…it’s His, the cornerless circle of Apple an immense looparound, islanding traffic toward the drive of the Koenigsburg’s, in whose windows the curtains are drawn; candles in the others windows, though, in all the windows of all the neighboring houses, He notices, homes, burning behind the shades. Except His.

What once was the immaculate, gently even, geodesic rise of the lawn’s been let wild, overgrown, once suffused with that shade kept only by the richest of lawns and the newest of money now an impoverishedly sad landscape of grass grown out in every grayed shade of the spectrum not green: faded yellows and brown and black and ashdead, whitefrozen. Iciclespikes from the snirt. Mushrooms, umbrella mounds of sandbox sand overturned from holes made by hail. A swingset strangulated. The graves of sisters’ goldfish that hadn’t gone down the toilet so swimmingly. Livestock graze amid the patio. Uprooted foundations, cinderblock scatter, leaning beams, the dull crash of wet wood on wood. Gone to ruin, is going—this rise adorned, too, with the turds of goats on the loose, mating amid stalks of antediluvian weed; chickens peck among the remains of the flowerbeds, the skeleton of the herbgarden; roosters crow noon from the satellitedish, more and more storks nest atop the lightless lamps, the leaning poles…

At His feet is a hole that had held His house. And at its bottom, a glimmer. The Garden’s goys have only disappointed any subsequent looters (the curious, the bargainhunters, and a profusion of new neighbors, their quote unquote relatives moved in from out of nowhere with the approval of no board or committee, even without that of the Keeper himself, also a raider though only of bribes being offered, a hoarder of any finds that find him), having proven themselves thorough, professionally so, greedy and handrubbing, grubbingly giddy: they’d taken everything…or so they’d thought, or so they’d reported so as not to be officially remiss; everything, that is, except this—such glint missed, forgotten, overlooked, don’t look down, who knew, who would still. Maybe they’d respected it, rated it touchingly, it whatsoever it be (Ben leaning over the mouth of the pit as if a word spoken into its echo, the incomprehensible shriek of Israel’s least favorite son, an unmentioned, unmentionable, lastbanished brother of Joseph—on His knees digging, and flinging then falling and hitting the rock of the bottom, the hole’s pithiest black), maybe they’d wanted to leave behind at least one relic wherever it lied, and there unexplained, for posterity inexplicable, the edification of any future paternally stable, maternally exacting, precise: one thing, one object, one item not in their inventory (in the house remade on the Island, and there displayed ever since their return from the traveling tour: the family’s bible, Hanna’s addressbook, her diary, and loose refrigerator lists, a legal index of Israel’s, a tome of building codes, a volume revealing of the intricate mysterium of corporate finance, it’s said—on show in these cases lining the hallways, their glass regrettably fogged, of late seldom cleaned), page 1: one find lost from their catalog cum reliquary…panel 2: missing from their immaculately kept litany of incanbula…plate 3: unaccounted for amid the bulletpoints and crossoffs of their ledger illuminated by nightlight…the glowering glowworm of the hallway upstairs-upstairs—that is, if they have a record, if records anyone keeps anymore. If a miracle, then one He has to work for, uncovering with hands dirtied to warm. It’s a piece of silverware last seen missing from an heirloom set, a spoon for Him to suck on, reduced, immaturely as not table but tea, to rattle at His teeth in defiance; still, its handle the long and strong arm of any parent, its bowl largely wide enough to hold the burn of every sun: twisted to tarnish, anno don’t ask, it’s an antique, smuggled over from God knows where when any oppression would’ve threatened to melt it down to a bullet, which would be used to murder those who once used to spoon with it supper, with a shot in the mouth from a gun of an allied metal—their bodies to tumble down into a pit such as this, where Ben’s found.

Holding it in His hand overhead, up to the sky to glean the light that’s gleaming at noon, He’s awed, struck…He’s stuck. Trapped. Unable to get Himself out. To be held for slavery, for exile to a land named Joysey—and with of all things only a spoon, impossible to dig Himself up but He’s thinking, at least. A son stuck at the bottom of a basement, left by His brethren dead in this hole in the earth that once held His home, if unfinished—without dream or its angels, their ladders, which Israel used to keep in the garage, stacked next to the shovels, the screens.

V

Into the waning of summer, verging on fall. Once the time of deepening leaves, burning piles, needles smoking, a fiery pining away for life without season…an even heavier jacket sprung from the frontcloset, gorgeous autumn to be raked from tablecloth lawns, netted from inground pools leaf by sogheavy, ribweary leaf no more; it’s still snowing, tucking in the ruins of the past, whitely tired. This is Av, still and stilled, the fifth month, or the second to last, depending on conversion, on who you still can believe: this the month of mourning, of introspection and abstinence, of reflection in the ice underfoot—this the moon hosting the anniversary of the Temple’s destruction, the Temple risen again, its heir rebuilt in the city just distant: the anniversary of that destruction being the ninth of the month, the day it’d been destroyed by the Romans, and Jerusalem—left to waste.

This, the appointed day of His ingathering.

Here is His return, a Prodigal Son situation if any we’ve known; how He’d hoped to unlock the city with the key He’d been presented, but the Garden had moons ago grudgingly returned that token to the hands of the Mayor, in one account; in another, how it’d been confiscated, taken away as if from a misbehaving bocher. No matter, it’s not as if He’ll ever find its gate: there’s no secret, no golden door to unlock, slam down without a warrant and torch—only tar, which is impenetrable, unreflective, then the ice above. Despite, He’s having thoughts of a welcome in the grand style, of New York, New York going out of its way for one of its own, though adopted, basketed through bridge and through tunnel, though not yet made good: still, thinking a parade, with every pomp, floats perhaps and tickertape, thousands no millions of them His friends and neighbors how they’re shpritzing themselves all over Him, throwing silken, soweared flowers from the windows, rooftops and terraces, from the highest skyscraping observation decks down to the lowest tenementing fireescapes—Him in a convertible, if any of them they still have, or denting a hardtop, maybe, why not, He’s waving, tophatted, sashwearing, He’s smiling, too, and unforced, with Miss Maydel Whomever beauty queen of the borough of Queens lapping it up from her perch on His lap, there’s Mayor Meir Meyer Himself—Hizzoner, He Who Takeths Away—at the wheel, honking sirens with the songs and shiring along Himself, they all are: offkey brassband music, oompah tubas and tailgate trombones, accompanying the glissy, lispgiddy shrieks of lost happy go lucky went under kinder with their melted popsicles their sticks splintered tongues, everything sticky and shvitzy, schwarmy because now (wishful thinking—with the head of a putz and a stomach in love) it’s summer again, O God it’s an echt real school’s out American summer, but how camp whether day or sleepover hasn’t yet begun amid the mountains Upstate: cityscaped humid bunking with hot, the sun’s out and shining for you…the swirling skirts of the batongirls, baseballbattwirling them flaunting their bloomers kick step kick step along with their ever younger sisters the cheerleaders their skin as pink as that of hotdogs for sale and for kosher, their pompom cotton-candy breasts and their faces seeded with gappy, sappy watermelon grins, the syncopating, offbeat, onbeat, beatenhard lust of the cymbals and drums, Baraabum…becoming forgiven by a choir of angels marching last in His the Grand Marshal’s line, accompanied by a phalanx of miniature harpists, their sheet music fluttering from folders chained to their uniformed halos above; banners, confetti, and streamers, poofs of foam and crepe and bunting shred, and the tricolor, the old flag risen again, all the appurtenances of old glory, of past success and, too, of all the blustery might in the world ever behind it, the power that once preserved every freedom, if only in its assurance (how the parade will end, the floats will become scrap, and then kindling): these tanks in rows and troops, formations of them Avenuewide, in whose treads follow these great foreskinned guns shooting off salutes all around; the eruption of mother’s milk, honeytrailed fireworks foaming, spurt up from the hydrants of Houston Street…then, Him up on high, City Hall’s, atop the Empire State Building’s reviewing platform and there in rainbow ribboned uniform, waving the most demeaning, crapulously beatific acknowledgment to so many little dark subjects of His darkest and littlest whim. Not this month, though. Here He sits amid straw in the back of a cart, jostled and jiggled and pitched this way then that. No more, enough B—this is the month to get real.

New York, New York again, as it’s said: an invocation…as if a blessing, a benediction, for luck it’s always said twice: once shining in the marquee of the mind, the second instance and final invoked over the grave. Nu York, He says to the driver, nu, York! Manchattan! once the hometeam town, I’m sure you’ve received the postcards and sent them, hymn, bought the snoglobes and tshirts and magnets and pins—the land of the rottenmost apples, fallen hard from every tree in the world, as the earth tilts away from a season of the sun and all of them roll their oddest wormed ways down to us…the land of the locusteaters, drinking the blood of their neighbors for overpriced brunch, fighting ground of the bears and the bulls, the stage for a waiter acting out The best cheesecake in town…for B, though, it’s been this walking endless walking, hitching walking and hitching again, caravanrigged, this trading up from camelbacked britzkas to landaus, then from pitiable droshkys to piteous drays, a stretch of troika and telga and tarantas, once handsome hansoms, too, and even a saintly because free, nocharge fiacre up from the wilds of Wishniak Hill—and then before that, God and His fiery chariot, think of the time, of the change: there’d been the nation, Him trudging His wander through acres of nowhere, walking jochs and jucharts, these versts of waste, morgens and milyas, halfhorse towns the rear half mostly; stubborn and bucking, now brokenwilled—who knew the United States of Affiliation, if that’s the name nowadays, even stretched out that far, into such contiguous sameness, too long?

Why here? Why, nowhere else. B hitching a hayride at the mouth of the tunnel, He’s offered to pay the toll plus an epes extra for hay—a cart laden with a couple of subsubcontinental emmigrunts, with their dreams hitchedup, hauling in the persons of their innumerable kinder whom they hope to sell as housegoyim or indenture as glaziers’ apprentices, their worldly possessions piled atop and around Him hidden hush under the straw past the cops with their customs and emergency checks: in traffic, stalled amid the whinnying honk of horses, the bleating of goats—they’re stopped in the tunnel’s middle for prayers, extolling ashrey yoshvey—the two of them husband and wife, or husband and sister, or brother and mother, spitting away in indeterminate what language that is, Him thinking He’s always hearing His name, wipes it from His face with a palm. Shalom, good luck, by which they mean mazel, mincha finishesup, they roll forward to drop Him Downtown, wish Him away with much phlegm. Though the streets are empty for the holiday, such is the familiar severe—a formation of metalworked winter; Liberty’s dimmed, His Island’s lost shrouded in weather.

What a day to arrive, B’s thinking, up from Joysey on a life like this: the wind, then the fast, its prayers pouring out a hush from the gusts, Him privated with what, to go without money, without purpose save go, apologize to the gutters and grates. It’s the people, though, they’re the unaskable, the unanswering why—the Other, these others, and nu, fill us in…how can you stay in Joysey living the life of the mind? As the Greeks once said, don’t know if you know: show us a mensch without a city, and we’ll show you what’s either a beast or a God—that’s if the secular isn’t already banned, or otherwise censured. In the name of the Ramjohn, is what Johannine’s calling himself lately, we’re asked the following, what we’ll be asking ourselves for generations to come—what does He have to return to, He doesn’t know anywhere else? How dumb is this? How dumb is this. Hymn. He should have stayed quiet in Joysey and small.

At the Stateline, in the midst of the Holland, verily, the waters are divided—and then, there’s a sign at the exit, a billboard that blinks:

- 12° F

- BLIN -                                                                - KING -

COLD ENOUGH FOR YOU?

Landscaped from one of the two mouths of the tunnel, for the many tunnels of this mutated city are monstrous throats that never digest or ever waste what they swallow, without intestine or stomached gargle, how they merely gorge then regurgitate and then gorge themselves again down to the bottom of Broadway—willows groved tightly, their trunks lashed together to prevent them from being uprooted by the tunneling wind, their boughs hung with among many other objects, or forsakings, the harps of the Philharmonic disbanded since last season’s interruption, and then with their strings, all their sections: their violins first and seconds, violas and violoncellos, the occasional weeping, droopy bass, their strings wilting in memory, going loose and de-tuned in the howl coming up from the bay—trees hung not just with bis-biglissandoing harps and with fiddles gutted and bows but with memories, too, and forgettings, pleas and supplications, signs and notes slipped and tied dire: help me find my father, one says, have you seen my partner? another, this posted alongside a photo faced grainy from its constant reproduction, a losingly lined courtroomsketch, if so contact Sassoon & Silver LLP., cash reward for information leading to his recovery, all (succor) wanted, needed, & offered…tins of spam dangling from giftribbons, plastic liters of generic soda, empty jars of mayo weeping ornamentally wrapped from these trees, trays of decorative cupcakes and cookies, novelty balloons; these groves nymphabandoned, lining Canal Street west to the Bowery with equity neckties, daytrader suits on hangers commoditized in plastic fresh from the drycleaners, highheels, dressy pearls’ strands—this the highest rate of return, a reversion to our natural state, a great comfort unconfined: this season, menschs let out their bellies; womenfolk smear their makeup onto the faces of streets, pink and streaks of red like rainbows trailed by snails, then pray for an innerly inclement weather, asking the cloudfall to cool their lusts, to purify their souls; their kinder pitch pennies worthless into the sewer green and gold; dogs once theirs now stray dash lame from snow to snow…skyscrapers once new, abandoned to scaffolds; earthmoving giants idle, dumpster hulks sanctifying as symbols of an emptiness within: ambition unfinished, thrusts unfulfilled; lorded over by an inutile silence and the holy stillness of cranes.

At Union Square, which is called such still, despite—as the most niggling, let’s say perspisacious, of our sages note—its hosting no more unions now broken, busted, and, too, that it’s not, strictly speaking, a square, though in another sense a calling appropriate, and even accurate, a bissel, if only because misrepresentation is what’s expected, what this promised city does best and has always since first it was found, lies to us, misdirects then destroys…B goes and asks a mensch on a bench if he knows the way to the, hymn—Zimmerman’s…if only to say something, anything, just to feel alive and with it, but the mensch turns to Him and answers with some dyspeptic word, not understood, then spits a lip’s worth of angst on His shoes. At Madison despite, He works up the nerve to stop another mensch, this one older, a pensioner and so He thinks more respectful or honest, asks him what he thinks of Mister Israelien, and also, if you don’t mind, as long as I’m keeping you, is his opinion, you know, regarded as popular, but the mensch he just shrugs, keeps his sunglasses down, taps his cane due west. Then up and eastward at the Library, there He says an exploratory, nervous Shalom to a woman who she only blushes, bites her lips—the mouth mortified—the rest of her ignores if flushing still, then skits down the block, turns the corner and bursts into crying…denied, again that feeling that He doesn’t deserve it, not as much this being alive as being alive in a city, in this city with such life, with such change, and how B, He doesn’t belong, feels what’s worse than abused, debased, it’s turned within—unworthy. My people had been right to exurb themselves early—we deserved Joysey, I should never have left.

How it takes so much—headenergy, foot’s thought—to get used to it again, never, the land lying down for no one, less and less: all the customs, the rituals and traditions, B, what’s hot, who’s not and the indifference of the undifferentiated lumpenmass, thinking God you leave for one day, just one night, then you come back, bridge & tunnel yourself in, the Holland’s swallow, the Lincoln as if an escape back into bondage—and how everything’s different…new people, new rules. Lately, the whole city’s been rented out: now everything’s owned, every block, each slab of sidewalk, asphalt’s each twinkly grain. He’s walked through the particulars; explained to, talked down to, they give Him the business: you, I’m talking to you—shopkeeps, menschs leaning their drafty beards out the windows—you can’t walk there, that’s leased, don’t make a kasha, a drygoods, a delicatessen, what right do you have, what are you not understanding? Their language, for one, a mix from the guttery guttural, slumming, the slang slung of an easterly gust; which becomes slowly translated, though (it’s not too difficult, already halfknown, it feels, if not just felt and faked), then translated again—He’d rather not put forth the effort. Takes time, this targum. Have the pity of patience, wait for it, geduld. Another mensch sticks his head outside a storefront below a sign that says, He’s trying, He’s sounding it out: Peter Portnoy & Sons—Purveyor of New Antiquities—begins sweeping his walk with copious hairs, with sidelocks gingy, dingedusty, he’s swallowing his whistle to yell at Him to get the futz off my property, private, No Trespassing, Keep Out, what do you think, this is your house?

Apparently, the whole town had been sold off, if not sold outright from under then at least from above it’s been rented, leased then sublet: this untrafficked stretch of Mitteltown pavement bought by a mensch off a mensch who rented from yet another who lived large across the river, Not So Short Island it’s going by now’s the line for a laugh; how some mensch owned the sidewalk (actually him the cement only, though, his halfbrother’d bought the rights to the concrete), another owned the street, yet another the avenue intersecting and yadda blah north by south, and so you have to know always where you walk on whose you’re walking, how much more it’ll run you and fast: alleys held by a business, owned by this dummy corporation don’t ask, we’re talking fake addresses, doors without handles or hinges, empty windows (the mullions, however, they’re still on the market, any interest, you know who to call, be in touch), it’s all strictly needtoknow, none of your business, bubkiss my tuchus lecker, who the hock mir are you, wanting, on the outs, skidded, stop right there, no room at the inn.

After being evicted from standing His loiter upon every corner in Mitteltown, B makes its upper limits, Times Square and keeps moving: keeping it in mind, that the more you keep moving the faster, the less chance they have to charge you for putting your feet up and staying a while. Billed by the hour, the square a roundless clock, He’s got nothing left by now, not much. After the tunnel’s toll and the tax on the toll, then the tax’s tax assessed to’ve been no more than a bribe, He’s broke, busted, inclusive of slavery severance: without money whether in bills or coins, He’ll take either even if His face is fading from them; they’re being phased out, converted into a currency newer, the metals and paper as fragile as yesterday, as precious, too, though the gems still as hard as tomorrow. Speculation, in every denomination. Foreign forage. Hofn oyf, forget it, meaning hope.

He heads for a pawnshop He finds advertised on a wall, peeling in promise from exposed brick blackened with smoke—ripped like a disreputable, deathinscribed name from the yellowpaged book sealed within the booth of a payphone…but it’s closed, we’ll be back at and locked and so B with klutzy fingers rings at the bell, wakes the onelunged, tiny like an insect beadle and when the sun’s still cresting high, waits for him to fall downstairs two flights, a spindle with a twinge of gray hair hung in green pajamas. Knock knock. Who’s there, who’s there? A wink that it’s worth your time—enough urgent assurance to justify suspicion, expectation lowered so much by now that it might on its own trip the alarm. Rachmones, you have to have pity, the pawnbroker’s saying as he opens, undoing the intricate locks of his door and shutters and grate, this I’m always telling my wife—keys and patience, patience, the life of the deadbolt, bound to who knows how many chains. B comes in quickly His hands in His pockets as if armed for a robbery—a lining giving shine, only a glint, an equatorial edging: His silverspoon—He’ll hock it, to afford an aliyah in any direction.

You’re disturbing me on a holiday, what’s so important, what’s the emergency, a fire, pogrom, has the Messiah arrived?

B holds out His hand.

O, the pawnbroker’s saying as if he’s surprised—though it’s only resignation hidden, this ritual yet another act, a tallis cloak or spare tefillin cover (whatever kind you’re interested in, he’ll oblige with wait). As he has all day, he’ll see what he can do, and by the looks of Him—Him, too. Having been retired to readiness ever since B’s very entrance, the customary ring, his own sleepy slowness merely a shtick, allowing whosoever here to pawn the pretense of advantage, and so now just offering the most requisite of prayers: shoptalk, this Kaddishing of weights & measures, the formulaic preparation of an Amen’s delay—all to enable him a sizing up, as if for B’s coffin, a suitable shroud; him ensconced behind his cage, already putting on his visor and adjusting, always, the scales of his enterprise both the honest and those used to weigh by his daughters and the wife—what he wants, the mark in his palms of the object not yet his a suppurant stigma: what he could get, he’s calculating, conniving, there is no can’t, and those thoughts and others like them not motivational, but true and believing, felt so long he’s convinced, convicted upon his own recognizance of B’s desperation, which he’ll share for half; all such thoughts, hopes, prayers, and dreams accompanied by the various commercial ablutions: such as, the sacred wicking of the moustachebeard, the ritual liplick, the calming of the throat into a fist that’s tightly held…hymn, he’s beginning so soon with the setup, the Blessed Art bumble—so it’s a spoon you want to sell me, nu? Business. That’s something else altogether. Everything. Come in, come closer, that’s it?

A spoon, He says, silver, and an heirloom, worth more to me than to you: hard times have forced…

Forced me, too…says the mensch, he’s heard it all, listened to little, to none—now examining the pawn under a glass, a loupe unlidded and wedged over an eye within the rim of a wrinkle. It’s a spoon, he’s saying, that I can tell for myself, silver, not much. Hymn. A bit tarnished, isn’t it?

As if to noncommit, intereshting.

How? He wants to know, what do you mean…B wanting His money but more His calm, doesn’t want to impress Himself on anyone’s memory—anonymous charity, isn’t that what they say, that it’s the highest form of help…

Nicht, I mean nothing, a bit touchy, aren’t you, neurotic, the shpilkes, and this on a yomtov, it’s unfortunate. You seem good people, though—have you ever been told such things…what am I talking, bet you get that all the time: presentable as you are (but suck it up, will you, tuck that in), and sensitive, too, compassionate’s what they used to say, and with character, such a nice boy that face, such hands, without parents, am I right, a tragedy, always too young, always too soon…an orphan, it must be difficult, and for that you have my condolences, my very best, you’re assured—but forgive me, your spoon, a triflele lefele…so it’s kosher, as an antique it’s echt, not by much. As a keepsake, I’d say it’s worth something. Tell me, how much?

A hundred…He’s thinking as an initial offering high enough, which means there’s still ample low to spare for his greed, the pawnbroker’s—the long, thin fingers refusing to knuckle under, stirringup the cracked teacup mouth, the eyes above unsalted butterpads over the unleavened skin—this alterhocker whose fix seems to be in…an even hundred, thinking that’s fair, as if assuring Himself He does and He doesn’t, B saying it twice, once for each zero on the count of His breath, which is horrible, hungry.

As if to say to the mensch—here’s my pride, bubeleh, now bargain me down what you will.

Ach, the pawnbroker moans, why, it’s a sin…don’t sell yourself short, and he slams his head on the bars of his cage, clatters between them the visor. Tell you what, he counters, I’ll give you three hundred and, hymn, a daughter of mine in marriage (you know how many I have—nu, I don’t either), you have maybe plans for tonight, my wife’s making break the fast, such a cook as you wouldn’t believe!

What’s this all about, B thinks with His face almost too knowingly…and then how the mensch suspects that this, too, might be a tactic, just another ruse, one of many—then why not, with eyes lit as if for effect and His mind going fiery…He’s a quick study, innocent but willing, preternaturally thorough, immediately expert, at ease. I don’t deal with thieves, He says to begin again, then commences with His walking away, the requisite display of disinterest. It’s so unexpected and yet so perfect, so right…wherefrom this instinctual guile, such inheritance heretofore subconscious, underknown, His respect for the deal, the old hand and its shake in its gloriously fallible humanity, its mouth sensuous and sad and yet humorous, too, below the pointiest and so most accusative of noses now put to the grind—and so with that dealhand, the stealhand, on the knob of the door and turning, He turns to the mensch to ask of him fifty, adding…more than fair—I’ll even sweep up around here, and throw in a shoeshine…or two.

I’ve underestimated, the pawnbroker says in a voice that says underneath in a muttering undertone (but that nothing’s ever tragic, or final), must be dealing with a real professional here…listen, tateleh, jokes I don’t pay for. Hahaha, a laugh won’t pay for the coffin, or my utilitybills. You have so much promise, don’t settle for less, I won’t stand for it, you hear me…let’s say five hundred, and meals for the week, a daughter of mine and a house out in Joysey (though only once you’re married—with kinder), three floors—tell you what, and another daughter, too, just to sweeten the pot: you have maybe a brother, an eligible cousin?

Ridiculous…B’s almost through the door, it’s insulting: eighteen’s my final offer, chai and chaver—I won’t go any lower, I can’t and you won’t…I’ll pay you eighteen, do the mopping, the sweeping, a shoeshine, I’ll even take in your laundry for a month and sit with your animals when you go and visit your mother. Water your plants, keep up the house, that sort of thing.

Nothing doing, the pawnbroker interrupts, points a filthy forefingernail up to the ceiling that would, that should, begin storming with God as his witness…understand me, I’m a generous mensch, and this is as far as I’m willing to go—you’ll take it or leave it, no hard feelings…I would’ve loved to have done business, but time is money and yet both are short patience’s even shorter, I’m sure: one thousand I’ll pay you, my daughter in marriage, and I mean my second daughter, the prettiest that one oy the head on her and the light of her face; meals for the month, a fivefloor house in Joysey once you’re married with kinder (he’s unshakable on this point, though he’s ready to shake on it now), and my first daughter for any relation that might be available, even a friend on your own recommendation, an acquaintance, maybe, even a goy you’ve heard word of who’s sober and solvent—twothirds of my estate after my death, and the blessing that I shouldn’t outlive you, Baruch ata spit spit poo.

You have yourself a deal…He swindles over to the broker, shakes his hands almost shattering the mensch’s wrists through the bars of the cage. He gives a geshray, B loosens His grip, the mensch steps back from his counter, shakes out his hands, then gathers the spoon finally slid through the slot…think how trusting, how very exposed: this mensch with a family, with daughters, and his security so wonderfully, though perhaps foolishly, lax: a human cage with its ribbing bars, him the fragile heart inside beating enormously—how there’s no partition or otherwise divide to get skeptical about, to kibbosh, to quash any deal, no plastic or glass separating transactions: bulletproofed, everythingproofed, impervious, and what’s worse tackily scratched. Without this fussy worry about it—distancing, hard of hearing, strange to speak, glad there’s not—you could really talk to this mensch, you know, get to know him, is he hiring, too…leaving the spoon to the side of his counter, him unrolling notes excavated from a breast of his pajamas, then handing them over, which B refuses to count.

My second daughter’s named Rachel, the mensch says patting the emptied pocket, used to be Kristi; we eat at dusk; I’ll amend my will over strudel.

Nodding a promise to return, B leaves with that wad of money swelling under His robe: dirtyfingered, ripped then taped or glued back together again shekels bearing denominations of an image that’s been graven too known…Him gravely aware by now, also, as the deal here’s finally downed, that He’s been shylocked, slumlordedover—that this money, it’ll be worthless forthwith (inflated to paper, mere fibrous idea, leaking ink in every shade, to become as absorbent as any still and white cloud), with fresh gelt minting its way in any initiative: new notes bearing new guarantees, circulating their own brand of surety, yet another promise never to be broken inscribed within the signature of the Administration’s divinate X; their cash to feature a host of wizened and sagged, beardcraggy faces familiar only to future (what remonetized rabbi, I mean rebbe, what cantor—I’m sorry, chazzan), honoring what miracle or mazel, tendered to our spent every prayer; don’t you want your ticket? the pawnbroker whispers after Him, to the door slamming loudly shut in His haste, the coinlike tinkle of chimes.

No matter, what could be left in his will, the mensch’s? As there’s almost nothing left in his shop, which establishment is itself in hock, though to whom he forgets: indebted in its every drawer and window display; nothing—not even the books, though they once were his, too, presently being held by the super for study—save his own tallis, half a set of tefillin, the head (his cousin has custody of the phylactery’s arm), and the spoon just hocked that the broker buries deep in his mouth, which he maybe owns, not its words.

With this windfall though mind the scatter, B makes it to a hotel, so a motel to save money, face, economize humiliation and cut back however ennobling—Hanna’s dieting, Israel’s distinguished reserve; having had enough of this, having been toldoff and His place while they’re at it. It’s westside from Times Square and rivered further, Hell’s kitchen with its bedroom unkempt, its bathrooms shared filthy, maintained to ruinous stain far along the highway opposite Joysey. A falling to flophouse B’ll bury Himself in on this night of our mourning: splitleveled over a parkinglot, the accommodation itself accommodated triapsidal three wings off the central office roomed with a view, if only potential; an ashpit alleyed below off the trash access of the city’s lone surviving peepshow slash sexual raree agora, lately combined with a clinic for hypodermic needles, dropin; ostraca of glass islanded amid oases of frozen urine, bags tenting over the rise of discarded syringes, surrounded by the scurried smeared droppings of dogs…He could’ve gazed clear across the Hudson then far past the low Palisades, if only He’d incline His head through the window that doesn’t open, that’s not there at all and so is only the wall’s plaster wet and then, hurt, wounded, stare, by then toward the stars, invisible by the lights of blocks east then those of the Turnpike’s transept, too, the skyway sprawls of condemned cogeneration plants, remember, those dusky stretches of storage and transit that lie just over the river, toxically gray. This motel the sort of hourly rated nowhere forsaken everywhere you don’t want to be and yet usually are, anywhere outside of Joysey, that is—the true wilting Garden; its units replete with inroom, onechannel televisions that operate on dimes no one uses anymore, and with whirlpools that are actually bathtubs in the hall that can always be churned up or unclogged with a plunger provided at cost, advertised upon the 10th Avenue marquee in promises smirking gaptoothed: in r (oom) (mov) i (es) and w (h) i (r) l (poo) l…in room numbered numinous, you’re going to want to go up ten flights, no elevator tonight, then hang a right down the hall, says the mensch at the bookshelf crashed into a frontdesk: he’s pale, inkyhaired, wrapped in a forelock and perpetually shuckling, he’s davening day and night it’s mincha then ma’ariv, always keep going keep going—there, in the drawer of the nightstand, in the volume and beyond the Law, amid the pages, the words, of the Psalm: by the rivers of Babylon there we sat down to weep

let my right hand forget her cunning if I do not remember thee let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth…superfluminating pages turning pages of pages into His room’s very walls—wallpaper peeling all its words ever echoed, shrieked in pain and pleasures; shedding scribble, graffitiskin wrinkled with inscrutable signs, phonenumbers, profanity: for a good time call home, can you remember the last time you talked to your mother…the paper a shade of parchment, smokeyellowed, drinkpickled, an animal slit, split, then bared to the wall facing out, opposite the cindering brick: this room, B thinks, had once been but when possibly seven, eight, nine, ten times its present size singleoccupancy, and then the walls, their paperings, slowly glopped with spit, gooped one upon the other, atop, forming ever thicker and so the room reduced, raggedly smaller—with more neglect, with more paper upon paper upon paper upon paper, loose mouths gnashing gummily, the bed would be consumed and Him, too. B lies on the bed just a mattress bare on the floor. Overhead fan swings slow, rickety. A nightstand too high for the mattress, its lone drawer hosting amid mousemade minims a tattered, dogeared copy of what was once called the Bible. Testamentary, old, new, borrowed, blue. As far as books go, pretty good. What else, what more do you want: the only other presence in the room an understuffed recliner, infested with rinds, shells, and peels loosed from a decade or so of anonymous pockets, under its baldingly tonsured cushion a vault of oxidized pennies, as if skullcaps for the loose and lost. Stale air. And no toilets here either, or ice, or laundry, or—those are either down the hall, or down a flight of stairs, He forgets, keys to them kept by the mensch in the office, each worth a tithe. And the telephone, too, either/or. Everything stained.

Here’s His holiday to repent of—this room the cheap reification of B’s atonement: for not mourning the day, for not observing, for not being able to observe without window, the ninth of Av’s moon; for always being out of time, always timeless, whether too early or late, born already delayed, arrived unprepared, checked in offhours and without the inheritance by which to identify, without tradition’s baggaged burden and so, with nothing to prove—ignorant as He is, unsure as to what they held by, as to what He still should be holding, clutching, what’s clung to, the Israelien family’s rites. He doesn’t know from their breaking the fast (as it’s been said: she who passes, is herself passed; she who serves first, is served last), Hanna’s loaves raisinrisen, she baked, in death she might finally bake, the glaze of honey, the shards of apple soon to dip, shechyanu—gesundheit the minhag, and then when her eyes are on her husband your father, how you go to wipe your nose with the linen…doesn’t know from the set table, the cloth Hanna’d save from the spills of the mundane, would launder in moon—sisters, His, as if stars to lineup syzygy against the white wall of the hall, their faces washed to beam in pure light, setting the candles to shine, Israel standing proud, seated justified, Hanna honored in their midst…O His family lost—and so, to seek a reunion tonight. Upon the New Year, may He be forgiven—though if He can’t be by Himself, who really can?

B lifts the telephone from its hook in the hallway used to hold the drip of transient coats, cords it out from under its muting slickers and muffling jackets down the hall to the shelter of His doorway where at least the ceiling’s not snowing, not yet, dials His homenumber, Israel’s worknumbers, Wanda’s extension, PopPop’s, anything scrawled on habit by memory’s hand. No answer. For a worse time call disconnected, He thinks, disdisdisconnected. Ring ring hiccough ring. It’s a holiday, what’s He thinking, whether busy or changed—then, dialing the Koenigsburg’s ten tries later after its tenth ring, gets a goy on the line with every line in the world, who he knows from favor and favors, backscratching with the palms greased in balm, spikenard, and cooling coinage, the purifications required for a leap of faith such as this; from the heights of depression, how far the fall underground, the Resistance, it’s been called, the Unterwelt; he’s promised his fee, the goy tells Him to hang up and wait. The phone spurts a ring in a moment, and it’s one Laser Wolf, or that’s how he’s been characterized (maybe he’s real, maybe he’s ten of them, a whole minyan of real), Shalom how’s been by you and where, he asks, then agrees to handle particulars: it’ll take an hour or so, no problem, how are your fixed, or broken, take care of yourself, if you need anything else, don’t hesitate, click.

Prayer later and lamentation, with the frontdesk mensch hosting a shiur of migrant kitchen workers and idle maids in the motel’s laundry downstairs, there’s a knock at His door and it’s them—His sisters, the Marys…mishpocha, what a mechaye! B holds the door wide for them dripping with the weather’s melt and that of their thick, hasty makeup, adjusting their skirts and swishy wigs, then slams the door on their noses and breasts, which have been bound if not padded, and their knees and their hands held out to embrace, only to throw it open again to ingather them all, one by one over the threshold: He drops each hard to raise dust from the floor. Marysomeones, anyones, Marywhomevers in relation to the illegitimate why, as long as it’s now and quick, over and done with like soon—a giggly gaggle of them, a nosegay in a handful of familiar scents, colors, blooms; Rubina and Simone and Liv and Hanna, too, He’d forgotten: she’s none of them, and is all, was who or what that mensch his name spit poo was Jesus meant whenever he spoke of his mother Mary as the Woman, as everything, total, as all—in that goy’s life too many Marys around, abounding, Mary his mother, also Mary his elder sister, then the whore who’d mothered him to the end…the Mary who’d laundered His diapers with a pinch of His mother’s perfume, the one who indulged the suckling fetish, and that of the wetting; the one who always had to be threatened to set the table, to quit wasting time—have you finished your homework?—then eat up but slowly, chew your fill, wash your hair, scrub your teeth; Judith, Isabella, Zeba, the same now, all one, entirely Hanna—call her a balabusta, a berrieh ballbuster, just call her this once in a while: one mother, twentyeight-limbed touchy and feely and wiping this Hanna visiting the sick, doing charity work, benevolent business, cooking, cleaning, volunteering her time; how she’d sacrificed so much she’d remind you, how she gives still of her self what she thinks it so selflessly, kind. The Marys, they’d stolen the van they’d followed Him in coast to coast (since the aborted Tour, it’d remained garaged, kept on ice offIsland), a mudspattered heap spewing rust they’d christened with a bottle of Manischewitz the Mizvah Mobile, then drunk themselves full as if to fuel their revenge. A midnight’s raid of the Garden, how they’d managed to slip into costume before slipping out. Wardrobe, they’d gotten dressed, skirted, madeup mascarad and rouged, but in their hushed rush have become mixedup, half workedover: one wears Rubina’s skirt tableclothwide, down below and pleated to match with Dina’s blouse too tight up top, shriveled as if a balloon; Natalia’s skirt blue or maybe it’s black in this light, too short with Asa’s flounced white blouse way too tight, too, Gillian’s skirt hemmed short in purple beyond any modesty, barely showing below Josephine’s blouse crying buttons in its snug to pop eyes; as for Rubina, she’s blossoming to be generous: feeling a little bloated, damply fat, in Batya’s tiny floral panties; that, with their earrings mismatched (the older ones pierced, the youngest pinched by their clipons), with one lip sticked pink, the other stuck with the red. They pick themselves up from the floor, wander throughout the room to an alluring array: on the nightstand, openlegged atop the luggagerack, retracting their foreskinlike stockings to rub at and warm their legs it’s so freezing in here, held substantial and wide atop the radiator that doesn’t work and then opposite, on the filth of the flabby recliner; one digs candles from her pockets by their wicks, she’s on her knees in grotesque attempts with matches wet to light the room dimly—flames guttering, then licking high, the wax melting to the floor in a ring around the mattress as if to holy what’s about to transpire.

One by one B rends their garments, they scrounge them up from the floor, fold them flat, lie them in piles neatly along the arms of the recliner, curtained over its back: such a slob, such awkwardness, it’s embarrassing enough—this inadvertent mothering in the arms of your sisters, their fingernail scratches of love…. take yours off, too, one says, which, teethes the gloss from her lip, it’s only fair, and so He loses the remnant pajamarags worn underneath the robe’s last lining, until only the socks in their shoes remain. He’s still in His swelling, though, the skin held taut, taunting, a wineskin overfilled—only the shame never sheds, pulsing its snake about to seed poison…but to deny Himself, must withhold Himself tonight as if in penance, appeal, and so without a hug or kiss or even a stroke, grope, or tug, He falls to kneel at the mattress’ floored foot—as if to worship His own defilation, this defiliation. With Hanna altared thereupon and wreathed ritually in flames, her arms and legs splayed as if to open herself to the slaughter, to accept whatever sharp and steadiness of knife, and with her wig spread, too, loose and errant above her head itself surrounded by the halfshining, halfshadowed faces of her daughters attending to His mother, theirs. And then, to lower Himself to her, a lowering, then, of her, too: His girth wildly stretchmarked, reddened like a heifer, scarsplotched, His hanging breast and gut a low and ugly barrel, a hump fallen to become kissed and so, changed—transmuted, made new—at the lip of this mattress, the graze of its rim; His knees numb, too, fatling legs rubbing raw on the rasp of the floor, the wheeze of the planks under the patchwork carpeting, the scuzz exposed beneath.

To bow is to become a fetus, deference without mind or defense…to kneel with ache in the knees, and with ache in the spine, with stiff in the neck and the shoulders. Before Him is a pouch. A pocket. To keepsafe, to vouch, any secret. In His kneel, B with hands on her waist maneuvers her His mother near to Him, at Him, then with shoulders high and stiffneck set straight and temples tight He shuts His eyes and lows a grasp of tongue, as if extending in greeting the hand of His mouth. To trace the ridge of dark dense down there, to loll the lick of His tip along the topmost mating of unkissing lips, sucking at them to bring her even nearer, to mate mouths in a dialogue of silence, interrupted by only the occasional slurp or smack, though He feigns moans to which His mother responds in kind from her own other mouth above, which can kiss, which does kiss, with noise of her own He prays is genuine, or if maybe not to pray then to never know for sure, say, that her sound’s not in response to His sound rather to His labor, I’m working here, praying, repenting, which He undertakes solemnly, with diligence, without pleasure. To raise the slope of His nose against her, falling in to sense her innerly, His tongue the rivering rush to her dripping sea, the parting of a hidden ocean. He furthers, at the shores of her sand and the dunes of her sandy wighair, then deepens Himself onward, as if onto a distant land, toward the mountaining of the ridge inside, the valley of her womb; that sunlike slow head of His straining up from below…with Hanna’s own lower held languid, loose, dangling from the mattress’ fall of flow from her sex around hips, down to thighs, then her legs, feetward, the drips of her toes tracing in their stretching clench and twirl the ashed remains of smoke shod into a floorboard.

A question—why’d He go to such extremes to pleasure her?

D. or Dee Lila, whichever’s the name under which a motel maid who she wasn’t there at all assumes to recount the situation to authorities, answers…Benjy—because that’s how I knew Him—He’s just that kind of mensch, you know, more interested in your pleasure than His…His pleasure mortifies Him. With His hands on her hips, on her waist, on breast then on breasts beaten up to the shoulders, she’s shook, a sway made this merry waver, a shuckle in private—B praying His mouth to her, the echo of her dark and the Amen meant by her drenching…though beyond this, there’s only a stillness, a silence: the overhead fan pursues itself, the only air in the room save two breaths, the fluttering of paper from walls and His farting. A labor, we’re told—the only way to joy. Or else, He’ll soon think—an excavation, dig in. He arches Himself, His elbows heave and they founder to wrists and hot palms then their melt into fingers…pursuing her with the gnashing of teeth—an application of the appearance of mourning, accomplished to titillate and hurt. With His tongue in one thought, His mind in another, He’s sensing suffusion, an oozing of light from within. Nude transudation. Glaciate and slow, hard as the earth His head immersed, misted, in the midst of what seems a soft sky dewy and glowing, He squints against that rising shine, He has to, dazzly motes, tears and their saline sting, dizzying and foreign, the dusting of sand, real sand, actual sand—then, as if prepared, He opens His eyes wide inside: and there, inside her, is—Jerusalem…valleyed entire in the genital of her womb: Jerusalem of molten golden slopes fleshed and downed, the whole of His head immersed within and yet hovering above its image reflected, spit as a star to brighten her all, to make clear. He sniffs at the gates of her gate, at the walls of her, too, licks at the domes and the fountains, the ways and the alleys, ripples the cracks of the stones and then those cleaved between them, those rocky, mossily shrouded crags—an immaculate urn with its parchment preserved, her glans stored rolled round within, holding a map of the world living around Him.

B’s gasping to slurp, to suck it all up. Thinking God, the heat in here, the sop and the quiver, how it’s too much to swallow at once: the mountains around the valley, then the valley itself, and then the walls to rim again with their many gates and their seals—His tongue bursting them into blastings of wet, as if exploded grapes giving milk and honey that are both only salt and perhaps a century soured; then the walls again, always the walls of the walls, labial around and around without end, walls guarding from what or from who the cunnilingually chaotic Cardo, then the Shuk, with its waft of exotic spices to stifle…quarter to quarter to acknowledge with tongue the high, limbstraining arches, the climactic rubble, chips of blood and shards of discharge. Her hips as if handles to the jug of her, fill her up, stuff her shattered, He’s thinking, He’s not anymore. With His weak hand, He tweaks at her areolæ, while with the other and strong He lows down to her tush to finger around by the knuckle. He wails, inhales; with His mouth sieves and with His throat, He saves: graving the image of this pubic polis inside Him…her sand in His eyes to wind tears into wrinkles—furrows He’s plowing perpetually toward the floor of her fertile—and then, squinting as He nears as if gazing into His very own face, to head to that womb set inside the womb, ever deeper toward His issue, the bottommost basin, the ultimate depth of this valley sagging womanly into mattress, which gives underneath Him like the swallowing earth. He strains to tongue the Temple’s last wall, within her, westerly and hot, His length to mount the Mount how He’s in too deep, totally in, wombed to root at His shoulders, stooped with the ache of His arms that beat and clasp, then their hands—one of which is still fingering. B bent and about to loll down upon the mound with reverent tongue, the immaculate dome tipping the ruin of the Temple, hers, as if to lick away the gild, to wick each dram, every glimmer of waste—a ray of saliva from His tongue to kiss with eyes shut and heavy thick pant the hidden hold of the very Presence and His face reflected, secreted to sleep within the holiest of holes…He’s stuck, without breath, a stifling gag, He chokes panicked.

An abandonment, this escape…B’s mind having held its turn, unrevolute; a virgin transcendence—how everything fails…the forefinger of His righthand, knuckled up her tush, is rendered limp: analgesic, obtund. As for His tongue unpronouncing, it’s numb, too, paralyzed, flailingly within the strain of its veins, licking to stick to the roof of the mouth of the womb of His mother—this, in a sensational loss of sensation. In His need to please her, He’s forgotten Himself, and gone wanting: His forefinger then hand entire drops weakly to the mattress’ lip. His tongue hard and fat sticks fast between the presences of her hips. Due to His disposition, and despite their thrashing accompanied by an incomprehensible language of gurgles, it cleaves between her clitoris, which is understandably engorged, and her prepuce if He knows where those are, even what. Marys no longer sisters or mother responsible more like reverted, twelve shocked, freaking, screeching girls with their gnawed sharp fastflying manicures and their wighair afling, their falsies falling lump to the pits of their arms, mountains leveled, razed, terraces tumbled down from the lush, weatherhigh hills to the stomach’s desert, its flat unforgiving—they gather quickly, tightly, mind the flames assembling in a wreathe around Him; groping to still His limbs from their flail and from her, knocking over the candles to set the carpeting to smoke, to set fire, the mattress burning then their stockings and skirts catching, too, as they attempt half to put themselves out with their girdles and then with their nails to dislodge Him and so leaving scratches across the plains of His flesh, shiring along with Him their alarm, what has to be the strangest song ever sung in a land this poorly, hourly accommodated; as if pitched to sirens, geshraying…wildly the Hanna Mary has her hands on His fevered skull, attempts to slap Him loose, swatting the soundings echoing from within then through her as she sits up, bears down on Him between her legs snaked and slippery: His head, huge, as if a birthed tumor, a blond inner growth perhaps a bit balding upon aeration, receding in revelation, with the hairs of His neck tangled slovenly with the hair of His back, singed, scorched amid the sloppy flares of flesh that lap and lick their ways down the widening wick of his bottomless sit and hips, the waist and the bulge beneath it, His fat, furry middle melting into a shiny puddle of shvitz; the other Marys up and tugging at the Hanna Mary’s hair in altogether now one, two, Three, then off with her wig to grab at her real hair knotted underneath again one two, He’s hyperventilating is what His mother would’ve said if she were His true mother, overbearing as always and suffocant, nearly unconscious, or maybe she’s already dead—finally, and yet still feeling Him: the dread that midwifes any attempt at pleasure, attends every hope of fulfillment. As if expectant, virginred a flush, He’s overheated from gasping her hysterical air then the no air, from gorging on her juices and fruit, the sin of the apple…B’s complexion that humiliated shade, mortified but alive, still submerged: up to His neck in it, gagging on an odd mucosal mixture, saliva and female ejaculate flooding down His throat without the obstruction of acting tongue, but with the jaw lamely free to take in all at once without swallow. Now, some of the Marys are pulling the Hanna Mary by her natural hair, the other Marys pulling Him the opposite and pushing Him out, too, unnaturally—they hold, they cling, they’re clingers, they clutch, they’re clutchers, at His shoes, His socks fallen, then the toes and His feet and at joint of His knee, haunches, lardaceous lovehandles and shoulders, leaning away from Him from her with the force of their weight, not enough.

No time to assess the situation, nu, we understand—after all, postmortem is postmortem, after is the fact. Questions, did they ever have their questions, for everyone, who not—the cooperatively crazy mensch here at the frontdesk, the motel’s putative maids only illegals who they never cleaned, they’re merely homeless and every Shabbos or so paying what they have to use the facilities to bathe themselves, to wash their minds to purity…even for the schmuck who delivers them the ice hacked straight from the street to the hallways’ machines. What will free first, will prepuce give or will His tongue, which is affixed to which…will His tongue wag from between her legs forever and last days, or will He be condemned to wander around Purgatory, hymn, with an intimate aspect of the female anatomy flapping obscenely from Him, as if the flag of the surrender of His gape? B losing final air and as they’re tugging…His tongue’s stretching—bodylength soon, it’s a bodied double, distended far from its tumescence as if to paper the opposite wall, as if to lick it clean and further, wicking a thin dribble across the room, then drooling toward the door to the hall as if to collapse to corpse only while waiting for the elevator out of order. Expired. And so to residence in this motel for an eternity with no rates reduced, how they’ll pry the cash from His hands, the hock of His spoony cold. How to summon when you can’t even button, or ask for passing help in pressing. Questions, always questions: is the tongue I bought off what’s his name the real one or only a fake—refund, who do I kvetch to for my money back…but what about Her organ, where is it now—cold itself, between her smothering legs. The Hanna Mary wailing still to end all terror, writhing across the flaming mattress with a roll of her thighs around His skull as if to wring His neck—to kill a festive chicken, the screwy opening of a Shabbos bottle of His blood…Him thrashed from the smoke in His lungs, Hanna’s pooped how He’s soiled Himself, the mattress, its fiery floor—and then, with one last leaning tug, He, pops, off and out:

B birthed wet onto the motelroom’s floor, the notel: crying Mom without a tongue, and burning. The Marys scatter, fall, hit walls and bounce collapse…Edens of flow as the tongue falls, too, a flop past limp atop the lip of the mattress licking lameness into the airless room, which is so smoky as to seem the Mitteltown sky itself, just outside, walled behind the night: the tongue’s tip, though, stuck hard and fast to its vagina dark and tightening above. Utterly without life, the pile of flesh then falls from its soaked weight, plops in silence as a stump, majestically purple then darker—soon to be a coil of absolute blue royaled to black, as if a turd unburdened, steaming, wound-flecked, left as a tip for the maid atop the taint of the carpet. Our mensch at the frontdesk having heard the resoundings of serious thump, just taking an interest in the integrity of the motel’s structure, you understand, its foundations not to mention its reputation, already shaky enough the both of them that its collapse or, suggestion, demolition might be welcomed, and how any felony charges of arson ever filed might be lost on their ways to the court, rest assured and a wink, or at the very least downgraded to misdemeanor material: an insuranceheap, lightningready, as it’s without reservations ever, without even the most grim glimmering hope of a star—its mensch weeping (according to what’s now his third statement taken) has already, by the first bumptious echo from ceilings above, in violation of the spirit of the first holiday he’s ever observed as much as this doing business is and with B, worked the telephones overtime, talking up the last of the media and its gossip columnists switchboarded condemned, in his whiny, hoarsely feminine garble: gutter press to swell up from sewers, assembling into swills of ink at the 10th Avenue entrance, photographers already gathering in the parkinggarage, in the lobby and at the door to His hall, their flashpot moons revolving around what lies beyond, giving light only to be reflected, never absorbed: they’re waiting for a uniform—but Authorities in observance arrive only later, well after the mandate of their departmental Lamentations—any angel with a warrant scrolling from the bell of its trumpet to blow the damn door down.

Example an editorial, then, for the Weekly Affiliated: a highbrow, low page-count rag light on advertisers of late and becoming increasingly desperate, only recently having been labeled by its myriad competitors and even those in the suffering if soon illegalized secular media as the quote Weakly Affiliated, unquote, a nickname that like all of them becomes less funny the more it’s invoked—an extraordinarily maligned and litigated writeup, an edit of which despite everything goes on to make syndicate (causing an entire chain to be silenced for a week, then shut down, its editors imprisoned, its morning edition torched with its stands), opening with a memorable phrase characterizing the tragedy as “Tongue-N-Cheeks,” then going on to note that “though He’s eaten of the forbidden fruit […] it’s not like He’s still enjoying its taste.” countered only a day later with an oped claiming, “If we have no pity, then we have converted all for nothing. Just as it takes more than a God to make a religion, it takes more than a religion to make a mensch.” Unofficial reports wander freely, and leaky…a drippy, slippery out of bounds: the chains and gags of wire, of summary frontpage, hovering above the fold, bolded and columnarly exalted…it’s impossible not to miss the management, to reconcile it with rumor: murder slash suicide pact gone wrong, shots fired, Metropolitan Gestapo headed up by the newly installed Des Moinesher Rebbe wading into the reportedly frayed hallway from out of nowhere (though he’s the son-inlaw of the Light of Kansas—traditions already generating, ambitions becoming dynasties becoming power)—arriving to find the assembled dead from gas, from smoke inhalation, a fire…Mormon kindernapping, ransom paid, hostage never returned, ransom never refunded, hostage involved in a tragic quote accident unquote, a quote unquote unfortunate incident, substances abused, and women, too, white slavery or Resistance supremacy was it, involved medical experimentation, on newborns, the unborn, Animalia, with regard to equine ejaculatory response, decapitation, castration, tongue severance, hotel falling in on itself, swallowed whole by the earth, flying ambulances of fire whisking away the Marys who immediately after in quotes themselves, “decide” to leave the employ of Garden, Inc. without settlement or severance further, granting no interviews save what’s reported in a statement so official as to be regarded as prophecy, as if dictated—but not read—moons before Av ever began…His mind is His slavery, His life, who He is, a slave, that’s who He was born to be. He needs a woman? Forget it. He needs a life! or so a woman who wasn’t there or even named Delilah recounts in rehearsal for The 18th Hour, we’re at 1492 on your AM dial, the host with the most with the radio face, a former plumber with the best, cleanest pipes in Passaic appearing in person like a down on his luck ventriloquist or his dummy and despite the suit (which just has to be worth hundreds), he holds her while she weeps away the show, then the theme music fades up, the On Air lights off themselves and the static comes in like the clouds, weathering patience…

Mary which one who knows as who has the time she thinks to save, plucks up the fallen, fusiform tongue and wraps its impressive length in the Business, others hold skimped Sports or Book Review, section of a newspaper dated a Shabbos previous, in one account, bylined by the owner of that very paper…though others hold rolled in a hospital’s fundraising newsletter left lying around by the last shoesalesmensch to slink this way (used to wipe the filth from his soles)—in pages palmed, ripped right from the book of Psalms: if I forget thee O Jerusalem let my righthand forget its cunting, let my tongue cleave to the Ruth of my mouth, it goes…saves it though, “apparently,” no reattachment surgery’s possible (even if the price’ll be lately right by the Doctors Tweiss): risk such a procedure He’s thinking and He’ll risk His freedom, to think if not His life, Him stumbling deranged mouth glop maniacal spew from out of the motel’s rear service entrance and onto the highway, miraculous you have to admit as do latter commentators that He doesn’t get picked up by Anyone, hauled in for a session, a little of the old Q. & A. even for just appearing in public like this, a dressing down for dressing up as His mother, actually in disguise as a Mary disguised as His mother, if you’re with Him: that old desertruined robe exchanged for a pink slip of housecoat clasped too huggingly tight with plastic flower buttons, forgetmenots but who remembers, dumpster’s sneakers over slippered raiment retained He’s traded in for heels, pumps one for each stumble of foot He’s tripping, falling, huddling past the assembled Law, the Media, who are the Law’s later interpreters, its reporters and photographers (many latearriving Affiliated journalists actually forbidding themselves from pen and camera due to the holiness of the Ninth, the wasteful nature of such observance distressing in this ridiculous ritual of these lensmenschs and shutterschmucks: how making cameras of their own filmless hands, they squint one eye then click with the finger)—they let Him pass as her, without inspection, whether to them a motel maid, a whore just off for the night or her grandmother’s sister, a voyeur onlooking, rubbernecking what with her head kercheifed, too, become babushkad, old and avoided as destitute and sick. He trannies away from the river in heels, the skirt of His coat shrived high by the wind. His mouth’s open in an attempt to air pain, and so exposed to the weather falling, the spitting drift, but no yelling’s to be heard, only the untastedness of the street wind and the avenue wind and then at their intersection, the resoundingly ringing silence of that angry greedy pud. What it resembles is a growth of goldbrick, a bellish bud or coin sored upon the middle of the mouth, deep inside it and secret, the ornament of His standing aleph, an uppermost putz only smaller and softer than most. What He wants to say with it, though, He doesn’t know, as He isn’t saying it, as nothing’s being said through Him—only this letter, the round of its soundlessness in search of a vowel, the translation of this search for bearings east, a new beginning voiced only in blood…B’s arms flailing, as if communicant and with His legs, too, His head, as if limbed directly to His mouth’s fingery stud, made veined to what remains: the stirrings of a torturous howl through the slip of parkinggarage, then down its slipping grade, the turns, the ramps on and off, waiting at the crosswalk for any light to change, Him an aleph splayed, waving finally with sound, Aaaaaa…all He manages, to echo across the darkened and utterly vacant 10th sad & 40th He doesn’t know which, He wouldn’t, dispersing, disappearing into a traffic of whirling ice, obscuring the noise of even the sirens.

His tongue to become a relic, to be exhibited first for a week at His home in the Garden, then taken national, eventually worldwide: to be paraded around from town to town, wherever pays, whether money or homage—as an oracle, oracular; some swear ask it a question, it’ll answer without mind; miraclegranting others promise, perhaps prophesizing, presumably on mute if only for the exploitation of those who’d interpret: a week later and the night before its Garden unveiling, Doctor Abuya and the Nachmachen in blue & white matching scrubs stand a press conference over the stump, the withered flaccid flabellum as redeemed from Evidence of Metropolitan Gestapo with an outstretched arm clutching tongues of quiet cash, having been scooped from its jar of formaldehyde, then—as per Die’s specifications—set amidst a host of semi, hemi, and demi precious metals and gems, inlaid into a reliquary shaped like, of all things, a mouth: its dorsum veined in what’s passing for silver and gold, rocks of faux diamond studded in rows of teeth, viciously polished: hardcuts for canines, cabochons, wisdom pears, then assorted raw stones for far molars, good imitations at least, rubies faked with spinel for tonsils, unpolished hunks of malachite limning the wound to be found at oropharynx, at the velveteen depth of its setting, the red cushioning the bite—a baubled bibelot and prize for the mantel, the trophy of a world as fragile as glass; only after that stint at His house’s museum, when it’s sent out on exhibit, on a tour even less successful than that of its body had been, back when it’d been daily brushed then nightly mouthed and had talked the talk wellscripted: a show removed to a sideshow, remanded to freakshow, noshow…for now, they say, but just wait till we hit Berlin, they’ll lineup for anything over there: photographers asking for the reliquary angled so that the light hits it just so, that’s perfect, hold it, now smile and say—reporters asking the tongue enshrined questions who knows what it would respond, were a mind still sticking it out in thought.

Downtown the half snow half rain are done arguing themselves to all wet: it’s agreed, a day as holy as today requires such compromise; tonight’s introspection makes this kind of weather relevant, admissible, wholly appropriate, and so God opens wide His pockets, which are deep and silverlined, drops it down, a storm. Having wandered at His own painful pace, and through a personal fog, as if privately pursued by a cloud even daytime dark and its imminent burst hovering always just over His head, a breath—the pressure, the heavy gray and threat, He’s crossexamining for dry over and around a schaft of loiterers, assembled at the base of the stairs in dripping casualwear caftans up the steps forever high, as if leading up above the sky itself, B breathless: to stand a loiter under the portico colonnaded heaven above Centre Street, hiding behind a column as wide and as tall as any of Solomon’s, waiting for judgment to cease and desist. A practice of ponchod employees stream down the steps to haul the sty of piggy pushkes inside—the Courthouse, where everything but everything smells by wet.

An overhanging freeze…a glomming gloom, a second skin, and suffocating. It’s hard to swallow. All that, and He’s getting stares from the guards. And so B goes for further shelter, within the door under the portico and the perilous, dizzying sway of its lamp never lit. He’s soaking, was what Israel would’ve said, Hanna would’ve said, drenched; His heels squishing on the atrium’s tile, don’t ask as to the socks. He sits down on a long stretch of knot, puddles the floor, rising only when a guard officialmouthed—with sadness rung around his eyes like the rings left by mugs, by cups of coffee left to sit atop the table of his face with their marks then traced in sentencing ink, with an angry fist and wagging fingers—motions for Him to rise and that’s right, follow me, sir, leads Him down halls through halls radial each poorer away from the arch of the atrium and its rotunda, tile giving way to linoleum, dustducts, cloudbursts now of exposed wiring, then through a door and into a courtroom, which is empty and cold and barrenly lit, screeching a seat out then leaving Him to decide whether or not He should sit. A straightbacked wooden chair—the chair of the defendant, cobbled together to be the most uncomfortable, the least conducive to shifty slumps, engineered for incrimination, the seat of the client who usually pays the most though gets the least; it holds Him fast, His housecoated fat bulging out the slots of the sides, catching Him unhanded. The guard leaves Him with a pat to the shoulder as what must be His lawyer, His Goldenberg, it’s been a while, too long and yet not enough, enters wet himself, and sloppy, in an untailored, seamstripped suit, and with a clammy palm without calm shakes Him a Shalom.

Glad you found it, he says, you just made it, you seem well, haven’t had the pleasure in an age.

Don’t worry, you won’t have to do much talking, no one expects you to, what with…this is just a formality, let’s hope—at least, the jury seems sympathetic, have pity. They’re too honest not to be, and pitiful: we managed to get rid of the living early on in the process…still, we need to present well, and unfortunately we haven’t had much time to prepare. Answer me this. You can nod, or shake no. Or else we could have a whole system figured out: how one finger means yes and how another means, you get it. Suss it out. What I want to know is this: do you swear to tell the truth, to me, not the whole truth, to them, God help us, I object. What I mean is, next witness. And then upon the seventh day, we’ll rest. A bailiff, who’s just the guard who’d led Him here changed into a new uniform for overtime’s sake, approaches with no recognizance whatsoever, and without a word wraps his hands around His neck and clips onto Him a bowtie, obtained from a reputable receptacle piled with all manner of neckwear worn, mildewed tongues, preknotted, knit lengths stained with shvitz. Are you with me? Look me in the eyes. Read my lips, and without moving yours. Isn’t it true that? What—is that two fingers, or just one; work with me here, you call that a signal—you’re going to have to nod better than that. What were you doing on the night of the eighth, and how was that night different from the morning of the ninth—where were you when? Do any of the following names mean anything to you…when she said that, what exactly did Miss Demeanor mean? Est-her, but I don’t even know her! Then, the lawyer for the State enters, a piercing mensch his hair not wetted slick but oilgreased, rivulets of melt flowing atop the sheen of his widowpeak, his lips thin like the most expensive and so most successful but still painful of knives—he’s a shysty son of a something…ben Ballshabayit’s what they call him naked in the shower at his countryclub, if you didn’t know, you wouldn’t. Toweled then dressed in a wonderfully unconventional entirely camelhair suit, he’s much better tailored than His who in his shmatte (which his wife’s been after him to launder for a moon) the more he sits the more it’s wrinkled, rising with a sigh, such an effort to greet his colleague, his better save the two hundred more he bills per hour with extra padded for this very rising while still gripping his valise, which falls open to spill an unfinished ostensibly lean pastrami sandwich, the only contents of the dingy pleather case; as he stoops to pick up what’s left of it he smiles happens regularly, apologies to opposing counsel who’s used to all this, too: a ploy, this wry distraction, him having to address all the while the seeds of the ryebread stuck in the gaps between the teeth.

Everybody rise, is what the bailiff says as if in training for the reformed rabbinate, which he is, thanks to a correspondence class his daughter’s enrolled him in, nightseminary—and so everybody halfrises, more like stoops as if they’re too tired to care, or too cold, what happened to the heating. A door opens behind the dais and a bird, white, white, forget the species, flies in to perch on a bench in the back. An honorable I’m sure Judge, at least his intentions (and as golden, too, as the light that accompanies his head, a shining bulb as beacon), enters now, habilamenting his robe as dark as night on tight over his thickfeathered, strongstalked wings—always too cramped, everbinding; zips himself tripping over its flow, getting tangled, arranges himself then sits; instructing the bailiff with only a fluff of his beard to make himself useful, will you, and usher in the jury—laggard, haggard, and twelvestrong, a late jury here of the last twelve, the tribally lost, resurrectedly lining to their seats in the order of their deaths: Steinstein the Foremensch sits last, straightening his black, barmitzvah suit and tie he never got to wear, it’s shrouding, uncomfortable; he’s fidgeting with his collar that it keeps coming up, the fistsized knot that’s too strangling buttoned beneath, so handsome. As for the sanctuary of this courtroom’s case built against Him: worries that it was to be thrownout, desertexiled and such, are proving unfounded, at least unsubstantiated, un-transubstantiated, within the without of reasonable doubt. Rumors, excuse them into evidence. His judge clears his throat of that honorable beardness; his fist serves as a gavel, which he or it B’s thinking bangs hard to create a void in the icy air for the airing of a voice.

Has the jury reached a verdict?

How to raise my head?

The box is piled overflow with corpses.

I’m going to go with guilty, then, twelve times over—as if I don’t already feel that way myself. But the trial, if you can call this that, hasn’t even begun, is what I note without tongue. It comes out like choking. Restrain yourself, will you, to your representation—the Judge overrules all, even rule itself. He then asks, will counsel please approach the bench? and the prosecutor goes and first approaches the Goldenberg next to Him, wakes him up with a fraternal slap to the head, a light greasing of recently moisturized palm and the two lawyers one dazed and dozy approach the dais, a hunk of beaten, comingapart plywood at which they stand silently, then wink at one another, both eyes, now turn around, each to his own table, His shorter and narrower and, as it’s missing a leg, as tipsy and unevenly spoken as this Goldenberg here—guess which one of them puts his head down again and is soon lightly snoring. And so we’ll proceed directly to sentencing…what can I say: my representation’s beginning to drool. Still, I gargle and fume, spume air from my mouth, a throaty objection. Stumped. Strike that. Jury, I’ll instruct you to ignore that—whatever that was or wind, but they’re still dead, with fattish flies gathering at the wet under their eyes, wallows freezing fast…until another bailiff, this the first’s son or his brother, maybe, enters from their door and with a beaten, lipbloodied wheelbarrow, into which he begins loading their weight one by arm and leg, the courtroom clearing.

Will the defendant please rise, and I can’t pretend I’m deaf, too, so I rise to the voice, its occasion: case or docket number, does it really matter, the People v. Israelien—let it be known that this court has upheld the rulings of the lower temporal courts, nu, remember those: we are, Mister Israelien, not under anyone’s jurisdiction…the Judge of Judges, is how the whole spiel goes on, with the Judge’s face if angels or dreams or else experiential hallucinations, hymn, who knows whether from bad blood or its loss ever have faces with eyes to see one truth and ears to hear another truth and then a witnessing mouth through which to speak up for them both becoming puffy and flushed, with bulging nose and wings slowly but viciously ripping their sharp ways through his robes to spread themselves over the dais, shadowing the entire proceedings—the Judge of Judges, this is what the voice’s calling himself, demands as protocol, perhaps, to be called to what account: a self-promotion, flown upstairs…having long known of the evil opinions and acts of Benjamin Ben Israel Israelien; that’s you, son—hereby tells you to get lost; consider yourself unconsidered…what I’m saying is, as good as dead; as of today, you have been excommunicated, anathematized, made an example of…as a warning to others, what not to be or ever to become, what not to make of your life, or ever allow to have made of it, I’m saying: as such, no one is to talk to you, with you, or of you; no one’s to even acknowledge your existence, loan you a shekel, help your corpse to cross the street; more: castigated are you as you are cursed, and cursed are you as you are damned—you following; cursed are you by day, and cursed are you by night—stay with me here; cursed are you when you lie down, and cursed are you when you rise up; cursed are you when you go, and cursed are you when you come—and when neither, and, also, wherever…cursed are you with all the curses of the Law—as of tonight, I’m talking. As long as we’re at it, even your curses they should be cursed, the Judge of Judges says, tell me why not, that the Lord of Hosts Blessed Be He shall blot out thy name from under Heaven, so there…and he pauses for a moment, hacks a storm into the flightsliced tatters of his robes then nods to the bailiff whose son or brother’s just left carting the last of the corpses and asks him, would you please remand whoever that is, I’m not sure, to Himself? And so the bailiff approaches Him, who for a mensch just fated worse than dead’s rather angry, struggling out of His seat to stand a hollow holed into His face, then takes His arms at wrists and applies to them shackles, which aren’t shackles as who has them so large—what restraints, tell me, come in my size—but are wheels off wagons once towed, never claimed from the lot of municipal impound.

Don’t worry, son, says the bailiff, kindly because old and known this before, escorting B out of the courtroom…it’s not like it’s that hard being a nobody, I’ve been one for years, you’ll get used to it quick. But you’d want the brightside, the halfsized full…it’s not like we’re going to tattoo your forehead or anything. Your mark’s even less subtle, or more: it’s your very existence—escorted out the door, then down the hall down the halls in reverse, dead mensch walking down the ways of the just and the seeking, the urgent emergent and the developing kvetch, past doors behind which lord the courts appellate, lower and lowest, those courting the newest interpretation of the Law, favoring those lately favored by God, over what; linoleum, kitschratty carpeting, cracked tile then again into the processing area with its windows and wait, wending through tangles and fringes of people worried faceless, encampments and strongholds not kept or held themselves together enough to be called lines they’re more like hopes, like pleas or appeals to: the mercy, maybe, of that approved namechange, a conversion meriting an inheritance, perhaps, a reparation or restitution, each to murmur to any teller or most abject glassimprisoned authority their own personal prayer, their own private malediction, united only in their though forbidden, unofficially encouraged, uplifting through sin hatred of Him, as they now spit at His feet, in His face, throw rocks of slipping salt and stones at Him, too, to smash a skull, rip a stomach minding—official implements of ridicule obtainable from a host of utilitarian white urns positioned in only the most wellmarked, heavily lit areas of the Courthouse lobby He’s escorted through, toward the door leading out to the landing below the portico underneath the Decalogue chiseled above as ten clouds upon the sky and there their lightningstruck, thundervoiced commandment to weather, though the wet’s stopped for now, if not just slowed. He’s led out toward the landing, to the top stair of these roundeddown, smoothed marble minyans of them descending in rubble to offer grounding to flood, this bedding of short, narrow streets better alleys turned fluming rivers scummed with junk loosed from neighboring shops and stands rainbowgray, with oil and grease—or, as if an ocean of stair shoring itself endlessly north toward Mitteltown if not further into inscrutable mist (the Upper West Side, Harlem, the Heights), then again and eternally lapping its wake returned to the top of the wide marble stairwell from which He faces the trashdappled dusk; the engorging throat of the crosswalk, the budcutting jut of a traffic meridian opposite; moored carts and boats in from the islands surrounding with their dimdark people stomping their rubbers high through the muck on their ways to prayer and what’s done between prayers, which worship is anyone’s guess. He stands quieted, which for Him now is still, as the bailiff removes the wagonwheels, unlocks the chains that bind Him to Himself and, why not, to any He’s outlived, survived—holding them together tightly and fumbling, swearing throughout in a tongue soon to be legislated forgotten, the key to it all kept between his teeth between locks. A tiddle liddle jiggle, a tug then He’s out, freewheeled, finally. Kneels tush to heels, rubs His wrists back to blood.

B stands between the central columns of the landing’s colonnade, two large and thick, closely spaced hunks of assimilated marble, their twists involved and dizzying around and around the fineness of their flutes, each identical, topped with pediments heavy on the fruit. He puts one hand to each, sets teeth. And strains, again with the neck how He’s exerting Himself, hoping to bring this house, theirs or the Law’s, to ruin, to collapse all around. But no, they won’t be brought down, even moved as the bailiff is here (sniffling into his uniform’s sleeve), won’t be budged despite efforts, won’t give or even lean the merest of falls. His strength fails, is denied Him, and so He gives up, relents if demonstratively, falls His columnar arms to shanks at which they hit limply then hang, useless meat, the soul’s beefy excretions. Exhausted, enough. Hang Him out to die. He turns to nod at the bailiff, then turns again to the open world oceanic, steps out to wander upon it from under the portico, upon which step the sky opens its womb, redoubles its birthing as the bailiff yells after Him though softly and weepily rasping to have a good New Year, a happy and healthy!

Todah Rabah, I think, to you, too.

As for me, I’ll do what I can—the rest is out of my hands.

A strongly outstretched arm of blocks Uptown, the menschs in the looted, holocausted Library they’re still sitting still scribbling, untouched and alone: glosses and marginalia, obscured references to menschs who might never have lived, rejoinders and reprimands to the mensch sitting just next to them and scribbling still, points and ripostes that would’ve been more easily spoken—but here these menschs have no voices, and no sight either, nor smell neither hearing, no touch, not haptic. Nowadays, they merely disagree, the only sense left to them is disagreement and, nu, very funny surely they won’t agree on that either, have your laugh…hymn. These are the Garden’s menschs from goys, the Administration’s, Shade’s, humorless, incorrupt, and altogether brilliant, who’ve been fully invested with the power to Selekt; menschs lately forgotten, too—will the last one to leave please kill the lights, make it hurt. And so only one dark decision in all this year, almost, has it been that long, only one decision has emerged from their void to be voided itself in due time, process, neglect…drool hangs loose and hot from their lips, the uppers fattened ripe, the lowers furried mold: and no, their decision’s not death, that’s too simple, too evident (though they haven’t yet ruled that out—or have they?), not exactly excommunication either, at least not in the way we understand it: not a putting outside of the midst, not a giving of Him over to the wilderness of bridge & tunneled Joysey, it’s more like a total forgetting, a denial, an assertion that B simply, evidently, just isn’t, that He never even was; it’s just a recommendation.

Vergessen, going and gone, Israelien’s to be made verboten territory, shtum…though rumors passed among the least respectable and rearmost of pews have Him surfacing next in Europa, scattered reports probably dubious (whispers during the Silent Amidah, jokes told during the final recitation of the Mourner’s Kaddish), Apocryphal meaning hidden in Greek though its ramifications evident in any language evidenced here, on the tips of tongues intact and attached, placing Him in Portugal at the same time as Spain, then in Paris, too, living south to the sea, on Mediterranean time: misnomers, misnomrim, this season’s Polandland has Him gone and turned, according to some, fryzer’s apprentice in this sinkhole once known as Kazimierz, though others hold by yesterday’s Zamość, or a secondhand to a onehanded cowhand at what was once Sandomierz, what a pit; with only the ignorant swearing to the city formerly known to us as Warsaw…devotees and even Casualist cartographers marking the maps they’d salvaged from burnt books, ripped from outdated encyclopedia sets still mentioning—what else—Galicia, Bukovina, Bessarabia, Carpathia, Sub-Carpathia, Sub-Sub-Carpathia, Ruthenia, the only atlas ever to mention Yehupetz…in the courtyards and converted parkinglots of their services holding up evidence of antique postcards, German pastels, Bohemian black & whites, forgeries upon expert inspection, others stamped what’d been Vilna and Kovno, Litvakworld up toward Riga to the north, Sweden then the Pole. Anybody who’d expected to make a killing at auction’s left sore, though that might not be from disappointment alone: all of the kollectible kitsch, the ephemeral paraphernalia, the swag and the junk, it disappears overnight, mandated, maybe, on orders of, perhaps, but also consciously forgotten, in a mindful attempt to displace, to revise, always rewrite. Whoever they ever are to smash the plates of In Hanna’s Kitchen (Binder’s & Sons, 0 A.I., ISBN#: 0-394-53258-9), of Israel’s Unabridged Deposition Transcripts (Loot of the Frum, 0 A.I., ISBN#: 0-671-76089-0), Introduction & Notes by Doctor Elisha Abuya & Reb Shimi Schreiben, the Nachmachen, with a new Afterword by Dr. Allen Sherdowitz PhD…how they rip off the covers of the remaining copies killing any value in resale, then torch the remaindered stock because they can, that’s that. Icons are put out on firesale, then put out to fire, too, ash and then trash. All His Signs & Wundas (S&W in Industryspeak, referring to the entire Israelien family of products) are taken down and warehoused un-cataloged, secreted in the underground vaults of the Garden with a vast trove buried up in the Bronx dugout beneath the infield of Yankels Stadium turned perfidious genizah, and the whole image fades, is effaced, thumbedaway with fists, rubbed out with knucklespit, ghostly tongued in a great if painful schmearing: of laity’s laxities into potholes, into the sewers and subway tunnels, down into the inner guts—the gutter intestinal seething with a depraved deprivation, making room for a vast gastric disburdening to empty…there, the lower home of those who are or who have willed themselves to the life of the indigestible, the rumbling fate of the unassimilatable, those with no interest in observance, any next incarnation, shirking that whole dominant paradigm shtick—not so much goyim voluntaries as rat and roachlike people plagued with huge families both immediate and extended if not by sympathy then by appetite’s ravage: they’re hauling subterranean their keepsakes and stray kinder napped from streetside, fleeing the flood of Affiliation, the threat of Metro Gestapo, word making rounds of what’s still to face, whispers of renditions and roundups, lineups, mass detentions without representation, violations no one questions of rights now left to the dogs…

Upon the New Year, which this year, this last year as a year, falls upon the Shabbos, today, everything will become changed. We will atone, and our vows will be nullified in the eyes that are not eyes per se, only anthropomorphic evocations of a sense that remains far, far scarier, we fear, and yet still unknown. All over, throughout the city’s darkness, waiting in the shadow of the newest moon: Die has undercover, plainclothes (gabardine to yarmulke) menschs staked outside every synagogue, every shul, and their associated shtibls, then inside, too, they’re pewed and shtendered standing at the ready at every conceivable place of congregation, waiting for Him to make His entrance, any prayer now, surely He would, we’ve brought Him up so well, everyone has and should, mostly does, Amen. B’s always the exception, though, has to be. And so, a noshow. Maybe next year—in Jerusalem, say. Do me a favor and save me a seat. Hold my place, what page. From the beginning as from the end, turned white and blank and over—the New Year’s weather thick, a clumping cover, the sky’s lump settled heavily where the air once flipped and skimmed: pure pile up against every berm and curb, firn, and sidewalk slabs of hoar, livestock scuttling escape wildly across the lanes, slipping then righting themselves. The city’s float a glacier and its Park, a bergschrund, as if a scar slit at its stomach. Stores are shut through Yom Kipper’s fast (crumbs have been picked from sidewalk cracks, breads crusted forbidden: manna’s theological mold—O pity the mensch whose mouth opens onto a flood of even mixed precipitate while going amongst his brethren this day!), ten days of abnegation wasting from the New Year, days withering of privation, of abjuration and abstinence, with only denial fulfilled: a holy week then a Shabbos more of businesses closed, with nothing transacted until after the annulment of vows then the closing of the book, the ledger, the final pages the heavens of the sky—most concerns to be opened only holiday hours following, to allow their owners and employees ample time in which to contract their sukkahs: strung maize, decorative squash like goiters, burnt carbuncles, blinking colored lights…then, there’s that holiday celebrating a new cycle of Torah, nachas shepped around, all that dancing and singing in observation of the beginning of a new cycle of Law and life, and an ordering of the final preparations for what should be total conversion, what will be: old plates and silverware cleaned out to the pareve trash if not miserly kashered, decreed contraband after a period of grace, the very selfsame, selfreflective ten days, possession of which objects after the Day of Atonement is to be made punishable by stoning, they’re still debating that, at least a modest fine.

Forget the forgetting, though, the Garden directives say, there’s only one way to settle the mind. It’s Him, and if they don’t find Him, don’t produce Him right quick, gevalt—they don’t want to think…Doctor Abuya proposing B’s sacrifice, if ever He’s found, maintaining that His blood must be spilled, to quell the masses, and the restlessness, also, of an Administration increasingly hostile. At the Temple, which up and having passed inspection is, without Him, functional for nothing: an eidolon’s idol with no one to worship it or at it, within it, the same—with His name devalued to inexistence, His image forbidden soon forgotten among even those who’d like to remember, their own craziness, betrayal: as fallen as the gates of the Temple stand tall, stilled in ice as weather itself—and so the New Year opening’s postponed, is rescheduled tentatively for the Anniversary upcoming in what’d once been December, the yahrezeit next, what would’ve been Xmas Eve, which we’d do better to forget, as well, burn that tinseltime wreathe. And so for those ten days between the New Year, which is called Rosh Hashana, which means, literally, as the billboards explain up and down the pitstopped coasts, The Head of the Year, the Garden, if quietly, puts the word out for His own lesser head, names the price: with the Temple ready for patrons and pilgrims, visitors and press, sheep, goats, and cattle are out of the question, they’re not big enough draws; what’s required for us to stay relevant is Him, fattened for the slaughter already, you with me? We shouldn’t be doing this, I know…Die’s saying to Mada over the phone, longdistance from the warmth of Palestein as an honored guest of its ruling family, the venerable Abulafias. Superstition, keep up. But it’s not like we have a choice. You think I haven’t thought this through? It has to be done, though. I love the schmuck, me more than anyone. Believe me. But this is the way it’s supposed to happen, even if it’s wrong (they’ve got the replenished ranks of Saperstein & Saperstein going over the particulars; as for the priests necessary to this procedure, with its intricacy of knife and neck and slitting prayer—they’re still in training Uptown, urge patience). All I’m hearing is they don’t want it, but I’m saying they don’t know that they do—they’re afraid of themselves, of their power: we’re talking old instincts, dormant, slow to revive; they regress, I’m sure, on their own time…we’ve taken a loss, no doubt about it, our numbers are down, people’ve lost confidence, interest, they’ve been told to lose interest, grown bored beards and dulled. As the lions pace the grounds of the Park, nervous and idle, paws sliding klutz across the Reservoir frozen, Mada and Gelt are occupied rehearsing a processional plan, its vast decoded scroll unfurling their steps down the stairs of the Temple’s ascent through the Park then out and into the streets—that’s if they can meet deadline still alive: a procession replete, they plan, with salaried hecklers and pelters, trash, too, and unsavory stuffed vegetables (the vendor menus include holishkes, or golubtsy—cabbageleaves seeded with triple paprika to spite with their spice); a slow ascent up the steps, one ritual or another now, this they’re still working out, then the slicing itself in fullview: the Mayor himself to serve his city as the day’s ceremonial High Priest with a rubbery gag knife to B’s throat, painless, humane, that’s the idea. They’ll never accept immortality, whether it be corporeal or that of His reputation, and with the favor they’re in, they can’t afford to, either. But to find Him first, that’s no question of spectacle or public, of Parkside ingathering, a herding in of the flock you’ve been fleecing: no, that’s kept low, underground and there inquired of in only a whisper, a flutter of the moneytongue, refused…this hushed informality of information exchange, humbly but casually asked—it’s personal, a question of honor…Mada, Die says over the phone, I want you to deal with this. We have just over a month, if we’re lucky, until the Administration gets involved—I’m sure of it, Shade that gonif, ungrateful, he’d just love to shut us, whether up or down…I’ll let you know which, I’ll call back in the morning.

An hour reneging on the wager of light at the down of sun, Die accompanied by Hamm exits the lobby of the Q’asino here in Hebron, Palestein—the Vault it’s called, a complex erected around a famous cave at middle, the grave of the Patriarchs and the burial of their promise, in that its entrance’s now atriumed in an arch of bombproof, bulletproof glass—and is valeted in a stretch of limo through the desert toward a distant glint, this rising, shining orbicular track: the Drom Dome, tenthousand seats stadiumed under a retractable roof under the immaculate sky, if the weather holds; he makes Abulafia I’s private box in time for the first card. A beastly silence shot fatally by gunfire—a ring, they’re dashing to track in bobs up down up and down again; two of them, breaking fast a length or two now three ahead right from out of the gate; this team of dromedaries racing ridiculously with knees held high like risen mountains. Twotoed hard, and lately shaved of their shag to decrease resistance to the wind they’re faster than, they turn turns around and around, with their necks outstretched, their mouths agape, spitting forward, a gleet fleet with tongues like flags, loose and flapping lips and nostrils flaring. The leaning might of these racers, these small dark smokes, cameljockeys they’re called, enslaved short and skinny kinder, rationed by their sheikhs to keep down their times—they’re slumped low atop the naked fat of the hump, stripped to the waist, pithhelmeted. To ride against that wind, its speed and force, their records: history, too, is racing tonight, and the principals, they’re just trying to hold on…and, to broadcast this race: an ancient vulture trained by its forefeatheredfathers to fly with an antenna in its talons, transmitting Image.

Die sits on the rug, on the floor of the platform glassed above the action; smiling a fresh moustache with a pretense to enjoying the sport, he’s really just preparing his shtick, working up the room and the relevant nerve, what he’s willing to give. Here in Palestein to merit the favor of substitute gods, he’s willing to offer, what do you want, what can he do for you on the outs as he is: if Die needs B to keep himself not only purchasing but politically necessary, which is free, and, also, if Shade’s going Affiliated on the deal, then Die needs other allies, alternate angels. And so the Abulafias, until now the most important faction of any Resistance, their ambition unchecked by moral imperative, the idea of statecraft, or good will, any responsibility to the world and its sufferers that doesn’t in any way, even if calculatingly meek, profit their own effort into the bargain: Abulafias II through Allah knows how many taking turns amid the warm dusk phoning out wagers to their bookies below (un-guessed scarabs they seem from up here, running numbers around tracks of their own making), Muhammed the Infinite Oddsmaker O don’t You forsake me now…making straights and shows, pick threes, sixes, perfectas, trifectas, and supers, anything with the promise of fixed returns; card after cards they’re betting big, until the races end—droms each to their own stables, jockeys returned to their cells, the losers to be whipped with the severed tails of retired rides. At the suggestion of al-Cohol, who’s just returned from a state visit to Moscow, they’re drinking yorsh, that mortalizing mix of vodka bombed with beer, ladled up into crystal from a trophy’s bowl—the stadium’s lights dim, they’re soon sloshed, and eventually, ten, twelve lchaims in, wagering on everything, digitdrunk sums who thinks to take seriously or honor: He’ll turn up where as who or what, alive or dead by the time we get done with Him, His weight to size of waist upon apprehension, hatless or hapless they’re slurrings, phoning further bets overseas to Gelt who takes them down diligently into a little black machzor he keeps in a suitpocket, and this despite unimpeachable evidence of their wagerers’ intoxication, the incomprehension of figures named then raised amid promises made, faces kissed, hands shook then wrung in for a hug, embraced into a kiss for the duplicitous face, too, oneupmenschship all.

Too early the next morning hungover from dawn, shikkerthirsty Abulafias II and III in matching tatarplaid golf outfits ring at the door of Die’s penthouse, luxury you should be so lucky (second only to the Presidential Suite at the Q’asino Q’apitolina, it’s hushingly said, presently occupied by the Shush of Iran, here in Palestein to make a bid on a Transjordanian masstransit contract), excusing the absence of their father, Abulafia I, Prophet and lately King of Palestein, in their most wretchedly obsequious idiom. A thousand apologies they say with their hands, a million of these tendering the most sincere of regrets, the other ups the ante, they’re not invited in. Die stands at the threshold sick. Keep your kopf together, he’s thinking, there’s a war on. Could I get a glass of water and an aspirin? Abulafia III asks, then spits like the Bactrian he’s importing for tandem competition; it’s waiting for him grazing on the tarmac at the aeroport in Ramallah. We’re not mercenaries he means, or not totally, II interrupts his brother’s dribbly reverie to say, scratching him to attention under his three days’ worth of stubble. Is it Shade? Die asks as if he didn’t know, him you’re afraid of, there are ways of dealing with him. It’s everybody, III says, alerted, who are we against them? Nobody, his brother answers for him, and so what should we do? Make as much profit as we can, III stares at Hamm passedout a soil on the carpet, reminds himself to have a talk with which numbered sister of his down in housekeeping, while we can, he means, his brother saves again, and then be gone, III finishes the thought to think no more, it hurts too much, cradles his chin as if to lull to sleep the vomit. What’s happening, what’s going on? Die’s asking on the return flight that afternoon, routed through Washington for a report back to Shade not just polite but required; he surges down the aisle, storms turbulence at the stewardess who’s headached Hamm in drag, half at least with the mini hat but without the miniskirt now that who can afford to keep a staff anymore. If I’m not for myself, who’ll be for me? But if I’m only for myself—futz me, I forget…forget it. Have the Hymies taken over? What’s wrong with a world that rejects its own Messiah—especially when He’s been positioned so well? Frontrow, seated on the aisle—asking, what kind of End Times are we living in, anyway?

»Apparatbedienung schloroformdämme rungsendfieberge spensterherr schaftsirrtumsjenseits krisenlähmung mißverständnisni chtungsoperationspanik quadraturenredestaubtä uschungsüber fallverrenkungswüs tenxmalypsilontenzeit« is just one possible diagnosis, though the other Doctor Tweiß (as they’re spelling it scharfed), as always, is inclined to disagree, pronounces it an »Anfangsbeiläufigkeit schemikaliendurs texistenzfurchtger innungshöllenirrs innsjämmerlich keitskrampfleidenmie nennormalität sopferpuppenqüt schungrandschicks alstraumübers teigerungsverbotswahn xbeliebigkeitsypsilotiezeit« boosts a book from the shelf not to consult, rather to set it under his sit. The former Head Psychoanalyst and Plastician to the nation, they’ve been stripped of their positions, laid naked under the dotted eyes of headlines (Mayor Meyer only acting on orders of, a favor asked by Shade who doesn’t do begging); they’re kissed off in miser fashion—with severance of either a few grand each, or a limb, it’s up to them—and soon find themselves without business, referralless as the Garden falls further from favor; smacked with suits, too, they’re being sued by anyone with a lawyer for an inlaw—that is, when they’re not formulating these absurd diagnoses for Die who, named in these suits civil and criminal both as an accessory, often as codefendant, three weeks before the anniversary of Xmas, two days late on the rent how he sells their offices out from under them, effectively banishing them to the burbs, without their receptionist, equipment, or files. They laze their days at home, then, faddishly nude atop their exercisemats on mornings when they do their calisthenics (magically Persian flyingcarpets when they’re high nights), over brunch following forging themselves prescriptions for drugs not yet invented: an insurance pill, an employment pill, a pill for debt reduction, utility assistance, you name, we’ll script it, whatever mishmashed medicament; talking over the paper every morning delivering reports just getting worse: all Unaffliated doctors are required to register at once with a new licensing committee (retesting), are forbidden from treating the Affiliated as of yesterday, have to stop in at an office and get themselves a routine shot, don’t ask, it’s all for your own good…how we promise, swear on our ethics and oaths—and then, buried in the backpages next to the classifieds they’ve been circling like buzzards (cash for gold; baggage handlers wanted, will train, shomer Shabbos req.), the casualties on all counts: “Sergei Shloshimvasheshky, 36, of Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, was found dead yesterday in the East River. The cause of death is undetermined. Though relatives report that Reb Shloshimvasheshky had been despondent of late, police have not yet ruled out murder. ‘Having received no reports of anyone falling from any of our city’s bridges, which are under constant surveillance, I would hesitate to call this a suicide,’ said District Attorney E. Falsch Goldenberg at the City Hall press conference.” (Mayor Meyer standing behind him, on the dais, the altar of the rotunda, his hands on his shoulders, squeezing) do you hear this, are you listening, “At the time of his death, Reb Shloshimvasheshky was on leave without pay from Garden, Inc., having acted in the capacity of bodydouble for May His Name Remain Withheld for All Eternity, present whereabouts unknown. Reb Shloshimvasheshky is survived by his wife, Feyge-Kelly, and a daughter, TovaKristina, currently of Angels, Calif.” I told you, I so told you. “A member of Metropolitan Gestapo speaking on condition of anonymity has confirmed that this is the twelfth body to have been found in the East River and in Resistance subway tunnels during routine sweeps in the last moon alone, the victims all said to have been employed at various times by Garden, Inc., as doubles to the Unmentionable. Due to mutilation, however, the other eleven victims remain unidentified. The DA’s office awaits the results of a dental analysis…” and yadda and blah, the continual teethchatter—performed by anyone but the poor Doctors Tweiss, not quite forensic odontologists more like fake DDS’ though they need the work, God, by now they’ll take anything they can get: sinking gumlined and deeper into their dust habits, two grand per day’s what it kills them to get the stuff flown in from a supplier in Sephard, its corridor chaining through Palestein where—will you listen to this? “according to Reb Goldenberg, Esq., ‘unfortunately, it’s still too early to tell whether or not May His Name Fall from Your Mouth Like Teeth is among the dead…’” and, anyone with any information regarding anything is hereby urged to ponder the hassle involved with it all—now, we’ll open the floor up to questions…please, mind you don’t fall in.

O the rotted roots of the familytree, the strangling, twisty begats, begets, and begots that rot the tree from the roots on up, then the forest, too, every town, village, and Development surrounding: excommunication, it’s been argued if only recently, can become a form of purification, a manner of rebirth. And so now let us make our ways out onto the steep of His father’s branch, the strong and outstretched bough of the Unaffiliated, deepdrinking, stoutly trunked, thickskinned, and lasting—anything but the Garden’s withered, winterleafless barren chopped for coffinwork, abandoning Him to the elements without even the shadow of shelter. In this beginning, though, as in all of them, how it’d been shared, the roots or root, all stemmed from the same, seeded by the grave of an original fall…that of Adam, named so by He Who has no name and every one of them, also, according to many actually ninetynine of them that they all themselves name as One the ineffable, inextinguishable hundredth that Itself named Lilith to know her named and then, though only after this the first union or, say, marriage ended in what had to have been the first divorce, a great split of fire struck at the growth of the trunk—did he know an Eve, Hava her name was in the tongue with which he licked her and, too, named his other animals (snake, serpent, sidewinder, rattler), Eve who in her own way grew heavy with kind, meaning pregnant as opposed to fat and unattractively apple-shaped from overappleeating, brought to bear two sons one of whom killed the other it’s tragic I know, would rather not talk about it, you understand…and from then on throughout the halls of the house of David, which must have been manyroomed, sixfloor sixfigured expensive and held up under an enormous mortgage, the naming and knowing have been most commendably documented by either God the One and Only, or at the very least by Moses, if you want, or else by any other prophets you’d like to name who though they, too, like all of us had been present at Sinai, still only prophesized their knowing and naming of the past for the sake of future generations such as ours and amid them as well, living subsequent to the Law or their description of it and of its putative giving upon that mountain lost, all of them much more omniscient I’m sure than the mortal here, presently invoking their calling; passages becoming a bit circuitous then, windingly serpentine, fanglocked the doors along the hallways until we reach that sepulchral, chronically unfinished, basement-like abode of a mensch he’s named Jesus the son of Joseph and to many dead the son, too, of God the One and True: the room’s unkempt, sorry, actually messy, requiring duster and vacuum, a mother or whorish maid though Jesus He or he never knew anybody, apparently, knew in the knowing sense, I mean, reportedly never left his room, or it’d been rumored that he couldn’t make the payments, and that the bank it foreclosed on the House of his father, or fathers, or Father—and so where to wander now expelled, made homeless, prodigally estranged, and vilified, too, held in cruciform contempt upon the last standing beam grown out from under the mangered roof ’s collapse: to begin, then, again, or only to meddle around with the middle, ten generations later, if not fifty, or rather many many many more than all that, on what had been the coldest day on record that year, which was the year 1770something or other, perhaps, or possibly only those number of years before the birth of our B, upon which a peasant, endued dirtily in rags of skin, and with the head of an ox, three fingers on each hand and four toes on each foot, its loins, his, perpetually inflamed, rashyred with carbuncle and boil, set upon as if by a ghost, an apparitional superstition he claimed Baba Yaga or Rusalka, the Dziewanna who was Diana and her dogs if you want his name’s let’s say it’s Dziobak and he’s a priest, responsible in his district whose property boundaries and municipal borders have yet to be established for the establishment anyway of a standard depth of grave, who on this day was made a father through his rape of a woman named Tamar of a son named Jan who died along with his mother in birth and then through his rape of another Tamar who this one was married to a mensch Dziobak never thought to remember his name before he killed him then ate him, too, and then drank his wineblood and pickled for winter his brain, then fed the offal to his dogs he also raped and ate and whose blood he also drank was the made father of another son named Jan who he also died in birth but not his mother who, through yet another rape of her, which weakened her bruised, beaten, battered as she already was how Dziobak was made the father of yet another Jan during which birth this Tamar finally died, a Jan who was a daughter this once but was named Jan anyway because once you begin a thing (raping, murdering, naming) it’s famously hard to bring about an end to it, a daughter Jan who she verily seduced another Jan this Jan a priest himself, to sin, the fruit of which union were fraternal twins they went and named Slobomir, the boy, and Slutomira, the girl, and later also a daughter, and this one, if briefly, Dziobak’s wife, following nine moons later whom they abandoned upon her maturation to womanhood why, because one daughter, Slutomira, was already two too many, that and the scandal of her wifely rape by her father and then her abandonment by him and her mother and the unsettlingly rapid growth of her breasts and hips, a daughter who’d become adopted by a cowherd named Cowherd (Pasterz, like a pastor, if you’re interested, a herder of hefty flocks), a daughter found at the side of a road less a road than a mud through the fields who knew who owned them and why, whom he named Daughter as she was never named much by her own parents who’d known her by force, her father, then left her to fend for herself in the still of the night, Daughter (Córka) who would grow up and then into her hips and breasts only to become a premature widow without kinder, her husband name of M dying on the very night of their wedding from drinking homemade slivovitz brewed with consumption, before going on to marry another goy named let’s say for the sake of our argument Przybysaw who he would only one day after the consummation of their marriage be conscripted to die a solider but not in combat out in what once had been the pale of Prussia, fell upon by the horse he rode on away from the front deserting the very same day his wife back in it was then known as Polyn bore them their daughter whom she named all on her own because he wasn’t around anymore Adela, who you wouldn’t know it to pass her on horseback or run her down with your carriage on the mud of the street but she was two bits of what’s now called a nymphomaniac herself, then known as a Milkmaid, Bartender, or Chargirl or woman, who she verily bore a daughter whom she named Wanda by one of maybe ten Cossacks or so or their nine horses it’s up to you, nu vot, nichevo, returning to wherever they graze from Krapivno, Wanda who grew up to womanhood and then with her hips boxed amid a heap of excelsior that had been the kindling of her village burnt in a recent pogrom got out of hand with the cup of her breasts, too, properly crated though never insured, bought herself a ticket on only a smile and a passport she swallowed for and imported herself all alone Over Here, just in the nick of time to lose the affections and so sponsorship of this Italianate goy named Nick the Greek, short for Nikolas whom she’d met on the passage over in steerage in favor of yet another fellow immigrant or emigrant take your pick she’d met on the Island in quarantine, measles, this halfGerman, halfIrish, and entirely bisexual goy named he claimed it was true Richard John but that’s not the best part—Israelien, who he left her soon after on Orchard Street in New York City it was with a two day hotel bill and a three night bar tab for the daughter of an insurance salesmensch, a longtime American and yet also still scandalously Affiliated woman by the name of Rachel-Leah who she would later run away with a butcher’s son and his cart then owned by the butcher’s second I think she was wife, commonlaw it was called (which cart was before that the exclusive property of his first, who’d run away with the mailmensch for Missouri, where they opened a barbershop, in the back of a store selling Notions), ran away then with the only son of the Butcher of Bed-Stuy and with the son of Richard John Israelien growing inside her, born only after the butcher’s son was killed in a Brooklyn bar fight over the privilege of a coaster, perhaps, a son she named John Israelien Jr. whom she lived with in the cart she kept until the day John Israelien Jr. who was verily called J.J. if only by his halfsister, Mary her name was who was the daughter of the butcher’s son and Rachel-Leah who, he went and married a woman that she was named Deborah née we think Epstein, and supported her and them by working as a plumber while his wife this Dvorah, or maybe Deborah or Deb or else Debby who knows how it changed with her dresses she spent all his money on them, she traded plums for what she swore to him were only light favors, exchanges and the like, trades in kind, including which was a son maybe this J.J. gave her and maybe not (how it’s been argued, though only lately, and with the results of tests based conclusively on research no one’s at liberty to reveal, that the boy’s true father might have actually been this Leroy Goywhoremembers, of Astoria, Queens, whom Deborah she’d taken up with only one summer into their marriage after her plums had turned themselves shriveled, then tongue-dry, and so had to be traded as prunes—admitted to his apartment she didn’t even have a chance to lay out her wares on his kitchencounter before he laid her down on the livingroom floor and there had his way with her, knowing her and naming her whatever he’d moan: that’s what these people do, these goyim, understand: they lie with one another indiscriminately, and uncleanly, on floors that are filthy, unswept, unmopped), and so they whoever made a son together name of Isaac and known to us as PopPop, last name Israelien, later raised after J.J. left her barefoot, barestomached, and pregnant for a woman he’d often plumb, too, up at her home in the Bronx, this goy name of Martha who cares for her or what she was called by way of last names, by Deborah and a putz whom she hated but at least he provides, she’d always say Harry who was an electrician but without any electricity himself, it’s been said, that he was quiet and sullen, always at home with a beer and a ballgame, and humiliated, too, at her demanding and only in spite of him and all he felt for her and provided as well for her feet now slippered and her stomach now full though never with his seed but with his own homecooking that her son Isaac he keep the surname of his father, which was Israelien, PopPop and this we’re almost totally sure of who through His MomMom, one Beatrice Schmeatrice it’s not that important, only that it’s PopPop’s wife whom he met outside of a church of hers he’d often attend himself, if only for the free soup and crusts of bread they gave out and for the use of their bathrooms, they had a son themselves that they named him Israel, PopPop thinking the double naming humorous, iconoclastic, and MomMom, she didn’t have any say, it’s said, how they hardly ever talked, and how PopPop had anyway only promised to give her kinder in return for her silence, that around the house and also with regard to his true sexual orientation that was first and irrevocably ascertained at the age of eighteen with the help of a neighborhood priest, Israel their son the first of his kind to convert, then, and that without knowing much of his lineage beyond a generation at most, him the first ever to identify with Affiliation, without any governments or their militaries forcing him to, and all perhaps psychologically in light of a recent history that…to even love his own strangely intermixed, Atlantic watereddown Affiliation, embracing what he would grow to regard as his birthright, as the Cain do, Abelbodied mark of a worldly American with firm roots deep in the earth, a love’s growth filial and strong no doubt stemming as well, as a fruit from a branch from a bough from a tree airing his feelings for a woman that she had the name Hanna he married and impregnated only one day and ten loans out of lawschool and his admittance to the bar not a week or so later, Hanna née Senior her maiden name was though soon better known as the mother of B, the thirteenth of her kinder all of them girls with the exception of Him, the salvific last a boy they named Benjamin and whom we must refer to now by His initial on the advice of our counsel—Ben He once was known as, meaning: A son, originally named after a relative that just had to be maternal, and that only after protracted debate unto sleeplessness and the midnight making, morningside remaking of lists they in their various nervousness, his, and her predisposition for order, neurotic, went and arranged alphabetically, though listing for themselves only the names of females, girls for the girl they’d been expecting as of daughters they’d already had twelve:

MALKA                              (queen),

MAVA                                 (pleasant),

MIRI                                         (bitter),

------------------------------------ MENACHEMA

(consolation)???

MIRIAM,                             (rebellious);

this, the degeneration of the degenerations of one Benjamin BLANK, as provisionally assembled from an extensive trove of scholarly materials only last quarter discovered amid collections charred, basemented, of Siburban attics both sacred, profane—both previously classified and heretofore outright outclassed: Rabbi Doctor Karol Hushner PhD’s estimable summary of the entire Nachlass of Doctor Elisha Abuya (Ethica Semitica), comprising a small, eminently portable volume whose covers—as do its Subjects—branch themselves out into innumerably leafy later editions, supplanted in terms of comprehensiveness if not in that of readability by the multiedited, multiauthored, multivolume (7) opus Tractatus Neohebraicus, representing the unrivaled summation of all Affiliated thought (indeed, the acknowledged precursor to all future scholarship in the field, it’s suggested in passim), with emphasis placed on parallels manifest between religious ritual and trends within then contemporary culture (invaluable Notes & Postface provided by one Rav Yossi Letushkin). Also might we mention to you our vast selection of surviving incanabula—for esoteric, press #1, for exoteric, press #2—which we are only now prepared to make available in handsome reproduction for the edification of the general public (lacunæ not included, pericope upon request): the Steinstein Agrapha fragments, Poxy 48a, and the Q documents, GMy1, 2, and the Rubina Pseudoepigraphia, this remaining Oxyrhynchiana going on sale now and for the lowlow price of only 99.99 NS (New Shekels; note: B Notes no longer accepted), supplies are limited, operators are standing by the banks of the Jordan reclaimed. And these are the degenerations of the degenerations of the degenerations of one Mister Benjamin Blank: witness the destruction ignobly ordered of the entire Garden Archive, whose hold had been rumored to include a Rothschild’s richesse of firsthand accounts, along with a Warburgian wealth of secondary source documentation, an Oppenheimerian fortune of footage: thousands of hours of recorded interview with many of the Subject’s intimates, culled from hundreds of appearances in tens of media outlets; at the heart of this estimable body of record since lost, once lying in reels that would seem the tombs of instantly resurrectable corpus—pull the blinds, flick the breath, it’s alive—at least threehundred sixtyfive (365) films dealing with the unspeakable Subject Itself, including: Israel’s Home Movies (Beta II, Beta III, VHS, DVD, SPECIFY FORMAT), professionally recorded simchas shredded, Garden surveillance torched…and an excellent selection of those legendarily forgotten Holywood epics, never to be screened for our patience again: The Making of a Messiah (5760), Live in Los Siegeles (5760), The Making of the Making of a Messiah (5760), Pope for a Year (5760), Joysey Girl (5760)…

But we haven’t mentioned her much, have we—allow us to rectify. Her name was Rubina, and she was the true Israelien firstborn, though a girl, a woman almost, the guardian of their blood and its cause. As if Him developed in opposite, His other half…the mirror that was once in the hall that was then moved into her room to be her mirror while a new mirror was bought for the hall: she was reflective, was it…slim, tall, and silent (reedy, it could be said, but should anyone resemble a reed?), in appearance as neat and orderly as her room, which for those eight days during which they shared the earth together and its house thereupon was B’s obsession. A room fluffed of all pillow, or so it’d felt—hers the one room topside He’d avoid in His house removed to the Garden as if a reflection of the basement below: any sleep there was troubled, nightmares whoever remembered anything but their fright, tumblingly tear the sheets from the bed, highly threadcounted to lull and then…held taut, a white that was tight and yet soft, welcoming to fall asleep and yet, a terror to dream: that wasn’t for Him, the room was too virginally pure, as if carpeted by snow underfoot so undisturbed He wants to fly out the window she’d gaze through toward the tree in the yard, not step down to stay and admire its shade. And she, too, was soft, that once she held Him on the recline of that eighth day home from the hospital with Hanna asleep upstairs-upstairs, them in the kitchen, Him gathered hulkingly into her lap, the folds of her skirt, as if cleavage Himself, or a still bumptious pregnancy—but she was still a virgin, wasn’t she, never known…her hips in motherly sit becoming her waist becoming her breasts two of them both severe and knifelike, He’d cried when they wouldn’t milk, pricked His lips, then how she let go, too heavy, too huge—then went to gather Him up again, tried to but couldn’t, pale, unforgiving: the cries she ignored as she felt hers were ignored always and still, leaving Him alone on the floor for her room. Of the wrong sex for inheritance, birthed carelessly to the wrong, engendered only to lose…Rubina would pass with the rest, to the sleep she so desperately needed. Hanna, jealous of her youth. As for Israel, he wouldn’t touch her anymore. Years since menarche. That and the three of them hardly talked ever since she got her license for her own car, too, with her college acceptance, Dear Rubina Israelien, We are pleased to inform you that…she was to leave soon enough, the house, the hearth if they’d had one that worked; the pillows, stuffed full with room. Freedom, she thought. Real life…not to be.

As for her name, Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel or Leah—they’d decided early on Rubina, and so beginning the cycle of resurrecting the dead, as if a Messiah’s remaking: her named after Reuben, though his name was Reuven, her mother’s side her greatuncle, never knew him, you never do if you have their name’s how it is, how they always die before you’re ever born to their calling. She has his lips, too (erogenously rued); it’s awful, you give someone a name after another, suddenly that someone has another’s lips and eyes (hyperthyroidal, exophthalmic), her nose, or hair. How that last Shabbos’ night she’s left alone if still, distantly, ghostingly, mothered at the table already emptied and even sponged in the diningroom, the tableroom, the we sit and eat and drink here and be a family sustaining ourselves altogether here room, sitting at the place at which she always sat, facing Hanna now resting herself upstairs to the left of her father gone, too. Then the boy, Benjamin’s His name’s what she knows not His namesake. All’s cleared, except her bowl of soup, lentil, taken with a large dose of salt. The warmth had left, her and the soup unspooned. Upstairs-upstairs, the pillows were waiting, holding her form.

Eat your soup! Hanna’d said, you eat nothing, I want you to eat up, I need you to do it for me…two spoonfuls, at least one or a half, you’re old enough for me not to have to—should I heat it up?

And how Rubina a little late to mature begins crying again, seasoning the soup already, I’m sorry, she’s not, just a pinch overseasoned, doubledipped, too, with a lapse of the pepper when Hanna was called to the phone.

Israel again—again late.

You, you’re as thin as a snake…I’m asking you to eatup, please, a something, just a little something, for me I’m your mother, but nothing. As if too tired to hold even her spoon’s silver, its bowl weighed down by only the light it scoops from a far sconce, she’s exhausted, with no expression of response, then, thrusting the white of her wrists out, her pure upturned hands, she rises from the table, walks to the hall, seemingly somnambulant (her face fine and un-lined, slenderwaisted nose, greatuncle lips though that mensch, he was actively sensuous, loved him his women and girls and his food and drink, and her introverted ringlets of hair, corkscrewy enough to take up a tangle of it with which to open a bottle of wine), up the stairs to her room, which she enters with feathersteps, then lies down: enters not through her door, as there’s no door to her room, it’s just curtained, and the old curtain from the shower downstairs the stronger defense, against what—Israel having hung it in punishment after Josephine had found her inhaling inside, smoking what; her form as if gusted, through the hallway and into the sheer, and then through it, oneirically, in a gauzy meld (at least that’s how it’s been filmed, softfocus, soundtracked with an orchestra of strings divided more than could be any family, tribe, or her nation), disappears into sleep, fade to black: despite or perhaps thanks to such state, which is medicated to numb—generically zaleplon, with zolpidem occasionally mixed—to share her angels as if these halved wingless pills offered in return for fast friendship with Lilith, the Mother of Night, to hold wild heavens of sleepovers, gossiping over junk manna until dawn upon the winds of the harp. Rubina had had it all, had possessed the stuff in the veins, the life and its generational furtherance—all the living branches of our bodied tree, veined out from her heart to the tips of her fingers and the pleasurable bud between her thighs and her toes: it’s that she could’ve engendered, barring the effects of an unfortunate endometriosis—and maybe that’s why she slept so much, always tired…that’s what the doctors decided, not depression or smoking or drugs or the college degrees her car required or whatever else the shrinks shrank from her, the pulse always in her protuberant eyes and the burnt broken wing of her mouth—but sensing that she was of no use, perhaps knowing this only on her last night as if it were a void just discovered within her in bed and about to sleep for her last, found deep in her womb as a hunger, a lower thirst, having hidden to maturity in a hollow, the death grown bare, her barren. Ours will be the world of the bloodless. Ours is the world of no claim.

Why is that this time of year would be family, would’ve been, the holidays and their own familiar family that once a year and every year subsume our own and lesser, ingathering the schedule: All who art offering us seats at their table, which is always longer and wider than any of ours and, too, with leaves that extend so far and almost irretrievably out as to accommodate people who yearly are strangers to us and who not only look like us but also think like us and how they even like the same foods as us and have brought the flowers and wine—all that essing and fressing from Sukkot on down to Simchat Torah, that indulgence we then work off our waists and our hippyhips with a dance, the hop hop then smack smack of our palms, their fronds, against the face of the moon waxing gluttonous, eight days fattened from its new…this they have to know, not to understand, just to know: the ritual, the life that was Tishrei or is, the first of the months begun over again, after a year spent intertestamentary—sit down, have a seat, I’ll tell you what, you can even keep it, it’s yours, we have many more like it, and who knows if there’ll ever be other guests; a cycle ending with the month known as Elul only to begin again with I think Nisan, not sure, it’s been too long this forever; this year every year, this life every life, for immemorial made of lists and threats, impulsive shopping; the months made moons to wane away the time, the set then rise of coming sun whenever least convenient…Hanna lowering herself exhausted deeply and demonstrative into a chair, mundane, there at the kitchentable, profane, on the first regular old nonholiday, nonsacred autumn afternoon that’s fallen after everything, after the New Year with its ten days tonguing away at Yom Kipper’s privation, Yom-Keep-Poor then Sukkot the holiday of festive gathering outside in the sukkah under the harvest of stars, the dancing again and the singing observed what with the Torah then all over again and then, weekday, no day at all, at least nothing special, and, if just for a moment—there’s nothing…nothing to prepare, nothing to do, nothing expected of her and, too, nothing to observe for herself or her others save this immaculately slow slow lowering of her spine into that everyday chair in that brunchdrunk, salt-shaky kitchen over which she sweeps back the hair and the wig, a breath, mops brow, a moment only of exasperated existence then, what do you know, it’s the Sabbath again, Shabbos again, who has a choice, is what she’s thinking, who can choose or would want to: ticked time to prepare again, tocked to slave, to suckle; there’s so much to do, and so much less time is what the clockface questions: to bake or not to bake, chicken; Simone needs you to sign a form allowing her to attend a trip to a museum; Liv wants you to sign a test an A in history why not an A plus, she’s asking; no time for scolding pride though as Judith, hymn, she has this little seepy weepy problem that she’s locked herself alone with in the bathroom; blood, I’m scared, what is it, Ima, what’s happening to me…it’s a boy.

An emptiness, the Shabbos of a school not just off or out of session for the day or holiday but abandoned…B busts the locks then barges through the chill, seeking only shelter: an empty class. It’s just down West 90th, a girl’s school without girls or anyone; poshish, tony, the first school Rubina had ever attended, though through kindergarten only: she’d been an only daughter for a year before Simone was born, she’d been a citygirl, for six snobbed years before Liv ever joined them and made them sisters more than just to one another—then they moved down to Joysey together, way before the days of the house and the lawn and the basement and the twocar commute. Simone and Liv and the rest unborn had been too young for anything, though, and had stayed at home and unmade, but Rubina—this had been her world five days a week, fullday. Too huge to fit behind a student’s desk He destroys to splinters, He sits atop the teacher’s for a rest.

To think: this is what it would’ve been like to live in a city, to be native to this shtus, at home here, a life lived quick and quickly wise…how this is where He would’ve gone to school, too, to yeshiva, though in the boy’s wing, which is just next door, life’s always just next door, He’s thinking—had what happened never happened, that is, had we never moved out and then, died. A mind denied Him—this school the repository of yet another inheritance deferred. The shelves are empty of books, bookended loss; it’s dark in here, better not to tempt the fluorescents—the sweep of the floor, its pencil shavings, chalk remains from the happy clap of appreciative erasers smeared into the spirals of shoes out on permanent recess, their tag you’re it, and skip and jump. Dust gathered thickly on the scarred faces of desks, chewing gum’s wadded on the plastic panels of the ceiling gnawed with wet, snapped pointers heaped at the radiator as kindling, an old flag hanging in flags, a globe’s smashed in, world flattened; calendars fade into maps, so tired, the round white eye of the clock’s shut stopped; there are charts here and there are graphs and there are trees here, a mess of corkboard herald, pushpin fame, gold stars spangle the wall, they fall from their walls from up high near the waterlogged ceiling, below the paper trim that scrolls out the math and the alphabets: A a, B b, C c…B turns His head to follow the tongue of paper around and around, tongueless trying to sound its letters out now, right to left, Aleph, Bet, the latter the letter that begins His own name, ending in a grunt—call me that…in His turn facing front again, to take in the tablet before Him.

A chalkboard, effaced in clouds to bear heavy weather over the metal of its lower lip, hosting in the beveled curl its scowl, a single wisp of chalk—but no eraser. A blackboard scarred in white, balmed with the puff of gray clouds at its margins, wiped into winter at its center by a palm licked slick, dispersed with the tail of a coat, dispelled with a flick of the cuff: its surface entire a great whirlwind of days, of weeks, or moons, their record scribbled, rescribbled, worn, scrawled into palimpsest then rubbed thin to a unity, dappled pure, this sky streaked light over dark. He jumps from the teacher’s desk to stand, to grab at the chink of chalk. Then, with a fierce stub thrust, He rips the board from the wall; flaking plaster, screws stripped from wood on brick, it comes off in His hands. He ties it around His neck with a ripped stripe of the flag He halves, tying with the more modest fray the wisp of chalk to a boardtop eyelet: leaving the classroom, then the school itself, heading out into the interpreting world, stilled in Shabbos silence. B spits on a finger to erase, a clean slate, saliva daubed with blood. A thumbprint’s trace. Upsidedown, it doesn’t matter…I will write myself.

The sightings taper off to a worm. People have other appetites now…and even the most recent pilgrims, thanatopsical tourists with serious possibly illegitimate income to dispose of packagedin from Hotzeplotz to here, to Miami, their reservations made moons ago, nonrefundable deposits put down, to pay admission as much as their homage at the refurbished sites—nu, even they’re reluctant to make the trip and, if they do, just think of the money they’d lose, then they never purchase souvenirs for anyone of any relation more distant than that of a mother or wife, even splurge on dessert at the still swanky yet woefully understaffed Restaurant Under the Sign of the Imperfectly Toned Pectorals, at which establishment an Oriental tourist of the name Jacob-san, after having waited for over an hour for his order to be taken, then forgotten, then taken again, excuses himself in advance of any question to the paunch of mensch dining at a neighboring table, then asks him in a perfectly unaccented phrasebook grunt what the guidebook has thought fit to omit…ach, what in hell does the name Miami actually mean?

And the mensch, up for either Freeholder or Freeloader your choice with two sides potato and greens he ashes his cigar on the wall-to-wall, answers the tourist fanged through the tines of his fork that Miami, that’s just old Injun talk, means only Miami, thank you, it’s appreciated, forget it, don’t mention and returns to his brisket they call it secretrecipe, really choppedsteak marketprice-gouged. Jacob-san tucks his napkin under the straps of his photo and video equipment just as, a miracle, his order arrives, miraculous, too, that the kitchen’s made no mistake: it’s the house specialty, a heaping portion as prepared in the spirit of the old Gospel of Lukewarm, an oftrecommended, incomparably of the moment, most artistic and between you and me delectably profitable selection of savory: the Garnish Plate, which is a dish of horseradish, roots only, each of which’s gotten sliced into the face of a panoply of public figures lately vilified (and accompanied by an indifferent dipping sauce, pareve), as featured, in order alephbetical, on the last page of the menu above the reddened white of the winelist discontinued. Jacob-san forks into their version of the Pope, Pius Zeppelini da Foist newly displaced, become an encyclic salesmensch some joke and it is, a lifeguard to the canals of the ghetto at Venice others might laugh, whatever the giggly rumor no longer in favor despite his conversion, which was only lipservice, most think, suspected reversion, a cryptogoy (according to sources formerly of the dissolved Washington nunciature, Shade had offered a deal, either accept a God without a son or face, or face that son disinherited’s death); he foists the root onto his tongue, keeps his mouth shut about it, masticates thoughtfully.

In New York, where Jacob-san’s due next week if the itinerary’s subject to no change or lastminute holiday cancellation let’s hope to take in the lower eastern remnants of all’s usurped birthright, they’re only a step ahead of the (expected, please) throngs, out erecting Affiliated Monuments out of almost any tenemental, slumlordabove wreck: dedicating plaques, plinths, and statues (replica souvenir statuettes to be made available posthaste, bobbleheaded, skinchangeable, they’re just waiting for the shipments to arrive from the overseas shvitzshops this Jacob-san’s brother helps to manage back home), just a moment before any line should begin to form east from Broadway: an experience in the finding of unfounded memory, an only knocks once opportunity this, to be ingathered again, to become disembarked upon whatever passes for diaspora nowadays, onto this Island offIsland, as were their now again assimilated forefathers way back when, here to wander map in hand and foot in mouth the Heritage Trail, its serpentine ways, alleys and streets, avenues and drives—snakeskin cobblestoned, coldblooded paved, then graved over in an asphalt currently being torn up all over town—of a heritage just about everyone claims nowadays on penalty of, like how not to…to follow the trail of the crumbling bread even the crows won’t peck at, or whatever else that intermittently winding substance our most observant of streetschleppers and sweepers’ve been noticing lately, it’s worrying—though just short of them filing an official report, those dashes and dots of drip dropped up and Downtown this lonesome stretch of barrengardened, coldflat Orchard Street: a secret message of what, encrypted for whom. Anyway, is it even Orchard Street…isn’t it maybe Grand, or Delancey I’m crossing, Division dividing Essex or Essen, hesternal Hester heading western to where, I don’t know, no street numbers I’m seeing, O show me the signs—Second Avenue I know at least, I see they’ve renamed it Avenue Bet, First Avenue, Aleph, I get it, nu, I can count, but this is easier than ever, and southward unceased…who’s been down here before who’s native, who knew, who could ever hope to? Not Him from Siburbia, not used to such mess made of grid, such rank dissolution of order. He retraces steps, trails His own trail, how to get out and where to, wandering amid His own waste, wallowing amidst His own slime, the prints of His shoes swirling His progress He loops up then around, lost again, looks around. He’s lost sight of the skyscrapers Uptown—landmarks, occidental enough, when what He requires is an orientation. Where was that knishery my Aba had loved, that place he’d mentioned once to Ima how he’d go entire blocks out of his way just for their shtikel a pickle? Their bagels, bialys? Anyone who wants to find Him has only to follow His loss, the drop of His drip. Mine. That’s how I find myself, here.

B’s begun trailing this slime behind Him—it might’ve been something He ate, some’ve suggested, a schmear gone wrong: just the last day or so, a viscous and humiliate secretion. He hasn’t yet been to the doctor about it, why, too many conditions to consult, who would treat Him and live, after all, who can trust them, and who’ll pay the bill—this perhaps the relapse of a familiar syndrome, yet again returning familiarly, Tweiss shy: with etiology merely another waitingroom for those with more time than pain, them and the already eulogized, too, in short, the headshrunk, it’s a latent fear of diagnosis He’s suffering from, a fear of treatment, if you want, the generic idiopathic, and sticky, stinging on its way trickling out; this slime, His trail, the solution He’s marking out from the swell of His rear. Once it leaves Him, slowly gloats down His legs then out their pants to meet the pant of the air, it tints a Radzyn royal blue, with a fading hint of Tyrian purple, reflected in the rear of the clouds below the tush of the sun: it’s the shade of techeles, that’s the term in the new language old, apparently a substance the rabbis once lived to leech, a dye obtainable only, it’d been thought, from the hypobranchial gland of the ancient Murex trunculus, dug from that highspired, whorled shell of the snail He appears to have turned into; Him mated with some seep of truculent slug a moon matured from estivation, the dwelled shell atop His back as if a worried hump, a hidden house of burden, with which to wander in search of home, in homing seek of search, all the while His true home just behind Him, if only He could turn; or maybe, as others have said, mystics and their interpreters as argaman in the face in argument as the substance He’s secreting, it’s that upon His return He’s gone the faller, and tumbled hard, into the possession of an angry purple dybbuk, a previously unclassified yet malevolent species of porphira: trailing His wander to stain the pavement in indigo at dusk, dibromoindigo lightening as dusk later turns to light, at dawn. Don’t misrepresent with misheberach, B seems to be seething a substance so supernatural that it’s only later identified, by many amateurs since experted, as that invaluable mediating enzyme known to us as purpurase, the active ingredient of that regal shade so valued by the Romans, and long sought after by our rabbis and us their students, too, scavenging at seaside for any shell washed up from the hoarding of the Flood, and further, less secret: by innumerbably unregenerate generations of the postdiluvian inilluminated, who would use the dark to dye the knotted fringes on what many would have known as a scapular, a lesser lighter shell to be borne by the body, over the skin, with an aperture here, too, but now cut through its very center, to accommodate the swell of a reverent head whose lips would kiss the fringing knots throughout the balming bind of prayer. To today’s observance, however, they’re known as tzitzit—the thin skin a grandfather would keep hidden under the black of his caftan.

Wholly psychosomatic, thinking it’ll go away on its own, just as its onset manifested, that He’ll survive this, too, as down Orchard Street He slips on His own looping, from Uptown, backtracked and without bearings as if to break His back here—slimed on His own slip of street on barren, citified Orchard slipping itself from gutter to sewer—shelled unsteadily and so goes groping for any hydrant, a lamppost or parkingmeter not yet uprooted, them or the root of a passerby, the tap of a cane topped in jade. Anything to stay balanced, the stayed course of the upright, not this wavering and wobbly, but there’s none, and so falls again, atop what He’s stood for, facefirst and onto the sidewalk outside this last open franchise, an Oriental restaurant that’s wondrously still lit. This the last late encroaching of those other eastern emigrants and open late, their sweet restaurant on this side of the street, the sour until last week had been serving on the other, the west: this storefront pagoda shooting stilled like a firework frozen in an ascent into air, the space a hexagonal vault of bells, carved flowers, and honeycombed shrines, fired tiers high from the mediating serenity of a garden of rock. The sidewalk B falls on has been starred, shined through with what seems like the least of the firmament; on the way down, He recognizes no names…apparently, this whole block has yet to be graven over, is handprinted still and signed by the ostensibly famous: older names, PopPop if anyone would’ve known; their autographs lasting longer in cement underfoot than the memory of their signatories in the world. Only a block north the concrete’s pouring wet from recent renovation: since Affiliation, Mayor Meyer’s been obsessed with bringing the old neighborhood up to code. And famous or not, what’s remained proves welcoming to such an accident of talent, since His prints are now pressed there alongside those of handfuls of others, His life palmedoff on posterity, hardening: a hand thrown in front of Him, His face, to still the hurt of His fall, extending a finger, too, and with an outgrown nail attempting to sign guess which of His initials, an ideogram, a sigil…and just then, one slash before that letter can be completed, a to share portion of cummerbunded waiters, some from column A, their bowties tied, others from His own column B, theirs loosened like lips, scuttle out to help, gesticulating placidly that for them is wild, excusing themselves hoarse in a mothering of all tongues.

Above their uniforms, which are tuxedos, they’re turned out in yarmulkes; they’ve grown silken beards to complement their payos, like thin and greasy noodles: it’s as if they’ve been waiting to wait upon an opportunity such as this, any service that might serve them a customer, any customer as they’re always right, as is the custom of their abject gratuity; as the evening’s third and last seating has long turned over (the earlybird special tonight was young Szechuan duck, which’ll find its way into tomorrow’s soup), and since then they’ve been bored, staring their slits at the blank quartz clock over the desk of the cashier; sitting at twotops after having finished their own meals as their fortunes have finished them, unsettlingly sated and tired with little or nothing left to do: some smoke opium from pipes as long as nightmare, extensive stems of bamboo, fitted for the drug with the bowls they’d use for tea or rice; others toke hashish imported from Palestein, rolled tightly in their surplus of outdated menus: with their slick, quick tongues they lick to let the bones burn slower; then flick their ash at the murmur of the fountain, its pool lined in plaster stones and shards of broken china, pennies without wish; a few play dead with those delicious porcelain dogs: fetch the chopstick isn’t working. In the kitchen, busgoys wash to their wrists, then rub the Buddha’s belly for luck with the nightly splitting of their tips: wishful thinking, they’re lucky to still have any hands to wait on. The last few straggling regulars having unfurled their fortunes as wide and as whitepure as napkins with which to wipe their lips, then scurried out the door, with menus held over their faces, praying to avoid the eyes of their employers’ spies, their family’s informants. What’s more, the latenight takeout rush hasn’t delivered on any hope of late, not fast enough at least, ever since this block went and zoned itself for imminent conversion; it’s natural, where more Affiliated than here, their historic home, once upon a time. The new laws aren’t the problem, though, not their most pressing (hahaha: a few of the waiters are planning to open a laundry), it’s inadvertent, effect—it’s business, it’s cash. And the intolerance, the discrimination, terrorism even: a week ago—and this after a moon of threats from who exactly you think they’re dumb enough to name; they’d run up a tab, then walked them through how it was going to go down—their windows’d been smashed in and so they had to shutter their other place, sell off the appliances for scrap as it was all already treyfed up, porktainted. Trash had been set on fire. A waiter smacked around. Another week as empty as this and they’ll have to go kosher or else, shut it down.

Excited, apologetic (don’t they recognize Him, how could they; they’re not allowed to, and anyway, that’s another’s ghetto), with an entire menu’s worth of the derisive servile, the whole industry’s trade of humble bows and modest blinks, the waiters serve Him warm inside. The youngest busgoy, hoping to make cashier or heaven by dint of his good deeds, dashes out again to retrieve the half left of B’s blackboard, a chipped length remaining from His chalk. His slime to stain the doorjamb, Him to track His incoherent trail atop their priceless rugs, dizzying in their symmetry, in the intricate integrity of their patterns; to destroy, then, their wonder in the wander of His mad—don’t worry, they assure Him, it’s fine by them, they were thinking of remodeling. In fluent Affiliated accent they insist on messaging His wife, on phoning His son or daughter, that they should pick Him up. Have a meal here, or three. Halfoff, or that of two for one. How nextdoor, too, there’s this shvitzbad staffed by nominal Slavs: present them with your check and they’ll beat your back with tiny trees at cost. He rises from the chair where He’d been seated, goes to retrieve from the table adjacent that sharp shard of board and hint of chalk.

I have none, I write.

No wife? they ask.

Just me.

What’s He waiting for they want to know—us, too.

Dim Sum, the maître d’, the only one with a black cummerbund (all the others are in red), and matching vest shiny with appetites of wear, disappears into the kitchen, returns with a pot steaming, then with three fingers holds open His mouth and shut His nose to ply Him with the potion, pours cup after scalding, soured cup down B’s throat, says, Swarrow!

As if to say, thisee will’a help you…one Wan Lo takes it upon himself to finish the sentiment: it should stop the dlopping, then bows wan and low to his boss and guest.

All He can think to thank them with’s an old joke, that Taste my soup! routine…remembering, though, that nothing’s ever funny when you have to spell it out, screeching chalk on board.

One hundred apologies, Dim Sum says, but this will not help stop His dlopping…

What? which B, His board cleared for the pot, spells atop the table in an artful arrangement of six pairs of chopsticks.

What I meant to say was dlipping, answers Wan Lo, dlipping, you must excuse me both.

B has to struggle to keep down the last cup of the cure.

Dislespectfur, Dim Sum whispers, while Wan Lo does his patient waiting standing tableside, what professional effort to appease.

One million pardons, he then says to B or another does and He can’t tell, not because He’s racist but laughing—what we’re talking about’s the Srime…

O, the slime! and nods His head along with His laughter to make known His gratitude, as if to say no hard feelings, get used to it, from a mensch like me you might expect such disrespect, and with each of His nods the also funny taste of the proffered potion rises within Him, up from His stomach, His throat, rather the taste of its taste, the idea of it only, its texture homemade, a hot, thickskinned homeopathological grime—that’s about the best you can hope for when you can’t tongue to tell, which is the worst of it: that lately I don’t partake to enjoy, only to fill, and with me full is never. You honor us with your presence, they say, then bring Him out a heaping bowl of this morning’s leftover lo mein. He makes to stab at the writhing noodles with, after their last pair of chopsticks splinters in His hand, a dull fork they manage to find Him: it’d been locked in the lowermost drawer in the desk in the manager’s office forever, umfarshemt. He’s slurping, sucking, making every noise known to consumption save chewing; without a tongue to offer the meal to the teeth, He swallows most everything whole. With the last served shred of a miscellaneous meatstuff, its gnarled and gritty suspect heavily dusted with a powder of glistening white, fine pure MSG, which the chef out of boredom’s been fermenting for a moon in a trashcan in the alley out back—with such a tough and darkened cut, anisodactyl, the foot of a bird, He counts the taloned toes, perhaps of one of the pigeons that arrive fresh daily from traps nestled amongst the trees of local parks—with such prey presently hanging tined at B’s pouting lips, Dim Sum, the one sitting opposite Him (He’s trying to remember who might be who, or Woo), stares Him in the eye, holds His gaze, then begins to talk in a voice that burbles celestially high, sounding to Him just like frying; he can’t help himself: his bowtie finally loosened, he hands it to Him as a napkin as if proclaiming their peace, then begins:

I was in business, he says as B wings away at the birdgrease on His lips…had gone into business with my Blothel-in-Raw: this was our first restaurant, before I moved the family Downtown—a pack of heads nod in encouragement, interest, or in rhythm to the surge of the pipa music, the pentatonic plinking coming over the speakers, hidden to soothe their sound inside the restaurant’s worthless collection of facsimile vases…Blothel-in-Raw brought up on charges of sodomy, and with an inspector from the Depaltment of Hearth; here his cousin Woo, nu, that’s who just has to cut in: this lady had come to inspect, great body no brains, didn’t expect to be inspected herself, it was rape, simple enough, then attempting to bribe with counterfeit money the arresting officer of the Raw—though with our old landlord’s recommendation of the right lawyer his son, Dim Sum goes on, he managed to do right by the judge, at least that’s what I was told, and the waiters spit twice, at the same time and on their own floor, their saliva angry or just darkened with soy. Wan Lo rises from his seat slowly, smoothes down his tux shirt, pauses to reposit a stud, adjust the lotus in his lapel, then walks stately waiter to the front of the room and behind the cashier’s desk, at which he gathers the slack of his pants, squats, balancing on the balls of his feet to rummage around shortorder, and maybe just for ritual, for exotic effect, then returns to table with a box carried under his arm: done in bone with a bamboo handle, and inlaid with moons waxing and waning in chalcedony set amid skies of brass kept lovingly polished, its horn mingg striped in onyx, it’s gorgeous, waiters who haven’t worked here long enough are cowed, even back home they’d never seen anything like it. It’s not for them, though; they’re supposed to be working: it’s intended as distraction for their womenfolk, who’ve just emerged giggles and elbows in ribs from the kitchen; here to steal a slit of eye at their arrival, the contents of this box are hoped to keep them from undue flirtation. Unseemly, illegal. Wait, Dim Sum says, pay attention…that’s not the half of it: nu, so my Blothel-in-Raw, a failed furrier, you know, Woo feels it justified to explain as if to a mystified Him, the mensch who he makes the coats and hats and supplied for us our meat…Dim Sum’s irritated by the interruptions but it’s too late and his restaurant’s too doomed to pull rank when the door says push and don’t let it hit you on the way out, the schmuck he went and burned down the place for the insurance—makes you think, doesn’t it, says Woo’s brother who he’s named Woo, too, though what right does he have to say anything being only a junior busgoy (Wan Lo, an elder, he grumbles), makes you think of what he might do now that the schmuck’s out, free and converted; the waiters listening in as the hostess, the cashier girl and two more from the cleaning service how they might be their sisters or even twins to each other, you think, have already begun with their play. In a world of olden pleasures revived, theirs has among the most ancient of origins—yichus, of a type. Think of it like mystical rummy: but instead of cards, this pursuit makes use of tiles, onehundred thirtysix of them, gematric with meaning, symbolized with dragons, flowers, seasons, and winds stilled in suits, in dots, craks, and bams, if you’re following, numbered up to nine. What else for this refresher? As in life, here, too, what you discard is as valuable as anything you keep. Mahjong.

Dim Sum shrugs as he says over the hilarity from the front, this is my life…and Wan Lo adds, won’t you please forgive him?

My Blothel-in-Raw, they sentenced him to eight to ten—he served only five for good behavior. He’s on the outside now, rehabilitated he says, living again with my sister, their how you say…kinder—by now (late, almost time to close forever) even the old chef, alright already, so less a chef than a cook, with a tattooed Buddhabody under a cloudy toque and a head whose face is weighed down and almost permanently soured by this seriously octopusal Fu-Man-Shu, also he knows his way around a knife to make a little extra money down Pell Street and environs, better not to ask: he’s come out from the back to listen, peering behind him another busgoy, this a trainee mensch who’ll within a week get promoted to the position of Mashgiach though without a raise in pay, the future manager of kashrut for this restaurant after its brief closing, its rushed reform then the mandate of inspection—and the requisite bribes, a bissel of grease, dumplings’ schmaltz—his name to be made the Honorable Rabbi Shimi-Li Dong, at least according to the certificate to be notarized by the not yet ordained other senior busgoy (but first, promoting himself to busboychick), the future Reb Boaz ben Wa, framed to hang lopsided on a wall of the kitchen, threatening to fall into the boil of any black pot: kashrut reform, and attendant refinancing, to be organized by this most obliging of Blothels-in-Raw, just out of prison, just returned into the soup, the stir, Dim Sum up until the very night of their successful grand reopening (Thursday) to be suspect, and can you blame him, expecting the alarms and their flames to be scheduled for the late eve of that next Shabbos or so, to get the firedepartment and police off their guard. This morning, he says, he sent me a telegram, says he’s coming down for a visit, that he wants to reconcile, is bringing the family, says he’s an allnew mensch, remade, that I’d be proud, prisonreformed with him converted and even circumcised, can you believe, and that he’s inherited a little money, too, like guess who’s got this great idea, and all he needs is a partner.

He’s hurt me before, but I love him, I have to, he’s family…

I pray, and here he raises his head to B to stare Him in the mouth, that your arrival will be for me as a blessing.

That you, Wan Lo goes on, have already brought us luck.

Not that we’re being nice to you just for profit, God forbid. Though profit wouldn’t hurt. Two or three of the who knows how many, if illegally, uniform the waitstaff here, they raise their heads to Him then sigh, let their lashes flutter.

Suddenly through the silence ensuing this dishwasher shrieks pong, a girl from the prep-&-line kings kong—B’s frightened out of His seat then turning around to stare at them gathered intimately at their green felt fourtop under the white tablecloth half cleared and bunched away with its little lantern, too, and the finechina cradles of sauces to accommodate the dipping of the rolls on special tonight as they are every night, for the hosting of their dealing, discarding, their bustly clatter (that and the distraction of their giggle allowing an unscrupulous waiter’s wife to cheat a chow: a meld made of three suited tiles in their appropriate order, hoarding the stray shards of what has to be ivory into her lap when no one’s looking, no, she doesn’t think), their amusement hand over mouthed, light as if to say to Him, don’t worry, it’s all just play, only fun and games goodnatured, we’re on your side, your team, you’re safe here. No one’s keeping score, Israelien. Thinking then, it’s not Him they recognize as much as an opportunity, a good turn, a mitzvah made to order—He thinks, just wait until I’ve merited their check. Mistrusting to the bitter end, the serving of His just desserts. But as closingtime closes in, with its receipts to tally to nothing and those grains of rice to count, inventory these cups to smash and bowls to shatter, then the counting of their pieces not privy to a game, Dim Sum brings to His table a treat, the sweet and dry house cookie: a brittle thing, lost lonely atop a dull green jaded tray. With one thumb to each of its nibs, He rips the thing in half. And inside’s a paper that lets slip a message. A fortune He owes in return—holding it up to the light of tables after empty tables of lanterned candles still lit festively, foretellingly, if guttering as if from the exhalations of His fear—thinking how much’s left from His pawn…it’s nothing, though—it’s free.

Today?

What does it say, what does it say, give it here…

…Happy Birthday, you happy now?

Suspicious.

B takes leave of the Orientals, helping to lock and shutter the restaurant behind its grate of shuddering metal…they’ll be closed all day Monday, Dim Sum says in parting, we’ll figure it out, everything works out in the end; he bows then, scraping—are you sure you don’t want any takeout, just asking, we have a little suey left, last chance as he lifts himself…25% discount now that we’re old friends, in observance of your auspicious occasion?

To walk Himself wherever weathered, dry again, to drop no drip; B’s board halved, hung around His neck alongside a cross of chalk, what’s left that in the wind goes click against then clack again with every older step.

Oneyearold in Year One, today being the age of the world; there’s only a week left until the anniversary of its creation decreated, the destruction that’s made possible our miraculous rebirth. After Israelien, 1 A.I.—let it stand for that for which He falls. In a window, the sweeping glass of a going Broome Street concern selling religious paraphernalia (siddurim, tallisim, tefillin, Get Your Mezuzah Examined—No Commitment Free Of Charge), He takes in His reflection: His hair, once so moppishly light now darkly thinning, His glasses wrecked their earpieces lost held on only by the scrunch of His nose, wrinkled, His face old already, lined as if one of His mother’s lists for Wanda, his mouth a severely windreddened check marking all for off and finished, the milk and bread brains and that nose, a sack of potatoes. As for His form, it’s as fat as ever, forming fatter; waisted down His skirts His foreskin still occupied with its genethliacal growth and shed, cyclical and constant. He’s still in that old housecoat of His mother’s, her perpetual maternitywear, secondhanded but lacking pockets, then a mitten for the lefthand, a glove unfingered for the right. They hold the keys to residences untold, duplicated triplicates, with the alarmcodes combinatorials of His name, 18 18 18, B-E-N=21. He knows the routes to every safehouse, their attic and stagey trapdoor hides, Mitteltown nests and outerburrows…the homes of previous owners, masters otherwise known to Him as hosts when they’re treating and kind now summering in the winter of freedom if just to say they’ve done their part (He has all the key-chains, too, swag from Garden interests found among the trash—they’re loose; He hasn’t found the time in which to get attached). Under the housecoat but over the thermals designer from the dumpster, that Shabbos skirt, its ruffle ripped, tucked into His socks, sapped of their dressy dark from His shvitzy stray, stuffed with addresses to zips: pages ripped from phonebooks halved, revised, crumpled then crammed into His shoes for insulation (the heels made flats, pumps deflated), He’s shod in wads, too, of other people’s mail—a heatingbill from where, gas and electric invoices, then urgent warnings to Register, unofficial promises confirmed by governmental threats, the latest moon’s issue of a tznius periodical, homiletical home, lifestyle, or feminine hygienic (on negiah, on niddah), subscribed to in support of the yeshiva of a nephew; New Year’s greetingcards fallen from sukkah walls, and a lacy, stiffs-tocked invitation to a bris He’s missed, not His; a pidyon’s a redemption…feet are worn and numb, toes ten dreams of feeling. Despite, He stoops low against the wind down the street, littered with tattered fliers.

UNAF Must Register By Date Of Anniversary By Order Of The Mayor, is what they say, if you’re interested or scared.

Minding His feet and the papers flying about them like miniature lost tablecloths, or napkins, unsated souls, the ghosts of uninvited guests, B steps from the sidewalk and into the street, directly into the bleating progress of a flock of sheep crossing against the signal who knew still even worked: wool over His eyes, they’re herding way above the posted limit; their shepherd’s laughing kindly, then through his teeth whistles them together, his happy tune to harmonize with the bells that tinkle from their collars; he nods at B as he passes from the rear, then waggles behind him his staff in gentle remonstrance. B makes it out of their way only to sputter gutterside, stuck with all manner of those papers gathered, wet, stands dumbly as the sheep schlep on, grazing at sidewalks’ planters and wrecked meridians, the trafficislands unlit, no passing vehicles to worry either, as they disappear Uptown and toward the tunnel then through it out to Joysey and its fields. He sets out to follow them Himself, a last straggler from the sewer to the middle of the road. Exactly which He isn’t sure, the stickler. As most of the streetsigns have been removed, their names moneychanged to protect the not so innocent, new signs not yet nailed and hammered down…bureaucracy’s overtaking everything, with offices closed or slow to respond, addressed so far out in the Bronx who can ever get to them by day. B raises His head to the poletops freshly flagged, then steps a foot down into a pail brimming full with paste.

Schm…

uck,

Schm…

endrick,

Schmo schlemiel schlub schmegegge…these two posterboychicks call them, they’re yelling at Him hobbling, brandishing their rollers in His face while calling Him these other names, their tongues too young to know from: Mutteringmamzer, Nogoodnik, who knows what worse, me, I couldn’t say…trying new epithets on for fit of mouth, a spit. B steadies again, hauls His foot out from the paste, pries Himself away from their pursuit, fast but fat and older—Uptown, He thinks, and sopping; apparently, the direction the two posterboychicks had just worked down from:

All Males Must Maintain Yarmulke Upon Penalty Of Law,

All Females Must Maintain Hat Kerchief Or Wig Upon Penalty Of Law…

Welcome to the ghetto. Here, a world frozen not as much in time as in time past, amid the mud, down in the dreck. Now, all will know what to expect and, too, what is expected of them. Upon Penalty of Law not further specified, though, as a minyan of elderly uniformed officers, Unaffiliated Patrol, an allvolunteer, geriatrically vigilante Downtown unit of Metro Gestapo, stumble their beats, using nightsticks as crutches; their Law reigns supreme…over the old cemetery down at Chacham Square, the smichas of seminaries north, up past the mikvehs, the shuls and shtibls, yeshivas and, nu, you want the guidebook’s spiel: the Ed Alliance (197 E. Broadway), the Hanky Street Settlement and the Amalgamated Dwellings, the Yarmulkowsky Bank Building (TK admission price), the Klutzker Brotherly Aid Association (open Mon. & Wed. 9–5), which you might remember from, hymn…stores discount and department, the factory outlet tours for matzah and wine, with not even them leavening such ferment: Closed Saturday, Convenient to All Public Transportation, 72 years in the business, with beds and bedding and rentals, jewelry, umbrellas and gloves one flight up, free alterations on premises, the dramatic look in fine footwear, bootery to the most discriminating of four continents, to name just a few…up to the foot laid bare of the Williamsburg Bridge—B making His way west and Uptown in an attempt at losing His chase, He’s speechless, obviously, with mouth agape, stump hanging, but with His head held high to more notices, papered, stapled, glued, these up on lampposts, pasted over the display windows, slopped to scroll across doors:

UNAF Must Remain At Home Saturday–Friday Sundown To Sunup Upon Penalty Of Law,

Electricity And Gas Will Be Made Unavailable On The Sabbath Sundown Friday–Sundown Saturday,

Happy Birthday, Reb Israelien—the conversion is complete.

B heads through the night up Broadway, is it, then around the Park with its Temple left as if a basement resurgent: partially finished, which, as it’s been said, is also partially unfinished, being renovated again…up toward what He thinks, they have to be, more open, quieter streets, these avenues widely silent: once upon a time, the richest slice of town, the morsel choicest and chosen, that’s if you had the money and right referrals, today full of poor, filled with pauperings, it’s galling, how destitute, such shammeses to shame, wheedling beadles sidestepping copulating dogs, bloated goats grazing on leaflets, munching notices by lamplight…O these perpetually rushing, stamstammstammering menschs in their mandated yarmulkes held down against the gusts, hurrying, always schurrying, home to their womenfolk, to the luxury apartments and penthouses they’d been assigned or had bought outright on the fiftyyear forgiven mortgage that their women’d just finished redecorating for them and their families (everincreasing, raised roofward toward the gulls, stolen for consumption, cooked then garnished with their rent), in the latest style known to privation: bedclothes hung from fireescapes, disastrous pianos converted to bins of trash having fallings out with windows…these menschs with the faces of entire families themselves, of women and infants—save their hair…for what—wombred and honeyglowing, illuminated from within, the abyssal shine of their ancient eyes, disgusting. Sinking. Perpetually deep in the One True Depth, they traipse through the Broadway snowbanks, their beards and sidelocks flapping, getting tangled with the beards and locks of other menschs just passing in the opposite direction, Uptown for an audience in the court of a rabbi holding an opinion that’s dialectically opposed to an opinion held by the rabbi the others are heading Downtown now to meet; two students coming around the corner, tied up, how they’re tripped to ice…many not yet used to wearing these yarmulkes (but they’re trying, they assure you, they have to), with the thin, governmentissued scraps threatening to fly away at every turn of street and wind, with tassels rustling they stoop to snitch their remnants from the sewers, slap palmfuls soaked and dirty down onto their skulls again, frumiliar—in a ruached rush to make in time the shiur of Rabbi Avraham Ben Shmuelbob Johnson III, shlit”a, the son of Reb Samuel Johnson II, z”l…or else Rav Billybob (Mendy) Mendelssohn’s tisch, or that of the Ramjohn he’s known as, the Ranjim, to glean a pesher from that posek, the son of Baba Wawa, a soothsayer and local benevolent personality, her tongue the hottest ticket in town: dynasties hewn like smoke from wintered air…the Old Traditionalists among us upholding amid all else and the pillars of the universe, the furriest shtremiels, pointy thin spodiks and rounded kolpiks, peaked kashkets, not to forget the littlest kutchmas and shlyapkas stacked six high, in felt and in velvet, rabbit and beaver, and these worn without any discipline, without any notion that what’s worn atop the head once marked the origin if not the allegiance of the head and its body grossly garbed below. Everything done wrongly: newly minted Mogilevichs rubbing shoulders pricking elbows with Mogelescus, makes no sense, knock knees, Newmans friends with Neumanns, Ostrovitch married off to Ostrowicz who knew but nu (and the more unpronounceable or unspellable the name, the higher the price the bride commanded, her family and the shadchan, too), it’s the mouth under all that matters, the bated breaths of these liverlickers adhering, the garlicky followers of Rabbi Onions, who’d been buried to grow famous from a grave, the word rooted up in shrouds from a bulbous beard. How with every scent and clarinety cymbalon song in the world they’re blasting the newest rebbe on the block whoever he is or thinks he is or might be with question after question, all these questions, though, in the end the same…which is the nature of the Depth, the depth of the Depth, hymn, how many feet of fall today, and what’s the forecast for tomorrow, you’re such a big shot ba’al teshuva? America your streets are paved with cold, a black year in your ear, in your mouth, only the dreck fallen, frozenover: horses up to their haunches in potholes heretically unprophesized, whinnying for a bullet between the senseless eyes; oxen ensnared in the hidden stumble—a guttergrating or sewerlid removed as a servingplate, or to provide the pit of an outdoor fire—their shankbones jutting from their flesh, with crows and doves to perch thereupon and cluck sweet liturgy to the clattering of pots beaten attentively with pans…the sounds and the cooking smell, oy, of a vagrant’s ritually poisoned cat.

And their kinder, O their kinder the males of them, at least, how they trop their lessons home with them from cheder, from yeshiva, nusach for the nest, these boychicks smart and quick on their flocking ways, feathered in dark blurs of breeches and gartel: such promising issue of their womenfolk, hear yourselves be praised…O their women, these not much more than girls they are, here netted, wigged, and kerchiefed, wrangled into unbecoming floral prints, their enormous encampment tented of many formless, filthy skirts; perpetually knocked up, they’re trudging homeward, too, with new recipes in their heads, for all the new mouths in their stomachs: kinder, babies, new boys and girls of the covenant already, gestating girls pregnant themselves with already pregnant girls who in turn will sustain their pregnant issue unto the infinite eternal, one can only hope: women with pregnant guts, but also with pregnant paps, daughters eligible already secreted within each nippled sac, and suckling from within, waiting only to be born into the Law, into birthing themselves…dark forms rising like steam from the muck of the street, oily, pubic, as if smoke but thicker, a viciously rank viscous glopping, dim how they ooze themselves up from out of the churning melt, the burbling flow of downtrodden ice: they’re people, God they’re people, wiping from their eyes, noses, and mouths, their mouth massed, that metropolitan amnio ick; without umbilicus any of them as they’ve been born anew to nothing…now with two hands around each leg tugging once, twice, to free themselves from the secular mire, then looselimbed and with muddy vacant faces how they stagger themselves on ahead, deadeyed, they grom onward to swarm Him, on the way abducting from the surrounding freeze any icicles at hand, grabbing stones from the gutter, grubbingup left wood from scaffolds abandoned and hunks of asphalt the failure of public works with which to attack Him—a pogrom in progress, gevalt!

Hang down our neck of the shtetl weeping your putz off goddamn that ain’t recht…slumming down here with yr schmutz face and yr schlock grace who the futz u think u is—two menschs hanging on a corner, decently inconspicuous, passable, I’d say: they’re disguised appropriately, in yarmulkes to rekels and fingering a fidget at the hang of their false hair, that’s no crime, but they’re flashing photographs, too, which is lately if not yet verboten then frowned upon in this neighborhood, the side Upper West; our pogromists spit on them on their ways after greater quarry…women throw at them rocks of hardened potatoes from windows smoked open, the balconies of last century’s grand palaces, the highrises, coops and condos of the high sixties we’re talking. It seems to be a searchparty. He’ll take any kind of party today. Headed up by, I know it’s dark out but still it’s Hamm, it has to be, and Gelt with him, wagging his tush, scraping his knees on the blacktop ice; on the pavement overturned, ransacked, hoof and heeltossed, searching now underneath the idling carriages, every species of conveyance, the hitched yellow rides, a hacking flash of moon onduty…every cart made cab waiting to head anywhere with the meter fared out upon the drivers’ fingers, no—then lifts these udders hanging heavy with milk, brushes drecky tails out of the way, what’s he thinking I’d be hiding there, puckered deep in filth?

B bundles into a shadow, a way without lamplight newly signed as Aynredenish Alley, which is the ample, lined with stall fall of 72nd west of Broadway toward the river and waits, gasps, hands under His armpits to keep warmth in the freeze up from the Hudson’s slice; a woman approaches Him huddled against a mound of piled trash, panting a bubble to pop from His stubwound mouth as glass shatters crystalline and cool in the distance, too near…a plump girl too antshuldikt mir fat and old for the slight skirt and horsey haltertop she’s working in, propositioning Him with too much eyeliner, too, and tears, a psht she asks for tzedakah; you’re on the make, I’ll hide you, she’s saying, all I’m asking is a zuz or two for my trouble.

B ignores her, she snarls, and then He shoos her, not trusting ever and so she spits on Him, asks are you who I think you are, answers herself, you can’t be…He thinks that’s what though He can’t understand her, and so she reverts, we’re translating along the lines of, where’s His rachmones, and your yarmulke, you Unaffiliated schlump, why aren’t you indoors, spits again, don’t make me report you—better make yourself scarce…

It’s My Birthday, is what I chalk on my board then hand it to her and refusing, again she spits on my shoes, by what calendar, she wants to know, then wipes her mouth with my mother’s low hem…you believe the nerve of such people, this chutzpah I can’t quite pronounce? me standing alone and unwanted for life in this street newly named amid bags and crates of grandopening trash, bannered and bunted homilies of yesterday’s business become scraps to be thrown to the, not even the dogs anymore but their old owners, the people…Amsterdam’s strays ranging west from the Park and nearing, coming closer with prey’s every scent that makes it in on the wind, their ravenous howls only an appeasement of memory, hollow prayers, appetite’s psalms. As the mob passes Him by up Broadway, other young menschs flood in on Him with consummating fires burning in their eyes, new baums and bergs, fresh steins and sterns, not intent on a ravage of a physical nature but on a savagery subtler, namely conversion, which is worse as it’s mental and emotional and physical, too, generational, perpetrated not only on you but on your kinder to come, each to hand Him bound sheaves of mimeographed brochures, and more leaflets, fliers, pamphlets, Redemption for Dummies one’s called, Abridged Kashrut another, a sheet outlining the laws pertaining to pamphletmaking, to flieruse and marital duties, what so and so has had to say about ziz or zat regarding and what, I’m supposed to do what with them, besides take them cordially, accept their enthusiasm, fervor it’s wasteful, then stuff their words into my shoes to speak their succor to the hurt of my feet, suck a wart. They leave Him with handshakes and a complimentary yarmulke emblazoned with the info for a shtiblach He’s apparently promised to attend if not this Shabbos then the next (and, they’re almost forgetting themselves, have you lain yet today, tallis, tefillin), also with late warnings against a mob reportedly in the area, and after any Unaffiliated—grumbling, unhappy with any unapproved incursions into their territory the upper west-most, it’s all ours down to Riverside Drive. We’re peaceful around here, we don’t take kindly to how they do it Downtown.

B follows them out, dispersing north then east toward the University’s gates on a mission on paper for their next personed, impressionable save. As for Broadway again, it’s denatured, silently without search, disappeared. All too easy and suspect; He’s expecting an ambush, an Amalek lying in wait, what schlock tactics even a kock could imagine. And so He makes to bringup the rear of their converting pogrom, more evangelically pleasant, less baseballbats and kitchendrawers’ knives: B crossing cautiously to stand in street’s middle, atop the trafficisland by the old IRT subway entrance turned almshouse seething with those without house or home, but with God—mouth agape, receiving the snow on His stump as if manna.

As for the world, it feels as if it’s caving…what with His weight and that of His burden carrying it further, we’re talking Biblical strata, the depths of wells, graveward regression, this reversion of earth, down to the floor of the past, the ocean unswept by the breath: the roofs seem to be raised up to the heights, as if tugged to an invisible, inexistent rainbow by ravens, a few of them on each roof they’re clutching with claws, straining their wings to scar an incision on the face of the sky; higher, luxury apartment buildings turned to underheated tenements…boarderbordered, coldwatered, commonly lived, dumbwaitered, dumbbells uplifted, they inherit more and more floors, and grayer, floors already filled with people already observing, preparing, they’re always preparing for what—to prepare; gray candles newly lit in sills newly filthy, eight families ingathered from Siburbia too north to be the Bronx and with all their extensions to inlaws and who knows who else crammed into the cramp of a single apartment, one room, what is this insanity, is this how they prefer it, why not…newly hewn tenement rooms with a view (a word that’s been assimilated from the most assimilated of tongues, from Latin’s Tenare, to hold—which is to keepsafe…the within from the without, and, too, the without from the within, as we’re told; to erect: a fence around the Law, and an eruv around Upper Manhattan), to another world, a terra old but never forgotten, ancient, and yet perpetually reborn if in the process idealized, evoked, worked up from photographs, documentaries, unfaded, defaded, testimonies censured then banned only as they might expose the falsity of this, their next incarnation: as if the rituals have been encoded deep in their souls, in the muscles, glands, and organs once dormant now flexing and pumping awake; tables groan under the weight of baked braided breads, massively musty volumes are stacked thereupon, what’s the meaning of this, what son might you be, go ask the rabbi if that’ll make you happy, gesund.

Through the weather, left light overflowing their sills and the winded wafts the smells of a Shabbos that’ll go on way past the sunset of any wintry night, the dark dawning forever—streets stained with wax, the stain of His tears…these streets and avenues the once fattened arteries of this city, the past’s hardened plenty of late become lean, gaunt, heir to a why enforced hollow: a whiff of smoke as if flicked up from under the chins in its coming, the seethe of its anger, and then the sound of the mob approaching again from behind, led now by those two puny, pugnosed kinder, improbably the two posterboychicks from Downtown called up here to identify whatever it is they think they encountered, they who only know the distraction that are streets at all from their passage to and from school, shul, wherever holy, presently stalking this ritzier, glitzier, who knew from it neighborhood why, to keep the scare in the people, maybe, how He flatters Himself—it’s a gift, to keep the myth of His terror alive, and perhaps, too, to remind them of His own remembrance, how He taints, always sullies their efforts, renders impure, how He ridicules them, and without ever intending to, how the provision of His every existence itself precludes their very own. He stands still an orphan on the island untrafficked, not knowing what to do or not, and making little quiet grunting appeals with His mouthstub at those just passing in advance of the throng: their heads bowed chins to guts, most hurrying past without looking up, murmuring prayers (which: the blessing over avoiding a puddle, the blessing over averting the dreck of a dog or a pigeon, the bracha for concrete and breath), and reciting, also, a host of recently memorized passages of Torah no longer mere quoth endquoth Scripture, not wanting to waste even a moment, especially not on what has to be just another homeless mooch impersonating mensch, a lay leydikgeyer in search of nightly food and drink, lodging, warmth, anything you’d be generous to give. A handful throw Him windscattery bits of old currency, shredded as feed for their livestock they keep on their fireescapes, elevatored and in alleys, where not their cawing and clucking and pecking all night, who can sleep; Him bending down to defraud a defaced quarter from the freeze just as the mob approaches…across the street they’re waiting with no traffic’s law for the light to change to alight on the island, to visit upon His head and hunch a garden’s variety of the graceless, insults, murder—He’s turning from them and hiding His face, slips on the ice and falls.

A small, professionally neat mensch in a pinched derby, suit and tie, his face scandalously shaved, accosts impulsively from the opposite direction, the eastern, leans over, takes His arm and tries to help Him up but He’s too heavy and the mensch almost falls himself, withdraws, folds his arms and waits for Him to aright at the foot of the mob quickly massing.

I have to thank you, the mensch says in a calm, polished voice, making a mess of their iddishy idiom to the two boychicks bringingup the head and holding torches, flaming newspaper rolled for the fire, inky smoke billowing, blackening as imageless as Him…what luck, you found Him for me. My shabbosgoy, a runaway—I’m in your debt. Tell me, how much do I owe you?

Your shabbosgoy, one says, I don’t think so…just look at Him, says another, you know who He is. A gonif, says the first again, a thief in the nightly murderer, not quite a goy more like an animal we’re dealing with or worse, Unaffiliated with anything, spit spit grit and soulless—then to Him, explain yourself…they’re asking while being asked by those behind them, you’re presuming It can talk?

Hymn, you’re right, says the mensch, you got me—Baruch Hashem, you boychicks are smart…it’s only a joke, that and a poke in the evil eye, keyne hore, you’re no match for me. But He is—for her, is what I’m saying. A murmur’s mumbled rising. I’m bringing Him home for my daughter; it’s high time He converts—those two have been making eyes at each other long enough, and then he rolls his, from the smoke. Her, she’s aging…disgusted groans, a pick at a mole, a rashy nostril—let’s leave it at that, He’s not so young Himself; she’s a good cook, a pleasant personality, nu, so a hump, too, that and there’s a tumult of refusal, a slight limp while we’re at it, this slow shuffling dispersal losing one-by-one-by-two, but you should taste her latkes such as you’ve never had. A giver. Any takers. Only a scattering of punches and kicks for the loitering homeless, a few shots drunk from flasks of the hip, lchaimlchaim a zay get going…he was saying, how they’re always served up with a little something extra: some sweet sauce, some sourcream, a little love, or lying through her weakened teeth (how the latkes are frozen, storebought’s the blushing truth). A cigarette licked loosely of bad tobacco, found in pockets their pickings passed around…though, this mensch he’s not yet finished, if He’s not ready to make an honest woman out of her, let’s just say I’m prepared to consider any other offers; that of the mob heading south into night. Ot azoy. You wouldn’t happen to both be single—I’ve got a cousin, too…but they’re gone Downtown the paperers, separately if brothers.

As he and B head westward toward the river, there’s a final ploy if only for the pleasure of the wind: I’m a proctologist, it’s a decent living…but of course, I’d have to examine you first, my future son-inlaw, whomever; then, a last call over his shoulder, a gesture parting, a hand tipped to the hat: don’t worry, boys—it’s as simple as bowing, he laughs into his other glove, is what I’m always being told.

It’d been a clutch of thatchy, fireperfect hovels at the thinning vale of the forest, now a lonesome field salted with the melt of snow—a plain without crop, a barren threshedover, naked earth, pocked in a vast ruin, the remnant of wars, without jubilee, left fallow until failed…it was here, in the midst of this village whose menschs had all been killed, their synagogue defiled then set aflame (which set their houses aflame, then their livestock and harvest), their womenfolk raped and their kinder enslaved, that the seed had been winded from far in the east, had fallen with spring, to take plant then root deep within the scar of this flesh, this weathered pale—a wound that had once been a basement, the library of their yeshiva. Under the tromp tromp trampling of every weary army, the seed sprouted; as it was watered from the waters above and the water below, a shoot began to grow; to begin with, a small sapling, the reflection of its taproot: tromped by maddened Franks, the Plague of Rhenish mobs, hephep, the Mongols, a motley mob of crusading barbarians, mercenary warriors of who knows what allegiances, only later the civilized and civilizing Swedes, their immaculate soldiers marching in impeccable ranks, trampled by horses and hauling carts, by the feet, too, of their merchants, those fleeing the furfisted Tatars, the east in perpetual pursuit, the Cossacks are coming and with them, their hetman, O the fury of Polyn…becoming brushed in more peaceful times by summery courses, by foxes, by hounds; this tree watered by young love in the Lorelei spring, Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten—growing higher, against all that’s human and, evil: an axe, a sword, attempted it once, a mace lodged in its trunk at the height of a head…generations shading the green grown below, it’d kept guard over Kinderspielen, picnics with Mutter and the governess of hundred of years’ duration, perpetrated upon a cloth torn from a chuppah, in its basket the shewbread, the risen loaves—until just last week: it’d been sawed down then shipped express to the Garden…the schwarzwald fallen, its trunk to bridge the cold of the ocean, arriving with its memories intact, imprinted deep on its leaves, resident in the very air breathed out from its ageheavy boughs: the birds, the crows and the ravens, the hand and eye knowledge of falconry exercises, training the seasonal goshawk on the hood and the gauntlet, the bells and the jesses; arrows bearing quivering messages (to be read into the wrinkles of wood), bows curved into branches, the withered bark faces of witches, souls trapped in knots; then, once clearing Customs, it’s erected in the Great Hall of the Island, within its arched vault, snipped only a berry’s pit to fit a breath from the crown of the ceiling, majestic.

This is their tree, let us trim it.

It isn’t night just yet, it’s only the eve, that of Xmas—soon to be the first of January, which is false and forgotten, a year unrenewed. Tonight, it’s the yahrezeit, the Anniversary of the Death (A.D., as it’s respectfully, avoidingly, mentioned), which is anyway only slightly remembered, commemorated by few and that strictly officially, a matter of governmental not of popular mind: all are seemingly too occupied with their new identities, their own Affiliation, to be bothered much with the whiskered past; besides, it’s just too painful to remember, to be reminded not as much of a celebratory loss as of their own illegitimacy, again, a future loss of their own: what with kinder being born, and time. To remember now would mean to lose the present’s meaning, and, too, its hope for tomorrow: send a giftbasket out to whoever scripted that one, that and a poinsettia for the wife. All is nigh within the Great Hall, the Garden: settled deceptively firm in its foundations, the money, the power, the trash and the bodies shored around; doors exhale drafts into overheated, underventilated, basrelieved hallways, their rooms are silent in disuse and dark; outside clouds assemble, churn themselves up churlishly, into aggravated masses: everything below’s in suspension, seems only to attend upon a Fall…the very first of the night, a single perfect and softly falling flake with which to tender the evening, none of this unpredictable, unpredicate weather, just a sweet, sharp, and gasping drift of flak that might remind how hospitable nature could be, not too much to ask…which would be forbidden as aeromancy, anyway, now made subject to rabbinic wrath (if you weren’t aware, you’re no prophet). Quarters here still being used by the remaining employees, those who haven’t been let go thanks to quarterly financials, or who haven’t yet left to save themselves, are decorated with trees of their own, miniaturized mistled models in plastic of the real tree evergreened amid the Registry: wooden nutcracker and egg ornaments, with tissuepaper flowers and tinsel, lacy angels atop with model trains on tracks spiked across bibs tied around trunks. A ball as if a blob of misplaced ink bounces down heavily on the lightest of lyrics: Wish, Merry, and the heads fellowshipped follow along; they nod, some in rhythm despite, others totally drunk, shikkered all over the place staggering about fireplaces grating away toasty, sparklingly as if laughing, a crackling cackle swept choking up the flue; fluffy, coalblack stockings stuffed with pinkslips sway lulling, perilously near.

Sensing this to be the last of this holiday he’ll know but not yet why, Die’s ordered up an observance he’ll never forget, no one will, its expense and luxurious fury, the implacable tide of this Yule waked between the coasts of Joysey and that of the icicle of Manhattan: after all, someone has to keep up the old ways, their traditions—if not now, when; if not me, then tell me who better? He faces away from this in truth disappointing, depressing, gathering of these his last few adherents, employees along with any weathering friends, hangerson, anyone desperate enough to remain in contact, in business with him or his: fifty guests tonight, and how they’d expected a few hundred, which means—leftovers; abandoned by Shade and so by the Administration entire, the government, the Abulafias, too, who not, there aren’t that many left. And it’s hard not to notice that most of the fifty gathered are just remaining staff required to attend, paid to be here, ten of whom’ve been especially hired to attend to the tree, the Baum as it’s been called by the Teutonic site supervisor, overseer of a staff hired to prune, snip, trim, and wreathe, to decorate and deck. Ornaments have been hauled up in last century’s steamer trunks from their subterranean storage unit, each trunk labeled as to style of its contents (ball, lace, gingerbread kinder, marzipan snowflake, glitterencrusted pine-cone—stop me when it’s been enough), with each ornament itself labeled as to its appearance and provenance: ball, red, gift of the Russian Ambassador; each guest’s required to hang at least one, as if proof of loyalty, the oppression of that ole tradition again. This staff of fayg decorators flown in from Europa leaps over sofas and endtables to midwife the proceedings; they’ve planned this year’s Baum to a limpid perfection, after having labored for a moon over diagrams of ornament distribution, lacepatterning, tinsel saturation schematics…the scaffold’s erected, hydrauliclift driven inside through the doubledoors of the Hall’s portico, upsets a vase (to say nothing of its florist); Kush daughters grim, hired to replace the Marys disappeared to God knows where, and with the Garden not willing to spend the gelt to find them, they tidy up efficiently, are shooed away with the limp flicks of wrists.

By an hour before the party’s scheduled beginning, the Registry’s been feathered, nested, transformed into an extravagant indoor aviary: birds are flying around the heights, swooping from wings of rafter to loops wrought of iron, shrinkydink droppings sacs attached by strap around their bodies, pinching, hanging weighted from cloaca: peacocks strut across the floor, garbed in festive sweaters and similar sacs to hold their turd from the rugs; they parade regally, stately as if the only guests and as such, the most honored, through the interminable passages connecting the wings of the Hall, their plumage held open with cruel metal struts, resembling elaborate, undoubtedly sadistic orthodontia. Toward decumbent dusk, a staff of nine equipped with monogrammed books of matches flit from room to sill, to light the oil votives in all the windows shining, despite having been naturally frosted, and then to light them, too, in the interior windows, which have been frosted over with soap; all doors inside and out have been ordered wreathed in a host of evergreen voids that resemble zeros, or immature bagels, crusted in holly, adorned with leis of popped maize, strung cranberries dredged from the deepest bogs of Joysey. In the square fronting the Great Hall, aside the landing reserved for arrivals never again to depart, atop its manicure of ice over the fake green and real manure, a magi troupe of underemployed, off-off-Broadway actors are rehearsing a Nativity pageant, their requisite shvartze, a reformed Ethiopian, reciting his lines to the applause of the wind; he’ll make a passable Balthazar, though he might lack a visa…the other two kings petting then illicitly feeding handfuls of moldy lump sugar stolen from the condemned Commissary to the herd of animals linedup for the casting of tomorrow’s Manger Scene: Moo for me, thanks, we’ll be in touch, and the poor mensch leads his starving cow back across the ice to Nutley; their progress lanternlit, to search by night for a better talent agent. Abulafia II never came through with the camels. A staff hired away secrectly if only temporarily from Mitteltown’s most famous department store, Wiltinghill’s, sets to work wrapping presents, which are little more than bribes, on the salvaged tables of the Commissary set end to end down the network of tunnels, underground: off the artery leading to the Treasury, wellstocked shelters linked by citybound passages recently excavated to allow for emergency disappearance, in case of contingency, better not to think of it, best not to ask or even know of their existence; giftwrap (Seasonal Red #3, Fluseason Green), tissue, ribbons, and swatches of scotch, sticklosing tape hang like impurely rendered hides tanned from the overhead heating ducts; three secretaries previously attached to Mada’s office demoted to noel assistants, present facilitators, papercutup and harried, they mock gambol up and down these hallways of tunnels with their scissors freshly sharpened they dash through the passages, go blindly around corners shoutingout their orders, kickingup skirts past piles of torn tags, hangers, and shrinkwrap, almost trippedup on lengths of string, on the twines flapping in front of the gratings to which they’ve been tied for momentary snipping, the women’s steps syncopating with the whirr of the exhaustfans allied to the heating system above, servicing nothing down below, it’s disastrous they’re coughing, sicknesses sounding along with new Hanukah songs harmonized by the wrappers surrounding, undertaken to keep their ribboning apace, their ideally threepart SA-T arrangement occasionally interrupted with the scream of an unfortunate accident, the thumb against razor or slicer, a pinkiefinger knotted down to the quick, to purple then pulse.

After the meal, which had been abundant in courses (and too expensive, too, as completely treyf), and then after the caroling, the wassailing then the caroling again are finished, done as ham, the guests retire to their rooms: donors from interests both strange and stubborn, not just eccentric and racist, let’s say, or bigoted and big with ideas but altogether insane—they’re equipped with sketchy maps to their accommodations’ shadows, having been overnighted for their own safety: too risky to venture a return to the city from such a celebration and so late, the ornaments they’d hung would show in the shine of their eyes, marking them for yet another detention, for a punishment that just has to be worse; they find their long, slow, tortuous ways some flashlit, others candled, they’re sluggish they’re sluggishly drunk: their forms full of shepherd’s pie, their arms and legs heavy stumps of yulelogs, stuffed with turkey their brains a mess of oldetimey puddings and chutneys, sweetbreads for stomachs churned with intoxicant nogs how they’re bumping and knocking, they’re disrupting all—or else, maybe it’s one of the birds, another creature stolen away on the tree imported, eluding Customs, to infest the Garden and breed here, to be fruitful and multiply then subdue with destruction…maybe it’s that first flake that all had been waiting for, are still waiting for now, that first perfect flake, earthfallen, perhaps it’d gone missed, as it kissed the ground, or the highest spire of the Great Hall, it’d melted into flame; or it’s that at around midnight that night, a candle’s upset, on a sill, our scholars say one perched at the portico window directly behind the tree, its ornamental drop of fire wicked to catch on tissue, some have said, while others hold by a ribbon or a bow—all agree, though, that soon the Baum itself catches…secreting sap as the tinsel brings the flame roaring up to the tapered top from the trunk below: within a moment, there’s a burgeoning fire, forecausting, smoke billowing to gather its night’s night sky amid the Registry’s vault…

Warmed under his bed’s burlap canopy—army surplus from a former campaign, he’d served but found no action—Die’s woken…it’s hot, much too hot and he’s angry already, you know how much heating runs him, he rises, to have a word with Maintenance, puts down his teddy and tucks it in then stomps from his room still in his pajamas. The air’s thick with the scent of singed pine, which is so pleasant and seasonal, then heavier, too heavy, too weighty and black, it’s choking with smoke, and so he hurries from the hallway of his quarters to the balcony and then down the grand staircase, its fasteners coming loose under his run, a carpet of stairs gathering around his fuzzy slippers slipping, bunching, unfurling into rolls of red as if a scroll of the Law soaked in fiery blood underfoot and him falling, then recovering on allfours before righting himself amid a mess of alarum: the Registry, an ocean of smoke…the Baum burning like a mast lightningstruck, its ship sunk out in the ice, being circled by shrieking birds their wings flaming. A pillar. The signal for help, or for helplessness. He escapes alone, rousing no one, not every mensch for himself but every mensch for me, and goys, too, who not: stumbling out the doors, a handle scalding his palms to modest him with mark, a flail to hide his face, scratching at his eyes then sucking at his fingers. He makes it out, under the overhang of the Great Hall then across the lawned square and through the makeshift manger, trampling the poultry spooked and squawking, eweing lambs and that lifesized clayfaced babe swaddled in their white and then, beyond, rims the docks and coffined barges toward then around the flagpole barren, fingering with scorched sucked fingertips the lone purplehearted medal he sleeps with dangling from him hotly and without sound, while with his other hand fingering the moustache applied somatically, as if swiped from the deepest pit of prior knowledge: a thin wisp of dreck foraged from his rear.

Halt! a young, lanky, redeyed buzzbald guard yells…who goes there? as he’d been trained: which is heartening, especially when you’re the boss inspecting; except when you’re fleeing, that is, and you realize that everyone you hired the military refused—how they can’t even tell there’s a fire.

It’s me…Die says, you know me, soldier; he holds up his hands, halfsalute and halfsurrender, then waves them toward the smoke.

You? What a dreck disguise! the guard says very funny, tell me another, and he lunges at Die who dashes away in the return of his arrival, the guard following in pursuit his sidearm drawn but don’t worry, there’s been no money for ammunition in a week.

In his quarters, at the far southern wing of the Great Hall, Mada hadn’t slept, had smelled smoke, tasted it, breathed in suspecting the worst then tripped an alarm; the detectors have never been inspected: no rain from the roof, no sprinklers shpritzing; nothing’s up to code. He’d telephoned the firedepartment, ordered Gelt and Hamm quartering down the hall to rouse everyone, a room to room sweep for guests, to triage them out to the lawn and the ice of the square’s the plan as laid and sleeping; he’d go for the boss, personally, then with him underground, to meet up in the Temple as per protocol exigent. But Die stands outside already, shocked immobilized at this, the image of his panicked form—gazing at himself in a vast window falling whole from its mullions then shattering from the face of the portico wall, his own face burning, lit with shards of flame raging, his guard overtaking him to jump directly into the fire, its Hall, hoping O God to save himself from his reflection, too. Firetrucks are delayed, due, at least in the findings of one inquiry posthumous, executed with a holy indifference, ritually pococurante, to disagreement over emergency jurisdiction, whether Joysey should respond to this disaster or Manhattan, New York State (that it’s Xmas just isn’t a reasonable excuse anymore, is what, we’re tired); the ice, it’s a problem unto itself, it’s not only slippery but too thin and the trucks too heavy, many suspect they’d fall right through, the frazil, the nilas…how the firemenschs would have to hook & ladder themselves on out. For the record, though, a few trucks do arrive, but the Garden’s guards end up slowing them well in advance of the perimeter, pull them over, push for inspection, interrogation, in doing so just following orders, standard practice in the event of siege, compound infiltration, contingent upon what’s contingent, a tactic of delay long reserved for this capacity—until the Army or National Guard would arrive on Shade’s orders, whenever, never: guards roadblock all emergency response at the edge of the ice and go about demanding, examining papers, keeping them waiting, stripsearching, taking bribes, baksheesh, bar them despite, impede every entrance with their guns loaded if only with a wasting list of questions, tonguetipped bulletpoints; the Main Guardhouse down toward Island South surrounded by a squadron of firemenschs uniformed in payos and yarmulkes, making all the lewd gestures you’d expect with their hoses in response to subjected measures, as the flagrancy spreads past them, with an explosion from the western wing of the Great Hall that whirlwinds a host of debris high into the night, even out over the ice to threaten their vehicles, up also toward a low gated fence and its scar of lawn, then up its slate path, wickpulsing, melting the protective plastic slipcovering ice, up to the stoop to His door, yellowgold if on its way to tarnish: His house, His sisters’, too, which Israel and Hanna had paid off long after lawschool, partnerships junior, senior, after all those loans, those payments, the mortgage made month in moon out, it’s going up, too—nothing will be spared; insurance—it’s only a dream.

As for Joysey, it’s irretrievable, fogged in smoke. We’re talking banks of the stuff, a run on them, craziness in a last hurried looting of the air for air. Flames consume even the silent bushes, the few remaining shrubs along the Garden’s waterfront. Here still in pajamas under his gown, Die with a cap atop his bald shaped like the moon slouching back toward black—who could take orders from one so appareled—how he suddenly realizes, with the fall of wax on his hand, that this entire time he’s been holding a candle, clutched from his nightstand as he rose into flight: a separate lone flame, having served to illuminate his escape until now; it still hasn’t gone out, but rather’s been melted to his forefinger, and what’s troubling is that he can’t feel its burn. He sits on the icy earth rocking, shrouded in bedsheets Mada’s draped over his shoulders. Chattering, the bite of frost. Soon, and in gross violation of standard ops, he’s surrounded by the faithful surviving: Hamm, and Gelt (an expanse of singleply sucked from the jut of the latter’s weak heel, the whitened sick tongue of his slippers—he’d been disturbed on the toilet), along with a smattering of Kush daughters in only their sequined bedclothes blown suggestively tight in the wind that’s helping the fire along…suddenly turning around in the opposite direction at the sound of another explosion, wondering where Wall Street’s gone, whether Mitteltown’s made off along with it: Manhattan’s skyline nothing but a dark horizon, a burnt finger poked through the smoke it’s accusing; and so already, the assignation of blame, and this with the flames still the rage. Firemenschs having been finally admitted on order of Mada who’s taken initiative when no one else can, they’re inventing a chain of command and with it, attempting to strangle: they’re massing around their trucks schmoozing, kibitzniks, they’re arguing with one another over where their water, which as it’s little is precious, is to go next, and who, for that matter, gets to determine the flow: they trip over their own hoses, they’re flung into the air with variable pressures of spray, their nozzles spouting what water in chains binding whether misered or—as the fire melts the ice, and the melt is tapped—wastefully massive: dousing Israel’s books burnbound, Hanna’s albums of photographs lain open to surge, the kitchen wretched apart in slivers of tile, a gasleak, a rupture in everything’s main, the livingroom a soaked inferno of sofas, charred furniture antique as of yesterday hacked apart with, oyf kapores—axes; hidden under the seared doormat of His house, a scalding key that unlocks no secret…all of it gray on the way to white, in this return to purity, to void: a burntoffering to be refused by God, returned to us on earth as half ash, half watery carcass.

As the sun rises a slight clearing, again the blur of Manhattan’s very south, a wisped glimpse of Joysey beach, crabgrass and the hummocked dune beyond of industry’s smote sprawl…the Great Hall’s revealed, lost, the ghost of its guests, completely cinderdestroyed, utterly unutterably tinder: to go the way of the lives it once hosted, whisked up vaultways through smokestacks of smoke with smoke pouring through them ever exalted; its remains fall apart in the hands, fall through the sifting of fingers and stain, memory, until washed away through a melt in the ice, a hole—a polynya, a negative island. Spotfires rumble at perimeter, pockets smoldering, fume. Stray doorknobs tumble hotly across the square fronting foundational ruin. Tanks go out then the melt reserves, exhausted; eyes and mouths hold the only water and are losing it quickly; through a thinrimmed, dangerous opening whether melted or smashed with axes or trucks what with the weight of their tires, they’re soon pumping the lower Hudson directly, bailing the bay, it’s too late…reinforcements have been slow to arrive, thanks in part to a few guards at the Joysey approach still screening: orders are orders, always just following the order of orders, the protocol of detritus, procedure sunk deep in pondy pits, dug out by hoses by their steady focus and pressure, to be followed only by a directive to preserve—the Administration to take over the Island, to oversee it personally, Shaded protected, an army of agents safeguarding schlub and rub, keeping the remains from any element that hasn’t yet savaged: lengths of flute, revetments fallen, crumbs of column lining the edge of ashen decline to ice melting, melt melting…the door to His house, goldenyellow—Hanna had chosen the color, Israel’d hated it, a landmark argument (she’d called the Koenigsburg’s crying, the shoulder that was Edy’s phone, cradled between the ear and the shoulder with both multitasking), let’s not get into it, not the right time—it’s being carried by two firemenschs one on each side, carrying it to salvage: they heave it to a hulking sledge, to totter atop a mound of similar relics; still in its frame, not yet unhinged, it’s just hanging and so opening nowhere, without an up or down or an in or out or anything, melted from its wall of morning: it’s the same shade as the dawn, the color of fire, a bruised fruit sunrisefire, morning’s purge, the shake of dead branch, from its bark a page blank, aged to brittle—and an island, an Island is the only darkened thing, and darkening still, as if its own shadow, its blackburn a castdown remnant of the night; it lies in the bay becoming ocean as a wound, an openly weeping wound, floating always at the edge of this hemisphere, turning, only to teeter upon, then fall from, the very edge, right off this flattening world—never to heal.

Offshore, Liberty stands untouched, and untouchable, if already tarnished, and as such modest in her grief: arrayed in mourning robes, this metallic sackcloth, her torch a memorycandle snuffed in bronze for safety. As for her book—even if burnt, it’s still open. And as for that other monument, the tree, their Baum outlasting if only by a moment, a mere speck in the Island’s eye, all those other baums, and bergs, too, these krantzs and zweigs dead themselves, stumped graveless—once standing flagless, rude and proud in the midst of the Registry of the Great Hall halfextinguished, it’s a nothing now of choking, clawlike roots, to be upended for the mulch. Understand, this is assimilation: the transference of one element to another, one state as to its voided other, fire to smoke, tree to ashing away on the wind that seeds, and sorrows…O if only that smoke, that ash, it all, could be reassembled into the lost, but how, made manifest again and whole through some, any, allied alchemical effort…to be made then remade in perpetual recreation, what would that cost, what would that be worth—what’s a resurrected life, especially when you have to buy new possessions, when you have to chase after new desires by which to become possessed all over again? Air hovers, impacted, tight—heavy, as if the sky’s one spanless angel’s wing beating its hot thick breath against the faces assembled, too near, the holiness, it stifles. Guests standing outside loitering an uncertain future amid the certain morning, in diverse prodigalities of undress, they stare themselves into a mindful wakefulness, they have to, force themselves already to a newer purpose, inevitable and yet clutching anything they can: souvenirs, mementos mori, one mensch’s treasure another’s pagan trash, it’s said, jewelry, complimentary towels, bars and bottles of shampoo and soap emblazoned with the Garden’s seal—a tree’s star lonelier only than the Island upon which it stands, or stood, its logos the illiterate wind…grouphugging especially one another, themselves in their distress and shock as the monkeys now, the apes great and not so much, those forefathering creationary chimps, escaped from their subterranean vault, the Garden’s until presently secret Scriptorium in which they’d been enslaved and set to parchment copying, churning out their soferwork, the scrolls that are the Torah’s law: they’re flinging palmed wells of ink at everyone, hollering they’re hooting, swinging up from foundations revealed, grasping at beams and columns both falling and fallen to swing themselves, each other, with linked hands and arms from rafter to gird, antenna onto aerial then struts, with their quills as if daring letteropeners held between teeth, the Nachmachen alone in their midst and unhooded trying in vain to bribe them down and calm with the promise of a single banana he’s managed to save, just a peel, he’s sorry, from the Commissaries’ compost still flaming. Then, up from the deepest remains of underground life, as if the very unconscious of the structure destroyed, here comes the canine: dogs redeemed from the Kieferöde wildly spoiled by primal nature and yet retrained to work for their keep, hauling the sleds and the dead, with a pack following of the firemenschs’ dalmatians converted during the very siege of this catastrophe to the collarless cult of madness and so, to an impure, slobbering mate, they’re on fire and yelping and tearing through the assembled froth how they won’t tame down.

Metro Gestapo arriving only now, they slimily insinuate themselves, as if only to prove their mandate, attempting to stun, restrain—impossibly, which is possibly only for the cameras closing in, how they’re uniformly heroes, expecting the martyrdom of sudden fame, or promotion to a desk. Survived only to be taken from the Joysey wood, never lost their instincts, these dogs are here treeing what domestication’s being called for: the microphone menschs, the skied and skated lights and sound—dogs freakishly howling at the rising sun, snouting out its shine from behind the smokecast weather. They begin with their ripping and tearing, and then—even the hulkingest two or three encircled in the square, these specimens almost monstrous, worked muscular and venegeful, they’re swallowing up the evermore arriving medics, doctors, nurses, and miscellaneous disaster professionals, volunteer spectators by the hundreds if not thousands and more having sleighed or skied, skated and snowshod in from Joysey, smoked out of the city, melting into a stream sourced from all its fivealarmed boroughs: these dogs, they’re gulping them up, gnashing the gawkers then swallowing down…the terrible gape of their jaws, their mawgasps, a grum whinny, such pain in their haunches—aflame; Gestapo and those immediately, provisionally, deputized don’t let it go to your head, they’re trying their damnedest to subdue with smallarms fire, which only slows, though, and angers more, these mutants trudging on, doggeda-head and always toward the ice, Manhattan’s skyline fray. A coldbottomed, darkmorning hell of monkeys frantically freed and jumping up and down atop canine backs, dogs and bitches, too, with pups hanging from their teats, distended, burning they’re squealing at suck, biting on for their lives, chewing blood into milk, swinging, six on each at least and gnawing one another, as if leashed, by their teeth, they’re pendulous in the air, and tenuous there—and then, a gullscattering smatter of heavier weaponry, a cannon, must be, gross bombinations who can tell from whence they come whether over the ice from the Battery or from Joyseyways, and with their paws placed forward a first step from the rim of Manhattan’s ice, the dogs totter, lean, and slowly, one by one, fall, raising steam, a surface splash, crushing their pups to drown them, they fall dead the monkeys, too, what with their weight and fall how they fall through the ice now, to the water below, to begin their slow hairy sinks; firemenschs gathering throughout the paddly, madly shrieking descent of that afternoon and later even, quieting, as the dogs’ bodies fix, and the monkeys’ fix, too, then freeze; only to become melted, though, amid the roasting of marshmallows, certifiably kosher, speared on sticks of Israelien furniture—armchairs, desklegs, bedlegs—in the dusking dying flames set upon their flesh.

And then, as if feathers from wings, as stars ejected from the flight of the sky—snow begins to fall.

A hull, a husk, what a waste…what’s left’s only the exposing of foundation to the scandal of undestroying light: the Israelien basement lying open, exhumed innardly for autopsy, domestic viscera, how there’s nothing left to heal or save, to balm or else, to change—partially unfinished forever, an embarrassment of riches, and a rich embarrassment, too: the char of boxes, latter survivors of those once kept in perpetual flux, stepward retained and remained by the sacred calendar always, immovable trunks stilled at the stairhead, the leftovers of the melted refrigerator, storaged waste the wilted LPs, textbooks and cookbooks and the books underlined only in ash, a disagreeing highlight, flaming white rounds of balls for pingpong use on a roll around the tabled remains without a net. The yard, which is the furthest preserve, or once was, of His house, the only parcel left somewhat unscathed, otherly harmed, give or take, we’re talking. And how He’d never noticed that, never will either—that not only had they uprooted and moved His house for Him, and its frontlawn, too, the whole lot of plot with anything goes strewn and the fence too low to keep in appearances with a gate without a lock…but how they’d gone and taken the backyard, too, there facing the windows He’d never looked out of, will never look down from—they’re shattered, sills a crack of cinder—and so the backyard surviving and with it, its twin appletrees, grown so near the ice they’d been forgotten about, withered, and witheringly forlorn, taken as icicles when regarded, if, by whom—as shadows, mere excreta of winter, wisps of remaining smoke, two mirrors placed to face one another, reflectively infinite with frost: Rubina had climbed them once hard between her legs, Simone and Judith had one summer every day of it come here to pick and cool; though all of their apples had long soured, then fallen far moons ago, only to be pilfered by Brooklyn boychicks out for a sin motzei Shabbos—now nearly a year dead, these two trees seasonscorched, still standing.

As for the Temple dimmed in the distance, its star a sixth risen above the smoke, it’s been foreclosed upon by the State in a reckless invocation of, pay attention, eminent domain: it’s theological, you wouldn’t understand, better let the rabbis handle that, your former friends and neighbors; then its site haphazardly converted, seemingly overnight, all extant of its one hundred and eight floors, and with its ritzy penthouse, too, the highest gallery of the holy once intended as the Manhattan residence of the High Priest, which is Him’s what they’d been thinking when He’s old enough, if ever—to laudably lowincome, Section Shmoneh (8) governmentsubsidized housing (who’d use it as a shul, as it’d been suggested early in the planning process, who would pray on grounds so presumptive, so irremediably, irredeemably tainted, was the dissenting thought), essentially tenementspace set aside under new legislation specifically for the use of young, recently hitched couples (parking included, one cart per family, plus unlimited use of a post for the hitching of horses), husbands studying days at whichever yeshiva they might’ve qualified for, and that statesponsored, also, most of the more respected institutions situated Uptown at Park’s edge toward Harlem with a host of others scattered north throughout the Heights; their womenfolk taking in what laundry and sewing they can, cooking for their husbands home argumentweary, come sundown to this, the penultimate floor, hosting apartments #s 102–108, at present home to the Marys reinvented Malkas: three Malkas, or perhaps they prefer Malcha, who knows how they pronounce it, Kotsk, recently married off to triplets named Ivan, greencarded in from Russia, blackhatted out in Brooklyn before, exhaustedly, being relocated here, and two Malkas Plotsk, too, incredibly unrelated to one another though the younger’s a distant enough relation, it’s been said (by them), to the elder Kotsk if you know him, then a Malcha Upstairchik and her neighbor Malcha Downstairchik, though the both of them with their husbands they lived on the same floor and right nextdoor, lighting the Hanukah candles tonight in their windows with views to the Park not quite to die for but appreciable enough, they’ll live; they’re in their kitchens deepfrying latkes, flipping, then flipping again as if the very flatness of their lives, one side to the other, a conversion if slightly burning in the head, and stirring how they’re always stirring away at these thick, gooseskinned burbles of soups and cholents that they have to remind themselves every now and again not to add butter to because schmaltz, gribnes, flanken it’s fleischig, don’t forget—these new words stirring their mouths to a spit from the turn of the secular year, the false turn to which they’ve already turned their backs and with a poo poo over the shoulder poo to the past how they’re stirring dreidel round and round from nothing’s Nun to Gimel takes all in (their stomachs as wide as their households’ deepest pot, a donation), even through the Eve itself never once stilling themselves from their preparations in order to reflect, even for a moment, a moment with its own pregnancy, too, in the glow of the gathered lights, altogether eightdue.

Hanukah’s octal nights the generosity of seven days that end this year on Shabbos, and only then may the week commence with corruption: though there’d been no party last night, no popping of corks with the tongue in the cheek, no shikkers out in the streets wild and naked and hooting inhuman as in years way past immemorial, none, no observance; it’s just business as usual, and in another unusual season, in this winter perpetual, perpetuating, quarter be damned, with a reported 99% probability of precipitation by midnight at the earliest and yet everyone wakes and rises the next morning to that slimmest of chances that everything’s going turn out just fine, God abides: the sun rises from out of the candlemelt of newly heirloomed menorahs, to be scraped out then sent back to their cherrywood cabinets, exiled for yet another year without polish. And would you believe, that even with that new cabinetry and great custom builtins, updated deluxe, the refridge slash freezer state of the art, the selfcleaning, Shabbosmode oven below the rangetop’s upgrade platinized stainless, the retiled kitchen with its counters and cooking surfaces retopped, too, new windows and doors and the furniture reupholstered, gevalt—they’ve still had trouble renting this unit?

In Miami, this Sunday into a workday tomorrow, tonight, the night begins and a day begins, the night ends and with it another day begins, too—it’s work whichever way you slice it, a fat healthy slab if you’ve got the appetite or maybe slivered for those on a diet to pick at, a little less, no, really, I shouldn’t, no, go ahead, it’s fine every once in a while, who me, I won’t tell…no one notices they missed a turn, or calls them on it or kvetches cheat, you took a hand from the piece, pay attention. Here in this refurbished penthouse, atop an endtable—one of the only elements remaining, that’s original, this and the endtable on which it rests and that table in the other room, too, call it the beginning-table, if you must (once intended for workaday essing, just guessing), witness the sale’s requirements of new terms for new markets, more words for more money down…surfaces having survived the designers with all their samples, the consultants, their budgets: the old chessboard, it’s theirs, once was His. Its pieces now stand without benefit of players or game, not moving mind you, there’s no magic here; they’re just standing. On their own, as it’s said. As if waiting only for a mind with a hand. The board sits, as the pieces stand—all of it exiled, too, from atop that other table set in the diningroom, recliningly roomed on four legs slowly developing, with splinters, knees, furniture that’d been worthwhile antique even back when PopPop was living and unlike him has remained, having been remanded—the checkered chess’ surface unplaying to an empty house, topped with its ranks rowed unmoved—to this matching oak, mirrorhutched slab set firm in its foundations, you like, which are thick shag, wonderful, no, its gaming parquet lately draped with a doily (this touch, the agent’s), the entire unit moved up against the window, new glass, insulated like you wouldn’t believe, how much you’ll save a fortune on bills. Much remodeling is what, and minimal interest (though this she won’t admit, the agent blowing on her fingernails cupped around the phone), no takers and so, no heat: icicles hang from the baseboard, a condo frozen out of time…

History gets around. Everybody knows whose this once was.

A guest of a sun forces its way in, uninvited as always, muttering inlaw—the barging of its single breast. As shadows in its light that PopPop had once owned, at least had rented out to the hosting of others—and perhaps it’s only seeking a return on all the money once made in its name, as if risen expressly to collect, or if just to beam in aggrandizing apology, maybe, for the cancer it once visited upon the chest of his wife, or his own mother—then through the shades…here, the chesspieces are cast every which way across their squares; they’re scattered, moving, moved, in flagrant violation of every rule, moving at the same time both sides white and black, and in different directions front and back, in moves those pieces can’t make, mundanely don’t or shouldn’t. It’d been a game halted midplay, as PopPop had to wash, dress, then wash again, brush, down a quick capful of mouthwash, snip his nails into darned dark socks fuzzied memorially in his dead wife’s whitesoled slippers, to meet this goy Arschstrong he asked B earlier to call Uncle or Arnie down a flight for what He’s never thought, He’d never asked, there’s no one to ask now, anyway, He can’t. An attack without a defense, a defense without an attack, and all of it: intention, direction, stilled…except shadow, which at noon is none. The chesspieces stand only as pieces of chess. And then, with the passage of sun, hourly disappointed, afternoonly resigned, its light arced to holy with shine this two bedroom with eatin kitchen that the harried, scoldeyed realestate maid she comes and cleans at twice a week, needing this sale, even a rental, how she needs anything except this very needing to please: they’re small the pieces, slowly flung the other way across the board again. Hours of shadow play against each other the same game every day—a game of illogic, as a move of logic, or else those both of nature’s game…as a strategy the same day in, day out, and perfectly known, if only in its impossibility to master. Yesterday, yet another happily newlywed couple’d taken a look at the place, open and shut cabinets, tested the blinds, its and hers and theirs; elbowed one another as they smirked at the beds: husband an oliveoil salesmensch who knew a pitch when he heard one (but didn’t talk much himself—he’d just caught a cold), sneezing and coughing in the freeze while fanning his hand through his own product slicking back his hair; his wife a wife without ambition to more, a myope but bright and grinny, she had moles across her face as if a mappemonde to the temple of her smile—and yet how she’d complained how hard this building was to find (still, she’d be the type to always get her way)…they don’t know how to play chess, is what; I haven’t the faintest, she’d said. If they move in, if the husband ends up talking the still busty, redcheeked agent down to take the place at well below what she calls market (flirting with his frowning lips, how he’d get an earful on the long ride home)—will they keep the board, where it is, set up and played out halfway as it is…as a curio, or conversation piece, Loreta had said, today the agent, tomorrow the maid: as a piece of highminded, low upkeep decoration to set alongside the teiglach tray (every time she’d have a showing, she’d make sure to bake her best)? But before any contract can be claused for closing, the State gets involved, takes it, too, then stiffs her on any commission, her rightful fee, brokering herself nothing but personal ruin: the Administration has it proclaimed a landmark, then announces an initiative to refurbish it yet again, to restore it to its original state, and this after management had spent what it’d spent, gone all out to remove any sign of its former incarnation, its glitzy, silveryears style nearly three decades old, with the kitschy carpet clashing with the wallpaper, blue ugly below the slick vymura, wipeclean another and even uglier shade of winkly superannuated blue (and don’t get her started on the drapes)…any trace whatsoever of its former occupants Loreta’d pretend she’d never heard of them, didn’t know what they were talking. The idea’s to open it up as a Museum, another, of the horror, terror, of the deceit; they’ll keep everything where it is if that’s where it’d been, rehabilitating all the rest to an intimation of its former vainest glory, labeling losses, enshrining the mundane: requisitioned from the warehouse, one (1) banal couch puce and plump whose cushions once, if only for a week, not even, held the idle form of evil.

It’s depressing, enough, to lose this, too, she’d needed it; she hadn’t been to closing in who wants to think, too long, to tell the truth she’s never. Loreta the realestate agent, she used to be a secretary, Israel’s, if you hadn’t heard already: questioned in the winter of last year after he’d died then released, for cooperating (turning over files and tapes they’d been interested in only she’d known where they were, in which system they’d been filed, for saving certain timesheets, also, from the looters, plaintiff attorneys who’d come to claim the spoils of adversaries settled into death), the Garden had offered her protection, a unit in Miami, just downstairs—Arschstrong’s, she hadn’t wanted to ask whose. Knew to keep her mouth shut, what with a free roof above her head. Loreta, who down here couldn’t find work with any surviving attorney; who’d give her the references, the resume’s blank bottom: anyone who’d worked with her up north was either graved or Gardened, and so she went and took a nightclass, got certified and began trying to sell off units in this building and others owned by its benevolent management company, units 2br/1.5 bath w/ k.k. almost totally abandoned if not wholly from death then from its collateral flee, all around greater Miami, her territory down to Key Wherever due south, not that she’s ever been down there, she didn’t have the keys; she’s not much of a success or a traveler (which is what she’d wanted out of retirement, if ever), her life hasn’t been what it could’ve, not ever since, it stings. Loreta, the woman who’d spent the most time with Israel, the most facetime, talktime, minutes for the two together if they’d’ve been kept would’ve totaled to intimacy, she would’ve been billed the most total sum of his face-hours, his talkhours (for which she’d pay him in overtime daily), Israel’s wife and daughters and certainly his son who’s barely born, forgive him, inclusive. Loreta, she’s presently among the most observant, or at least convinced, of Affiliated converts, having with Israel’s death and the death of the firm, its partners and many if not most of its clients, too, was not only unemployed but also severely depressed, clinically a wonderful state for coming nearer my God, as her people would’ve put it (an idol of the Virgin not her once standing veiled in the corner of her mother’s room back home in Vineland), moping around that Joysey house—which she hasn’t kept: how it’s the only house she’s ever sold—in gray sweats from her stateschool alma mater, her disconsolate and sobbing while gorging on medications, pills for pills requiring pills, gallon after gallon of icecream melting under the Xmas firm giftbasket liqueur she’s hoarded, a cherry cordial she’d pour atop the vanilla scoops to get drunk on then fall asleep from as if melted herself on the fudging of the couch: hers the rockiest road, the chunky should be chippiest and yet the doughiest, too, without direction, no shoulder to cry on waited out, for her next calling called, the phonetuck, the onhold lean, scraping dry skin from her elbows, flossing nightly with her hair loss, showering less and gaining weight. To get up from the couch, only to run up the longdistance bills and in ratty weekend sneakers. How the phone would ring, then she’d trip over her sweats baggy to the carpet to pick them up and answer it, hello—you’ve reached the law offices of Goldenberg, Goldenberg, &…always the wrong number—Loreta? Nobody by that name here, sorry, now’s not a good time, I’ve been changed, my number’s up, it’s disconnected, please hang up and dial. Married last moon to the building’s super she’s lately Leah Weiss, and who doesn’t want to lay a Weiss—Israel, are you listening, are you out there; though he never laid a hand on her, not one, not even once a finger, not even on those longhot, palm-printed on her windowed memory afternoons summering late amid southernmost excruciation, when she’d lean all the way, way egregiously over to file who knows what away without doubt unnecessarily, extraneously so as to liven up the hours with just a wiggle of those two scooped loaves of hers up at him, their wisp of yesterday’s panty, her knocker knees in those wriggly heels of hers or the Friday boots up to her crotch, the ran slightly ripped dark hose worn three sizes too small as if to cut off circulation, not his, no, it’s that…he’d never even given her a mean word let alone a slap, a shtup, a good hard zogging; no matter, he wouldn’t live to regret. Loreta sits late at her overflowing desk, her husband’s, to be precise Evan Weiss (he’d mocked up a replica for her, for love, a handymensch, from memory, hers)…who’s downstairs just now, he’s checking on the boiler. In Arschstrong’s den made her showroom/office, she pores over dictation, with her fingertips like tears, listening over the headphones to the old dictaphone tapes she still picks and pecks, types the night away at this old manual, an antique Remington 18 Evan had purchased for her with scrip from their one of many Recently Affiliated Unions (RAUS) just getting organized, splitleveling up from out of the freeze all over winterized Miami. Easy on the manicure, diddle the platen, she scribes, taking the same dictation from the same dictated tape she’s taken already a hundred, a thousand times previous, and still, she’s never remembered…how she does this every night late, she needs to (who to complain of the clacking, as her husband here’s the boss and obviously no one lives above, or below), needs to hear him and his formulas again, again his formulations forever, dear so & so, in re: INRI: she’s thinking, and what a martyr, too, in that she most loves now those duties of hers that she most hated then, the fetching of an Elijah’s cup of coffee, makes it hard on herself and black when the cup’s not sipped how she tells herself it’s terrible…take a letter, says his ghost, a little of the martyr in him himself: then shred all and send its scraps on the wind, she knows these moods too well…with a CC: to the east, a little Latin, while lower down there’s to be a section sign—§, which symbol Israel would always remind her had been derived from the ancient letter gimel, the third of the Affiliated alphabet, from gemul, a slight antagonym, he’d explain, selfmeaning and, too, contradicting itself, a contronym translating alternately as Reward, and also as its Punishment.

Got it.

Read it back.

Hereby. Respectfully submitted, etc.

Sentence, his ghost says.

And then, paragraph.

Very Truly Yours, it says statickly, Me…and then how she’s to fill in the Me with Israel Israelien, Esq., over which he might, if he wasn’t too busy, in a meeting, on the phone or otherwise disposed with the trashcan in the corner of his corneroffice and tossing, attempted, crumpled, looseballed papers as if the flakes and drifts of their snoglobe weights above, or else in court and what with this letter, brief, or contract having to go out now—the mail’s at three—sign the same name Israel Israelien Israel Israelien Israel Israelien over and again in an illegible haste, a smudge of impatience, ink blotting blemish from the forge of his fountain (Loreta turned Leah had done this all the time, filled in for him, even once impersonated his voice, the one still speaking if only for her own ears, confidential years ago in a longdistance call to his father, who’d been crazy and estranged, according to him, though when she talked to him that once he’d seemed fine, decently sane and even, though she wouldn’t mention it, kind), smirching the remaining hold of firm stationary she’s stolen, 20lb. noncorrasable bond still preciously surviving; she’s already licked out of envelopes, has only two reams of letterhead left—she keeps them boxed in her oven, which is selfcleaning, when she’s not cleaning it herself.

How’d you spell escheat? she asks the ghost…though we all know that ghosts only dictate, they never respond, don’t sign for anything, and—isn’t it true that, they never know to spell.

Israel never did.

¶ Deposition of…she types now, held at the offices of Goldenberg, Goldenberg, & Israelien LLP, 45 East 33rd Street, New York, New York, 10016, pursuant to Notice, before Loreta O. Strozzapreti, a Registered Professional Reporter and Notary Public of the State of New York.

9. EXAMINATION BY MR. ISRAELIEN:

10. Q. It is our mutual understanding that portions of this record may

11. be read into evidence. However, all objections except as to the

12. form of the question are reserved until trial.

13. A…typing out depositions of deponents long deposed of to the dead. Her tears tap the keys, sticking, jumblblbling…she types: hereby stipulate, types, pursuant to, then the ghost says again as she rewinds the tape to a garble: ottnaus…pursuant to our discussion, let’s talk Hanna would always ask, would demand, about the hours you’ve been keeping: her not suspecting him of infidelity, rather of the opposite, of being too faithful, too true to his work, fathering not their kinder as much as husbanding time, and whole sheets of the stuff as null as the day’s sky, turned down late into night—absent, the faceless face of the clock: how she’d kid stripped before bed when he’s coming home midnight from a meeting, I’ll get your partners to represent me, sue you for nonsupport; billing twentyfive hours a day, eight days a week, an hour for only a moment of thought in the shower, his practice fair or not: a consideration at towel’s length, contemplating the tie of a tie four in hand with dimple, or a shoe’s spit knucklepolish, then a quick kiss to his wife who she’s still sleeping and he’s out the door to his car or the train. Argument for its own sake, an appeal for the sake of appeal—him a lawyer at first for building contractors, for plumbers, autoaccident victims (his covenant, you will receive a cash settlement or I get no fee); he’d done personal injury, workers’ comp, liability, then moved himself into the corneroffice’s corporate work, mergers & acquisitions, late nights at the kitchen or even later into morning the diningroom table poring over his own scrapheap obsessions, Latinate and private, a personal edition of the most secular of Scripture. Notes on Promissory Estoppel in Collective Bargaining Agreements 1:1. In the end, Loreta has to think, how it’s all estoppel, isn’t it, detrimental reliance, we know it as delusion, the enabling lie: taking certain measures contingent on the veracity of information provided, on the faith faithed in promise, assurance, oral contracts taken out on the given word we call them. Non concedit venire contra factum proprium, give me a break, who says. How she thought she’d had a future there, was once even thinking about trying out for paralegal, going for broke on a cooperative investment expecting a raise, if wishful—for the better, though, as the co-op, with the death of its management, it’s turned out to be a coop, like for chicks. Israelien v. Greater Miami Food Services at 9, she’d handled that; it’d taken months. Damages, I’m due. Too much and probably pregnant, too. And old. Either express or implied…how I’d buy Hanna flowers whenever Wanda would call to remind. Didn’t once forget to send even his father a card. I’d sign it, Loreta—he’d never. She’s crying, lights another candle on the counter in the kitchen, a line of them between her two dryingracks, the meat kept kosher from the milk. Seethe on your own time, but separately, if you can. How is it she still feels his presence, his eyes on her, and hears that voice…her new religion, if it even is a religion and not a, forget it, asks her not to ask; and how her husband who he’s her despondent, too, he serves then clears the courtroom of their distance, later at night and in bed reminds her, nu, we don’t even believe in ghosts anymore, not supposed to, not as such: more like possessions, hymn, as in dybbuks, incarnations or usurpations, but ghosts, no, I don’t think so, Leah, but I’m no rabbi, yet—that and in the morning when her brother down in Texas calls, he reminds her better, that before she converted she always said she hated the schmuck, it might be best forgotten. The again overtime, the weekend hours how he’d never work Saturday but she’d come in on Sundays, too—you think she ever got Shabbos off, forget it. She loved her job she says to her brother-inlaw, now named Israel, too (so few names with real kavod these days, true yichus or zichus she can’t remember which, and with so many people wanting them: her brother, he’d chosen late, last pick), who he’s still wrangling cattle but as of last moon for a kosher concern…and thinking—is what he says but she’s not and not listening either—about opening up a slaughterhouse outside Houston, if he could only glatt the backers into reviving a trusted brand; she did, though, love, don’t get her wrong, she liked: it paid well, her job, then the benefits, and Israel, though she might lionize him in death, as a tamer or taskmaster, he’d been pleasant enough, better than expected if only in hindsight, though her eyes are going what with the small print and miniature night type; she says to her brother, her brat, her ach: Evan wants me to burn the tapes, I’ll burn the tapes, I promise—tomorrow, first thing before I daven (tonight, she still has to summarize a brief); but don’t think I’ll ever stop hearing that voice—which would shriek down the phone though her desk had been cubicled just beyond the door.

As for the office, it hasn’t much changed; not the layout, only the furnishings. Inevitably, a sheaf of magazines have folded, or have been desubscribed to, stolen or moved around, flipped through then restacked again out of issued order; the glass has been replaced out front with another slab of blank clarity because they couldn’t add etch to or scrape the names from the old convincingly, or cheaply. Though Goldenberg, Goldenberg, that walled sign over reception still reads, then & Thronrauber in a different font, pretentiously with serif, Attorneys-At-Law—at your service. Call it continuity, despite. Nobody by any of those names has lately hung a hat here. I’m Mordy, but when you’re calling ask for Guy. Too early in the morning and with no brunch in Him, recently sleepless what with the fear inspired by the little He’s asked in return for His bed and board, miserly, too, and provisionally He thinks in spite, He’s leftover the holiday attempted to an exhaustion matched only by that of His purpose, both as mated to those of this family’s most demanding personalities (mother, wife) and, as well, in light of a present piety that’s damning of all senses and ambivalent toward dream…B’s arrived here with the proctologist and his wife, and her dressedup something like a weddingcake already, a healthy portion: with an icingly pink pillboxhat over pinker wig, frostpowdered face, the bride and groom of her bosom sweetly perfumed, and their daughter whom they’ve been calling Eli—you might’ve missed her, don’t beat your breast about it: anyway, how she’s been too shy to tell Him her full name, whether her new name or old, anything about herself, really, also she’s not quite allowed to be alone with Him for any appreciable time—that is, not until, we’re hoping. Holdingout. Eli who’s crying because being here’s mortifying, and how He wants to know why, suspicious, but every time He leans around her mother to mouth entreaties at her eye her mother keeps leaning forward, her lips sloppily filled with complimentary jelly and curd, asking B if He’s feeling well, hungry or thirsty and Him not understanding, only how much He doesn’t want to…what’s He here for is what meddles, only that the proctologist had forced Him into a doubled doublebreasted suit he’d managed to impromptu along with a cardboard belt and tie ensemble, then a cart down to Mitteltown to take care of some things, he’d said, a bit of paperwork pertaining to your status, get you legal, keep you safe, secure, and how He thinks—no problem, the mensch’s been good people so far, so good, soso, and how the daughter’s not tootoo…until now, Him ending up in this office, which hasn’t even merited a plaque: keep waiting, it’s on order.

Though not just any office…B doesn’t even know He’s in it, how deeply what this was, His father’s, what could’ve been, all His with tasteful lighting. The lobby’s plush if haphazard: the looting of a year ago’s still in evidence, desuetude, loopholes and gaps; the furniture had been purchased all in a lot to replace the antiques Israel had selected over the years, Empire in its Americanly acquisitive origins and devolutions both decadent and proper, staying seated if occasionally refined, preEmpire, nearEmpire, once risen conference curios by the time of their disappearance, fallen, wingchairs become clipped, corrupt, today made a host of the foldable, cardtables collapsing to the filed thinness of pending suits: seats unpadded, but the tabletops, they’ve sprung out extra makeshift legs to warranty such vinyl. Stacked reference materials, stools of crate and barrel. A bell rings from down the hall and this mensch emerges from behind nothingness, just a foldingchair unfolded from the grooves where the receptiondesk had been, asks B and the proctologist to follow him, right this way and huffily selfimportant: taking their leave of such a worried, Hadassah/Sisterhooded wife with a tongue like a subscription renewal insert (busying Solitaire with her membership cards, just now too concerned with her cascade), her reddened, promised daughter, then down a hall whose walls are still white if, could it be, snowed a little brighter, and this despite no new wash or coating, if only in relation to the stain retained of photographs removed; a coatrack wilts in a corner; the watercooler’s empty, webbed with the industry of spiders. A grove of plaintiffly withered plants scattered about here and there along with sorry files, paperaeroplaned whiles, with no bargain pled of access or negotiating passage, they have to compromise high toe heel along their ways. To avoid a slip and fall, them suing, a settlement for loss. Bad shape, and that’s my closing statement. The prosecution rests, to honor shiver.

Everything’s underheated if not unheated totally, with an icewind down the halls…then the hall down to the last offices and there the largest, too, cornered at the edge of the building, topfloored thirtysix high above Mitteltown’s marked drudge: papers gust through, and more files, merging and acquiring then winding apart, everywhere draftily whirled around with the Garden’s ash duct in, what sustaining smoke, as if an interior night (that’s if it’s not just the electricity’s been cut here: nonpayment, moons overdue), now starred with a raided suppliesroom’s worth of miscellaneous office staples, paperclips and stamps, their edges and those of the sharpest papers, too, and then the folders for files cutting them as they pass, slicing them raw, as if unfolding their flesh to the cold. The mensch leading, how can you trust him wearing such a bulky trench indoors. An opened office at hallway’s end reveals a glaring glass, a window the length of the wall, and to Him fishbowlish, though the wet’s still kept outside, upsidedowned and floating in the sky. It’s fronted by two menschs, sitting in two chairs set uncomfortably too close to each other behind their single, small desk, which is little more than the old office door fallen to rest atop sawhorses dirty, scarred, obviously filched from the reconditioned street. At work, in progress this regression. Don’t bother to get up, on my account, no good here. Better you should shvitz.

The heat in the room and only this room is up incredibly against the prevelant outside, what weather let in through the halls: how hot is it that the two how you have to convince yourself they’re lawyers, and keep reminding, are decked out in suits, with jacket, vest, and pants, but how under these there’s nothing else, apparently nothing underneath whether worn or mended, borrowed, white or blue, only these two suits of three pieces each as slouched right off the remaindered’s hangers, tailored too loose from the skeletal rack; no shirts are evident under their vests and jackets, no underwear in evidence under the pants under the single shared desk (the bulges are too conspicuous from both sides of the metal’s median support), no socks around either, shoeless. What else, this unbecoming, it’s just a hunch, a feeling: how they’re the kind of lawyers who can never take calls, who let’s say regularly shut the lights then hide behind the cabinets for linner, which is houred to encompass the entire afternoon—a splurge on delivery, let the secretary tip, or else to send her freezing for their takeout, then forget to remunerate receipts. Waiting as if patient for any client paying even only one of them as they’re only billing each the other, selling short and fat the one, the other tall and overcharging, one wipes his brow with a cuff of his suit while the other examines his stubble in the reflection of a nailfile, which could be used to split wood, or to cut the clouds, make rain. The proctologist gives B a wink that says, they know me here, or maybe there’s schmutz in his eye; then, he tugs on an ear, as if that’s a sign, too, for what and not just nerves. Trust me, I know how to talk to these people. That’s what the other eye wants to say, many times unwinked. Whoever they are, whatever they make…Goldenbergs, Thron, & Rauber, He suspects they’ll be anyone you want—if you can pay, in cash and preferably today.

And what can we do for you, the fat asks, Mister…

Jacobson, says the proctologist.

Please, Mister Jacobson, says the skinny, let the boy speak for Himself…I’m not Jacobson, says the proctologist.

And so you’re here for a change of name…

No, says the proctologist, He’s…accusing with an ungloved finger he still uses for you shouldn’t know what and enjoyably, here to be, what’s the term—Confirmed, so that He can finally go and marry my daughter, get her out of the house if only for a night…during which, let’s hope, to make a zeyde out of me.

And so?

I’ve been told by my rabbi, he goes on, undaunted, that despite His assurances His, nu, covenant needs to be checked…independentlike, thirdparty and all, but you’re the professionals, aren’t you, I’m paying you to be—to demonstrate proof of His circumcision is what, and cough, in the presence of at least two witnesses, preferably lawyers is what he said, or a notable notary public. A mensch down at my mikveh, Shearith Israel’s, gave me your names, Little Jimmy Mizrahi who handles for me my malpractice, said you’d give me a good deal if I mentioned him.

The two menschs turn to stare at each other; then the skinny turns back to calm a yawn into his fist.

Mister Jacobson, he says, it’s standard policy to ask you to leave the room for the purposes of this inspection.

Say no more. As if to say even more. Keep everything in confidence except my confidence in you.

I assure you, says the fat, it’ll only be a moment…and as the proctologist rises he asks after him, as if unconversant: just look at the thing, that’s the Law, that’s what you want we should do, sign a piece of paper, give you a stamp, a large one we have, your choice of inks in every shade of red—the skinny adding, we don’t have to touch it, I’m just saying…to say: we might get our hands dirty for the money, but dignity’s the rub. Don’t blame, or accuse, they’re only assuming, with blushes. May it please the court, they’re new to this if greedy. And though the proctologist’s standing he’s nodding dumbly, stalling; probing around obscenely in his pockets front then rear for a wallet, which he eventually samples from his pants, tacts from it a stack of new bills he lays on the seat of his foldingchair. Appreciated, he says and then why not lies a businesscard atop, one of his own, you never know, tempting the cozen of professional courtesy, I’d do well by you…then turns to leave them alone, a schmeck privacy their privilege: he’s escorted out the doorway in the company of the receptionist who’d showed them in, a mensch they’d had to hire because of their frummier clients, the more religious who wouldn’t deal with a woman unless a relation, then how it’d become too much, this hiring of everybody’s kind and gifted sister; and so this haughty, hubristic, hospitalityschool dropout, he heads the doctor back down the halls to the lobby, its newspapers, magazines, wife, which none of them ever change except in their moods, her using the frontpages of today’s still crackling Fire! as a crumbly napkin, a dozen or so deep into the complimentary refreshments: yesterday’s coffee, the rugelach of last week, disappointingly fruity ever since they’re out of chocolate.

The two menschs behind their sawhorse desk cleaning their glasses without glass with their ties, which are untied one starred the other striped, and frayed loose at lesser ends: their unfocused squint as if they’re always thinking, never not; then, replacing their glasses of only frames and then their ties, too, the greater end of each’s thrown back over their shoulders as if silken wings or the pursy ears of sows; they sit unsettled, hunched over their common desk of the converted door with its knob still installed at middle, which they both take turns touching at and turning, then both have a hand on it at the same time, on each other’s and how they’re stroking almost in reassurance, shvitzy to stoop forward and even nearer to one another, then to B, with their other hands holding up their heads: the listening position, it’s known as; futz conversate, though, the consultation’s theirs.

Stand up, please, the skinny says, come closer. And loosen your belt, says the fat…don’t worry, we don’t bite. Your shver, the tuchus doctor—he didn’t pay for that.

B approaches the desk, standing it feels to both a floor tall above the seated lawyers, staring out through the extensive glass behind them, with its view to Mitteltown’s rushhour…at the snow falling in a whitewashing squall (as if provender to livestock), at the sacrificial animals specied to servile dray: the mules, donkeys, oxen, horses hamed; the carts certified push, pull, and peddling, then those of the milkmenschs, too, the trundling delivery boychicks, the streetside prophets and the unrelieved, allrevealed schnorrers, the roiling moil of forms clad in daily black…and as the skinny he’s saying, nu, so drop them, a clattering comes dull from just behind—one of the two menschs standing amid the gusts of the doorway has let go of his pistol, and holds up his hands in defense; the other, however, ignores the order and the response of his partner, ranges his aim wildly around the room at the lawyers then at the tushy mensch between them with His hands on His corrugated belt, as if about to let loose with whipping…hymn, Hymies, they have to be—at least operative under an Affiliate acronym. As the first one who’s the second in command, he thinks, his partner’s assured him, backs himself from the room slowly with his hands still raised bearing too much white mortifying the cuff of his shirt against the suit’s black, dynastically classic and official as hell…the other’s still yelling at them all to get down, mutterfutzer, don’t move, freeze—it’s already frozen, makes no sense, this fall yourselves down upon your face, humble, scrape prostrate already shoeless, they’re stood on hopeless ground…and so the two lawyers lie themselves flat on the carpet unvaccuumed, their hands held behind their backs, the two of them yelling at the other two whichever variant of We gave at the office. Shut the futz up, which one of you’s which. B doesn’t lie down or even turn around, rollover, and this despite their orders armed with aim. Rather, He cradles His blackboard as if it’s His newborn, and then with head bowed down to chest as if to deference its breasty idols, vaults up and almost over the desk doored before Him but goes through the thing instead and flying, only to shatter Himself, too, stumbled through the window amid a nimbose explosion of glass, to fall through the air then down a floor giving way to floors after floors down through the weather and its own floating fall—to land unharmed atop a snowdrift, within it as an oversized flake foundered upon a swaddle soft and loosely packed. B to rise up gevalt the knees amid slateshards, the window’s wood and glass scattered across the walk, to leave His broken board, His bitten chalk, and huddle disappeared—seethed into Park Avenue and its heedless herds, the Mitteltowning swarm.

Though many think, all are right. And though many know, all are wrong. To think through His disappearance, to ask amid everything questioning else where He disappears to, when He does, and how exactly might He do it—that is, to create. It follows thusly—to purport to know Why? is only to destroy. To answer, therein lies the sin, unequivocal. Here, we’re creating a canon of our own, at the very least updating the one we’ve been born with, were born into, and so giving it life, a future if only in His death. Let there be a negative tradition. An inheritance owed. And it was, and still is. A living life against. Be not discouraged, though; interpretation’s acceptable to any question asked, is actually encouraged, rewarded in its own time, even if it be posthumous, praise be to He, Hallelujah…however, answers are still forbidden: they shall be destroyed, scorched by the sun of days, left in the valley to blacken the beaks of our vultures.

History is His, is ours, and not as a fixed sum, a known, but as a continuum, if darkened, a forever beginning, an unvoided void. And so it’s with a mind for this history, this past we might date and time by the deaths, inevitably, joyously, of our many martyrs, that B plots an end of His own. A Zionless plotz. Without these losses, no gains might be ours. Immortality is abominable to memory, also to banks and to the capacities of even our greatest synagogue and shuls, their oppugnant schools. But how to have an end to call His own, having been forbidden from calling, without tongue, His mouth the grave of a name. A death itself shrouded in the as yet unknown, graven upon tomorrow, buried in future, a coffin if falsely bottomed to the day before that…the thought now is Polandland, far toward the east, it having become too dangerous over here, too hostile, exposed. America, what’s next. America, vot ken you mach…and there, what—to begin again, to honor your self and your stubborn ambition with the perpetual promise of newness, the always novel, the once failed now all over again, there on the other older side of the ocean, here upon the olden, othered side of the sidereal deep in which His parents lie, and His sisters, His people fallenflung in a tangle of millions, sunken and yet still twinkling however many depths down or above, only to become swallowed up into the netted bellies of the fish swallowed by the fish that constellated constant Leviathan will upon the arrival of the next Flood swallow down into its belly of net, the underside of the moon without rainbow.

Polandland, where everything began, there it would end, if only for Him, if only for now…spin the globe, point a finger; on a long Shabbos afternoon to idly flip through an atlas, then stop and, po or sham, that’s where history hails from, promise. Polandland, where everything’s, what’s the idea I’m thinking here, the ideal I’m saying, the word without chalk or board…where He can get Himself perspective that’s what, a sensibility, distance, remove—the wart of the word on the tip of the tongue, the pickled silver sliver of flesh, fishlike if headless, stilled, mounted in its setting of gold, having been excavated from the ruins of His house, dug from the scorched mouth of the earth—only for it to leave its limited time only exhibition in the Museum in the Park north from the Temple’s conversion, to make the rounds of every major metropolis, wandering city to city in its lingual stump, an equatorial twisting…to outlive infamy, outlasting even reality, on its way to becoming a symbol—with the mensch to whom it belonged to be remembered as a relic Himself, to be embraced but only in His toothy demise, its humiliation, whiteshrouded. A sickly veil. To then ask with this severance of His for another, if only He could, to wag its length into a question, to curl it, even at this remove, at such a sunder, around what appeal: to ask with it permission to leave, for leave to escape, to beg, beseech, bow down, to humble myself in the midst—a tongue that would be the brother of the snake of Eden treed before its Fall, a tongue with knees, I’m talking. Think of it, how to leave affairs all up in the air, rain-bowlike and at their highest arc, promising only the undecided unmade, the still unthought and forever unknown…redemption necessary to any expatriation, Him needing to be released from this bondage before He binds Himself anew (don’t begin when you haven’t finished, or—Hanna would often harangue along these lines); it’s maybe pitiful, perhaps abject, but faithful, respectful, honoring—this seeking of maternal permission, this wanting of a brotherly consent. To obtain His freedom from any Pharaoh with a heart significantly unhardened, melted to any sympathetic wet. To ask with a burnt, coalslowed tongue the only question to which an answer might be permitted, the answer of—do what you want, what you will, up to you. Affirming maturity. Independence. You’re on your own, grown up. I have a response. Anyone have a query? And if none would oblige? I’ll let myself go. Even more than I already have.

It’s tenable, many think, it holds—though so very difficult, involved to argue, but since when has that stopped any of us—that all of history’s happened to effect Him in the negative, much as it did Adam, time’s wearying wear on the first mensch, with everything his fault, faulting him, nothing to blame, with no brother whose mark would keep him; that when another first of a kind, Napoleon, suppose, he rode through the desert upon the horses of the great Alexander, thinking to conquer the bondage that was Egypt if only to bind it to him, to the West, then, and so to a few argue an even greater oppression—and you won’t find this in your al-Jabarti, try as you might—that one of the goys in his army went and stole a date from a stall huddled up against the edge of Cairo under the citadel of Saladin, stole a date that was poisonous, a date that it’s said killed the goy when he went to it for sustenance, this goy formerly a Venetian sbirro who’d been courting an Affiliated back home in the Republic once serene, them groping each other on the outskirts of the Ghetto Nuovo no longer gated what with the emancipation and this thanks to the campaign of that very conqueror being served in the east—the two of them Venetian and Affiliated still sheltered, though, hidden from all, declaring their love for one another under the protective ring of the Terza, a bell echoing far from the San Marco campanile; him stealing kisses and hugs and loving words from this ghetto maydel who after having waited for his return from the fight and having had none for a while went and married another Unaffiliated, who he was the dead goy’s brother who’d urged her to give up on his own brother for dead then took her soon pregnant west to an America that promised an ocean between them and the continent warring, which union of theirs and its consummating birth upon Manhattan Island led directly, some say, believe it or not, through splinteringly infinite causes of causality, gevalt, and through subsequent effects too numerously and, too, numinously insane to even allude to here, ask them, they seem to have all the answers, the charts and the trees, the graphs and riverflows—all leading to Hanna and Israel, a Developed cedar far from its Lebanon, palmed nearer to New Egypt, Joysey, and its tiny pines, branching out to bloom Him with the winter…a culmination, if culminating in disappointment, and for at least this Garden’s root, this trunk, final, that’s that.

And not just the past, others have argued, not just our history, no, that in truth everything’s been created for B—B as culmination, as the created creating, natura naturans who He hasn’t yet exorcised that particular endowment, impotently, a potentiality shed; B as an apotheosized beneficiary of all mundanity from Bereishit’s beginning to now, an old heresy: that even Genesis had been begun for His sake alone; that water, too, had been created then divided upon the division of the second day expressly for His tears at this, His departure; the moon made only for His night, the sun made only for His day, then the air smoking around Him, it feels to Him, American Him, decadent as excessively holy and holying Him—and then shoes, hymn, them as well, having been created for the sake of His feet alone, though cobbled too tightly, nu, though loosened without laces, the proctologist’s spare pair He’s walking in on His way south through what once was the Village; and then the snap-brim cap on His head, how that’d been taken from the proctologist, that also and maladjustedly tight, had been created only so that it would fly from His head on the wind as He makes His way down toward the Battery—His head uplifted, Him passing questioning unquestioned through the gate new at Wall Street, which had once been a wall erected to keep out the natives of Manhattan raised again with its name remained to limit the traffic of the Unaffiliated from the marketstalls trading Downtown; domain of woolybearded carders and dyers, tanners and tinsmiths, the young, fritcheeked blowers of glass and they, too, who drive no trade at all save that crazy and begging—that indeed, many believe, and though only lately, which is too late for most, that life entire had been created for the sake of His life alone; His existence in the world the world’s justification, its one and only its hosting of Him’s the heretical thought: interpretively, He didn’t die for our sins, and He won’t—it’s even worse, He’s lived for them; and the evil in this is that before He can question, He believes, becomes His own answer, and so swears by His own singularity, this deathly uniqueness, Hanna’s baby boy reflected in the mirror of sewerward ice, Israel’s special son in the shopfront windows that store for a moment His passage—this one life of His that’d once been advertised to all as a model, exemplary as itself emulatory, marketed to ever as symbol; an idol to be held high, Godlike exalted, and there worshipped as ideal, and yet still one life again, immortal, He’s thinking—the alwaysliving, don’t tempt, it’s mine.

To the port then, its pier. There to slip away, stow His flee, wharf a wander—to vag off baggageburdened, though there’s only a single small lawyer’s attaché in His hand, brokenclasped. Thanks to a deal brokered by the proctologist’s jilted daughter and a mensch who’s gone by the name, it’s been said, Laser Wolf (alias Hugh Bris, alias Nicki Noir, alias Anti O’Chus IV, alias Malachy Malachym, AKA Gory ben Davidson), it’s stuffed with the forge of nine nationalities, passports taking Him passage and without reservation under whichever names had been available lastminute—the shorter the better, how long it takes to memorize the newest pronunciations—their photos imaging the face of the most minor god known: a no one with nosehair, an anyone with earhair in the blurry, brutishly lit shots snapped in a booth west off Port Authority; an attaché lined with six diplomas’ worth is what it takes to read them of papers hermetically furled in fists and ribboned don’t forget me fingers: mutiple signatory honors and testaments, letters of attestation, of introduction, recommendation, resumes and titles, citations referenced to curricula vitæ—all dishonorably promoted to the nth degree, beyond credulity to hope. Never such a thing as too prepared’s the ticket, how B’s taking showy, matinee precautions: this false beard slash moustache ensemble, over the top then elasticized around His real, also from Eli, whom He’d contacted by messenger, a singing telegram He’d intended to cheer but had instead settled by cost for a mere note to be brought her by his brother, a quicksilver midget mensch in a red cap whose nose even redder below resembled an infected bell, that and the hands wrung overwrought, to say to her no hard feelings, to go soft and explain Himself, who He was and is, and then how generously she responded, with an uncle’s grandfathered briefcase she’d found in the closet, genuine calfskin as delivered, babied around in a new wardrobe Big & Talled it’s all sewn up, with her stitching into an inseam her best wishes in black thread; she’s helping out with the finances, too, scrimping everything her parents allow her, scrounging prospective dowry downpayments never more than bribes, bridal layaways her suitors hoping; that and any spare she manages to take in from knitting for the neighbors twinned with newborns just downstairs: just enough to tide Him over plus a few days, maybe a week at most from Sabbath to Shabbos then little more—nothing much leftover after paying passage, the grease of gratuities involved, the price of thanks to think, maybe a meal, I hope, a night in a room…

Manhattan’s tip, the prick of its tongue—it wants to say more but can’t because of the ocean, too bitter to speak. B makes it to the edge of the island from which He can’t find His own, disappeared. It’s a cloudy day, caught in overcast nets of smoke. The port, an immense planing of planks terminating in the ice’s horizon—ending as it, clouds tangled in rigging encrusted with barnacles, greenwhite stars, wispy cirri winds. A hawser choking the rust from its bollard—which the raincloud and which the snowcloud who can tell. And then, spearing the clouds, through the smoke, the masts: uprooted trees, made to wander upon the face of the deep. Through a lippy and bristly bustle of fishmongering, fishhandling, fishhaggling, fishy dealmaking, the hazards of floppy, soppy hands, fiddled fingerings, promises, swears and oaths, an immense dingen, all this thinging around, something stinks around here, something rancidly rotten; through a liveliness of livestock herded two by onboard bound for where, chaotic, this loading and unloading of slavish dray, from carts lade with variegate crates, a profusion of boxes stamped in languages as numerous as splinters in the planks, which way up and what’s labeled fragile on both sides of the frenzied line of ice chunked from the surface of the water then hauled handed in from one to another, to keep fresh the catch; bleeding puddles…

B makes the end of the pier, to a gangplank of sorts, wood flimsy and narrow, makeshift, which is the pier further, just lain. He lifts His head to the good glaciate ship. The MS Yachtsmann, it’s been called; most pronounce it guttural. It’s white, and hugely hulled; a ship heated from within: by its heaving stow of bodies, its own human cargo, the lives of those escaping, inescapable—immigrating, emigrating, depends who you ask and when…their bilged warmth to knife the ship, slicing it through the ice to an outermost flow, cleaving toward the open ocean, in which the waters once divided mingle, flow freely. Or else, such warmth’s from the engines rumbling the moods of every sinner, their appetites, too. Because He can’t seem to find anyone else, though, He stands out on deck alone. To board this boat bound for Polandland, over His family left sunk without wave—His people who were once as plentiful as the waters of the ocean, sandsleeping as dead as the stars whose light’s aged the sky, these however many thousands of years. And, to cross the ocean of our Columbus, you know him: a landsmann of His, landsleit removed, that crypto converso, Saint Marrano he was of the stilled, stilling depths; to travel his ocean in reverse, discovering all that’s to be discovered in the direction opposite, windopposed, the other wayfaring around—having had enough of this exploration, having been barbarized and conquered and settled and exploited enough, enslaved for too long, His life, and yet only now to give His testimony against it, through living against it: to be called to the stand, which is the mast, as a witness bound at the bow. And then, to shriek into the mouth of the wind…what would you say, B, if chanced with the choice; how living against Himself is to prophesize, if only unconsciously, what’s to come, what’s to be. He ships past the smoke clearing, a cloud lifting the clouds, and only because He’s going through the smoke, then through the clouds of the cloud and then—past the ruins of His house out on the Island to be spied land ho off starboard, off port, I don’t know but how could I, left from right from my, Liberty in her soiled robe with her burnt and waterlogged book, what surviving pages stuck fast, her Messianic sandals down below, doesn’t she ever get cold—and up above the scrapers and City Hall, her torch held heavenly and shuddering, a beacon of compromise, perhaps: not sun, not moon, but what; only pointing Him out, directing Him away, a semaphore’s banishing…brandishing that snuffready flame as if to hasten His shipping’s slog—the vessel’s stubborn stub atop and through the Hudson’s ice loosened to melt beneath its progress, toward the verge of frost, the drifty shuga, then a creaking crash to the waters finally unbound, crystalline. And beyond, distancing as far as can be sensed by wind: a lulling swell; as far out as can be imagined and, go further—amid the ocean, the true ocean, not frozen but merely thickened, slushed, an expanse of slowgoing swell: monstrous floes floating elementally in white, bergs hazard blue and serene.

Icesick soon, seablued, seagreened, tempest tost a stomach up through His throat, this vomit’s tongue, I’m feeling. He’s a Lazarus, a wretch risen only to Himself, through Himself, heaving up His resurrection; pacing the deck alone, swabbing the slabs with this tossing, hurling His throw into vacancies available: bulwarks, portholes, lifeboats topside readied to evacuate all of no one. And the ship itself seems alone, as the only vessel to the only horizon, buoyant to bob a rippling shadow, the ocean’s only; any other passenger, B thinks, must be a refugee, too, how they’re staying so low, hidden, out of mind, out of time; no manifest’s survived, to be logged with our losses, such records have been wetted to smudge…and then the crew, a thirdmate, a bosun, a captain, He gets only shades of them, flickers: scuds of mist huddling around corners, puffs gathered at the capstan, the babble of voices always a deck above or below—not a crew it feels but a force ruddering, steering, what power plotting the plod of His course through the cold. The weather, then this sickness, the hollowed throat, that and the stomach an empty purse contained in indigestible coin: a miracle, He doesn’t even showup to meals, if meals are part of His package, part of anyone’s package, if they even are. For the first week until the next Shabbos, He stays berthed in His cabin, rousing only to pace the deck late, drymouthed on water, and knotted in nerves, venous strands of them: salty ties bent to ends loose and capsized, bloodied bit bights with the remains of His frenulum and anything else sublingually left, tangled intricately, mucosal, scarstitched, hanging a fraylach from the stump of His face. The wind echoes in the bell of His mouth, then resounds in the clap of His tonsils. That Friday late, He bows over the railing, over the side. A Kiddush’s sip, why can’t I, only a sip.

O the Kinneret, which is the lake to be found under the Sea of Galilee…the Mediterranean Nile, the Mississippian Jordan, the Sambatyon, the Dead Sea, the Red Sea of Reeds—there is no greater justification of the Fall than our naming of water. All our rivers, streams, lakes, and even the seven oceans, too, are but a oneness of an ocean and God. There is no better evidence of our corruption than our calling of water by name, no better argument for the sundering of the covenant, the flooding of creation again. And then there’s the weather, the question of what to call that, also, of how to give name to a flux, not to instability but to its opposite, stability, the greatest—which is a station founded upon motion, fundament on wandering, on being everywhere at once and so nowhere, forever. How to call a cloud, a nesting of cloud, clouds, a sky, a giant rumbling then a flash bound as one. Though we have the name Storm, we are still destroyed, foundered upon the world we call rock. No invocation will save us. A sky, get inside; stay there and stay honest. Rage all you want with wind, with light and with wetness, there’s no saint to invoke, there’ll be no salvation. We call it a crow’s nest, though it’s crowless; that bird is off mating with the doves in a land not so cursed. Its perch eclipses the moon—and the world finally, opens. An immense downpour at middlenight, suffusions of lightning like daylight, and the ships shakes, rocks, is thunderously rolled to a sink, hits near a glacier then gets turned around, hits another then is turned round again, swirled as if at bottom’s a drain or a flush—prodded then whirled in a hurling, thrown up then dashed back down to the white of an ever new wave, again. A Shabbos midnight of rainsnow, of snowhail, howling around the hull’s nidified mute…and then settling with it—gradually locking the ship, stilling it in ice made. Immovable. Through the night as the temperature drops, even into the next day—to be captive to the calling above, its lash at the foremast, its whip to the mizzen. Then, toward evening of the end of Shabbos, which reigns upon sea as it reigns upon land, which reigns in the air, too, and then everywhere else there be God, there’s a last bolt of lightning: it pierces the sky, strikes down to smash the ice up ahead, splits the ocean entire…sundering the horizons one darker, one lighter, while the middle melts away into grays—into soon, a steady, steadying pure, the moving water moving, again. And one tribe, and only one tribe, may pass.

Shalom is the name that follows next, meaning Hello, and Goodbye—and so going both everywhere and nowhere at once, but in Peace. B’s ship, He’ll think of it as His ship until another makes topside, floats Shalom in the middle of the peacefully immovable and middleless water, moving at middle: Hello and Goodbye, they’re mingling, the waters wetting each other as if always made undivided, never been sundered, never foundered between those above and those below upon God’s second day. A flow of stasis, under the bandage of the newly calm cloudless sky. It’s here He loses the winds of the world we call New, trading in those for a species of wind that doesn’t blow or push as much as it pulls, tugs Him toward, the meridian east: the brightkindling bow of the ship set amid the middle of the water without middle, it now parts each sucking, hollowfaced gust—pierces; to where the globe turns its cheek, to the face of its father the sun, is then struck with a kiss, lightsmote to blush itself humbled, a sunrise, as you’re flung down to the other edge of the round, where the flatness begins, the vale of the lessdimensioned, divested of west, the endless dark world we call Old. At the landed crown of the rounding before it’s rubbled away to flat, a last standing shadow, lengthening with the thrift of the day; it’s a female form, if not emblematically feminine. A ship’s figurehead stranded, could be, straining from her perch at beached prow. A maydel not too young anymore, she’s Eli the doctor’s daughter appeared sullen at the pointing, way out on the accusative tip of Manhattan having followed Him, if tentatively or shy: she hadn’t been sure, has to make her lastlit goodbye, maybe even she thought to convince Him, to remain and be hers, impossible, perhaps, this she knows, too late; she’s waving a headkerchief she’s abstractly embroidered as if with the fingers helpmating of widows and kinder unborn: with its wave not exactly bidding Him anything besides her heartache, commending it unto Him if that’s the mood she merits, as if—aval aval, it’s not a headkerchief, it’s a cover for challah, a coverlet for the swaddling of the two tabled loaves from last night, she’d baked; waving, more like she’s shaking out the crumbs her father and mother’ve left her, miserly few and what there are, greasy: she follows the lone ship, her cloth a sail forsaken by wind, sagging Him far, then gone. Out of her life, this gust: a sigh older than God. Had a few prospects over last Shabbos, again: nothing she’s interested in, no one redeeming, forget it, it’s worthless. With Him, He was different. Same old. How her father had said he’d die the night he’d marry her off. Finally. That or retire, or both. And in front of company, too, two corporate attorneys who’d also been patients, calling on her one with a new duster for a present, the other without flowers either. Dad had been calling the both of them Son. One touched feet with a wooden paw of a leg of the table under which the other’d held the hand of her mother. She was going to spit the cream in their coffee, but her mouth was too kind and the maincourse was meat. The last vision this puffy, darkeyed Eli has of His departure, it’s a reflection—the last to be imaged upon the waters of her face with its fallen nose, and those warm, rounded lips—it isn’t the ship, but a huge solitary head rising from the east, as if His return, but lifeless: the new Shabbos’ sun, sliced from the neck of horizon.

In the eye of the Shalom, in the very mouth of peace, B stands still through the storming, the weather unnamed and unnamable, having held fast to the wheel with one hand, with the other at the ribbing of His stomach, the ropes of flesh taut with hurt that wrest Him in, still sickened. To survive, and to rejoice in your own survival: to open your mouth to the last lingering patter, to open your eyes once shore’s distanced behind you, to catch dew upon your lashes, manna’s fallen balm. And then into the slowed heart of this quiescence, this lulling, ship’s loll, to be hit with one last and ferociously whiplashing force of night’s wind, a remnant, a reminder of the darkness left behind and yet in front of you, too—and, flying across that sky a fish lands on the deck, at the forecastle, the fallen castle, amidships, who knows, not me, I don’t care. Which fish don’t ask me either, whether kosher or not, only that it flips, gives a flop, a silver sliv of ichthys out of water off land, over and into a ship that goes forward while on a ship there’s nowhere to go, that’s what I’ve got—it goes onto the planks of the deck netted in kelp to hide its nakedness from the blush of the clouds.

B stoops over, scoops it up in His hands, it squeezes out, pops a plop, flubs on the deck, paddles planks. He stoops over again, scoops and again it wriggles free to what has to be its death, scaling the skin from His hands. And finally, with hands hardened with strength enough to fist it dead Himself were it a weaker fish and not a fisher of sorts itself, He bends and bows and holds it tightly, then rights Himself in pain against the slice of its fins. A slitting, the gut of His palm. Then, steadying against the ship’s pitch, its scuppering swish, holds the fish lip to mouth, staring depth into its one good mush of eye.

Nu, the fish says, after a moment graved gray within the jellied slough of its socket, vos machst du…what’s your problem, I’m busy; hymn, I’ve got a two o’clock with a hot current—no seriously, what can I do you for? and when there’s only silence amid the winds, with the stump of His tongue salted to tack, a stiff and soundless flag, it gives out with an anything but fishy, fluenty, Oy! it’s a goyische kopf I’m dealing with here, all the luck—alright already, so I’m a prince, what’s it to you…then spouts at Him, up, under His glasses and into His eyes, and it stings like watery fire.

Three wishes you putz, mamash, the emes, but be quick about it.

He’d like to take His glasses from His face and wipe them and His eyes but how when you’re cradling such chub.

Genug, hurry up, I don’t have all day—what do you want, that I should swallow you…hahaha, and it coughs a gurgly bubble—joking aside, who has the time…your wish, it’s my command; you name it, it’s yours, simple as that, sof pasuk, pashut.

Work with me here! You’re new at this. I can tell, but I won’t. Ken zeyn, here’s the deal. I grant your wishes and, in return, you throw me over the side. Or else, keyne hora, and it winks that one appreciable eye, you’re out of luck, and I die of exposure. Maybe you’ll be one of the righteous, a tzadik—just place me in the water from a porthole, lower me down from the what do you call it, the gunwale, efsher…the last goy almost ripped my gills with his toss.

You with me? Farshteyn?

The fish flicks its tail. Wish I could help you, but it’s not mine to wish…

To tongue for a tongue, how I’m futzed.

Listen, I’m no prophet, no rebbe soothsayer…nit heint, nit morgen, what’s that they say, noch nicht—I’m only a prince who went wrong…

B nods in sad understanding and then, a dearth of them say three steps running rail to railing to put a pretense of momentum behind His throw, gives a sissying heave, mocking a hurl in return of the fish overboard, its sterling arc disappearing under the surface, a watery veil; then, with tailspray wholly disproportionate to its size, and perhaps, too, a little too late, soaking Him anew, as if to further mortify, if anyone would ever happen on deck, and if not, then in the eye of His God. The sun, a beacon of light cresting His head on its way to set yet again. A gloriole. To wait out the remainder of His passage, hanging Himself out on the rigging to dry, knot after the moon’s, His body an uncertain sail. To ship forward, though, without any idea of remainder, of passage, of future, and so denying any navigation, doubtful of any aground upon which to run, minding only the water until, having almost forgotten the very ideal of land, its ancient blind and deaf captain that is time, He arrives at doubt, which is itself without shore: denying the presence of a waterless world, a world that’s hard to the touch, that’s rough, too, and that when knocked knocks back ever harder.

At this, the ship—as if questioning its very substance—hits, slams, and He falls over the railing, tumbling into the air as the hoopy heap bumps, bucks then, rollickingly, steadies itself against a slip of wood drifting…on which He lands, from which He rises—a castaway from a ship wrecked on the shore itself for purposes of convenience and yet still, despairing, scared. Without romance, no liberate welcome. Only a pier, another port, another older here—it’s been a while, B, you’re next. To further image this disembarkation, corrigendum corrupting, we might offer this: that water cannot be stamped, but that land can be, and faces, and paper, too, a passport of His marked in the reddest available ink, predated beyond all comprehension. As for the land itself—it’s stamped with Him, arrived if only to fade…

O gather all ye geography mavens, ye country collectors, and experts on topos, habitus hoarders, connoisseurs of blending, masters of the hide…hearken ye sons of inconspicuousness, ye gods of lyinglow—languages are yours, borders our birthrights, to cross into evermore outcast estates…I welcome you to Polandland, Shalom, dwell as you may. Name, please, Date of Birth, then Country of Origin. At the slips and stations around Him, there’s a mess of muster, of unmarked cargo being roustabouted into endless trains routed to the furthering gate. Thieves with oily hands and twitchy eyelids, made gypsies of necessity wanting only for night’s stealth. An examiner of imported “produce.” Disbursing half into his pockets for the wife. Hutched, hunched, an interrogator who already knows, but wants to hear you think (anything you answer will sound like a question—clasp hands, pray for deportation at best)…gabbly groups too afraid to address their fear to an official nowhere to be found uniformed the same. Upon penalty of what again, the windy confiscation of cries.

A heelshaped barrel they’re unloading from His ship drops and breaks, the staves pop off like an explosion, but it’s empty, there’s nothing inside and the pallets, they’re lonely for schlepping.

A woman leads a group (young): splinters of strangers gathered out on the dock. She says to them, This was the kind of ship they used. To immigrate. To emigrate. Anyone remember which? We just had it brought in. We shipped in a ship. Just this morning. This is how they got away—back before aeroplanes, remember?

B’s ship’s being boarded, condemned.

With a hand hot in His pocket to keep guard over what wad there and with His suitcase held in the other, He goes. Where a chalkcircle praying oneliners for the weather to stop, how it’s followed Him here even worse. Where a chamfered streetcorner and told just to wait. A night, a day. Where a whore’s room He’s renting from her and for her, and which He quits after only one night, leaving His deposit behind but taking the room with Him, hung around His neck on a rope of her braids, hiding the shame of His sex…Polandland, historically where. While many of our scholars have offered up the image, famous enough to have become truism, Edenic enough to have fallen from favor, of the snake, which consumes itself and yet like the bush inherited from its gardened tree is never consumed, its tail to mouth poisoning, others have settled on a like form, more felicitous because nourishing, because sustaining, enabling, this image of our bread, daily broken. A bagel He’s in, or so they suggest in this leavening of history, Him baked deep within that circling circle forever void…a great onion and garlic and sesame and poppyseed salted snake tailing itself, and then swallowing—the eternally returning Everything varietal, the glutinous fruit of Viennese merchants first made for and presented to Polandland’s King in thanks for his help in fighting the Turks out of Austria—its name from an old German word for stirrup, Bügel, in honor of Jan III Sobieski’s great horsemenschip, in recognition of the shape of the thing: stick your foot in its mouth, then ride off into the sunset…Him atop less a kingly steed than a sagged, stickribbed lowly roan (He’s renting off a gypsy thief, a pierside hustler in cheap dark denim), His bügel more like tourist-traps, to hold Him high while the wind empties His pockets, gusting through the holes. As arranged at the port, this horse with goldteeth—with its gypsy leading with the horse’s teeth dugout, stuffed into his own kisser—it’s leading Him inland, ever deeper, and marketed ever darker, too, what with the sun’s set toward the west…where, headed unto the mythical Souvenir Stand, just over the mountain yonder, there to shop for a store of local specialties, a wide selection of indigenous folk art, Handwerk’s kitschy dreck, tshirts hung with medals unearned, dolls inside dolls, matrioshky they’re called giving way after their disappointing smallest to an emptiness maternal it’s impossible not to feel in these parts, the numbly dead, the unmade. And then further…with His gypsy leaving Him at a wall, at a gate, an incredible inroading—disappearing after the money’s gone, with the horse gone, too, and with His suitcase in its mouth, that and the bundles and bags of His purchases, keepsakes kept safe from Him: left alone, without tikvah, that’s hope. To wander east down a narrowing of streets, a muddle of ways, cuts short and long, all huddling to this one wide street, a vast opening eastward toward the void at middle, always the hole at center’s core—the Square wherever this is, I’m never sure, just shocked…without language. Consonants stuck in the craw, a mouth shaped like a vowel, and speechless.

A bird executes its spirals high above the parapet of a Town Hall; it’s off to the cupola of the Church when the hour strikes…frightened, a mortality of wings with the span of a psalter. A stubby stooped who knows what, whether conjugated masculine, feminine, or both or neither, and just old—old the same appellation as this part of town, Old Town—sits on a bench, cadastral registry #1492, done with his or her scattering to this bird and others, them all: the bird, or Bird, however it’s registered, Spinozist, Platonic…a handful of soapflakes this tubby lubber thinks is feed, then sips at a cup of groggy med, dabs lips with cuff and in words no one understands, are they even words how should He know, addresses the problems of an earlier regime. This person, too, is on payroll, you have to think, be cautious, aware, they all are, and Him as well, maybe, I hope not, what’re they making these days, let me sleep on it…perhaps even the dead are in on it, too, the stones underfoot unmarked as their graves: pavingstones marking martyrs, cobbles sufficing for cowards. Memorials. To memory. Statues to shrines, plaques to yesterday’s plinth upon which rests the day before that. A reparation of time and of space, if that’s possible, to make up for…to stand here in the Square, again. With an ache in the rib, in His spine, in the rib that is His spine and was mud’s, watered from dirt downed from stones, from the cobbles, the pavings chiseled to pillows…a dream, telling Him go further, gone not far enough yet—to arrive, only to flee.

In the echoes of the hour just dying, the tolling toil of metal amid the eaves of the Church, another noise fills the Square, scatters the birds, sends the vendors scurrying home, abandoning their carts in midsale. A siren, it’s summoning. And in a moment, a host of auscasts and untliers and the strangering such emerges from the alleys, they invade from the sidestreets, occupying the Square; they attempt to march in lines, inline, they stumble like foreigners, they are foreigners, they embarrass only themselves, shame silence with greetings, warning, farewells: it’s American, no doubt about it—when you open your mouth, B thinks, how they know who you are; better to keep your mouth shut, best to have no tongue to keep. They’re the tourists, fellowtravelers, equally estranged, from Him, from themselves: vacationers amid death. Theirs is a forced march. One attraction to another, step-by-step then stumble. Take your time. A crunch of boot on hand coming down, crackled middle of an adagietto keyed in the minor: right at the height of an invisible violin’s tessitura, as it reaches for—a voice hacks out of the PA’s speakers nailed to spired poles, as sundials they shadow the Square; its message arrives Godlike, and Himlike, too, uslike, within a whirlwind of our own making, and in every language sounding at once, which is none. Babel on a bad day. Come again. Welcome to Polandland, it says. Please Stay In Your Lines. Welcome to Polandland. Your Guide Will Be With You Shortly.

A pleasant, neatly bearded mensch carrying two umbrellas, practically, for identification, one umbrella for him, the other for the umbrella—welcome, he says loud enough that you suspect a microphone, you have to, whether clipped to a lapel or to the clasped brim of his hat; a prophet might be lodged in his mouth. Hope everyone’s rested up from their flights, keep it light: O there’s so much to do today, so very much. I think we’ll begin with a bit of history, how’s that sound? Can everyone hear me? Raise your hands. Or not. Everyone can. Great, he says, now in the year…I step aside, allowing them to pass. To limit, to make shadowed scarce the hated half of me, the symbolic half, the witness half, the kalb halb, the part of me that’s past, that’s of the past, that is: a symbol to history, here a witness to history all over again. Not being commented upon, but being created. In black & white, I mean, in black and white and in red. Now, the Guide guides, if you’ll just follow me. Right this way. A rainbow fallen, becoming streeted into a Square’s inmost circling, bleached of its colors, graysullied, trampled: I’m talking registrations and transports, this stuff happening again, we’re talking monomaniacally all over again, by the book, same as before. That’s right, the Guide approves, that’s right. Approve this! To follow is to lead from the rear. To lead is to follow from the front. What we’re saying is—there’s no way out. There’s no solution ineradicably final, not even that of death, inexistence, which itself is actually existence finally secured, rooted, made fundament, delimited totally—at least, that’s what many now hold. They say—stay in the middle, you’ll survive. They mean—don’t lead, don’t follow, just be, good advice. Now, to the left, the Guide says to those gathered, the guided and guiding, to the left and so left they go left, then go right, which is east, as is left. And a square’s darkened empty, the Square is, save for a bird alight atop a church, the Church, a bird up on high—it might merely be stone.

Preparations

At home in the past—these days, who isn’t?

Hanna schlepping through the door and leaving her keys hanging from the lock their psalm, she’s rushing her perishables into the fridge: that that goes to spoil, its propensity for turning, only a matter of time to expiring’s sour, the date best sold by, the date best used to consume by, who knows the moon, it’s always better to be careful, there’re too many warnings, a wane of time, not enough: then, arranging it all in the fridge in the kitchen, which room’s existence she often calls the Kitschen and then laughs to herself a slight snort, with her hand over her mouth smelling of armpit and onion, it’s her humor, her house. Here in this Kitschen, then, amid the kitsch of the kitchen, she’s perpetually at home, eternity and its preservatived roof, vacuumsealed. The bread the flesh of potassium sorbate, broken on the ziplock track of her tongue. Here, she’s always been here, even when she’s been out rushing her errands all over the place, overscheduled, hectic, in two places at once at the third, though who’s complaining—her, too. Here, she always returns here, always preparing (shopping for, cooking, cleaning) that meal neverending, our interminable, immovable feast; such course after courses amply couponed, savingsclubbed, dish after dish after this new recipe I just thought I’d try out.

Never one to waste, she cleans even as she’s still cooking, but no, it’s never sufficient…no sponge could have enough capacity, no wrungout rag; the mess always wins—it’s that that’s eternal, that’s what she knows from…

Known everything from their recesses, by them—how Hanna can find anything, whether by eye or by hand: that shelf of bowls longneglected, chipped into veins clayed with dust, dishes with their rims coursed in binding vine, perched upon by stilled flutters of bird, who knows from where they came forming below the molds of fish and of lion and star, whose Zeyde’s rusted samovar steeped in disuse, antediluvian steamers and strainers, their rust and, too, the most apocryphal of utensils…these distended, sexualized ladles, torturous forks tined in knives, fivebladed cleavers with their handles as thick as her grandmothers’ arms, they must be Old World, an inheritance, legacy served on a silverplatter, though lately she’s preferred Asianmade; plastic-stuff she got through catalogs, over the phone 1-800 the drier and smoker and that juicermachine dingie, the crêpeapparatus, the sandwichpress thing and the wok. And the progress, the history even here…the utensils shelved and drawered then underslung hung, in every volution both efficient and cheap—sharpened on light from wood to metal, then from metal to who knows what spaceage polymer hyperbolic, the synthetic promise…as seen on TV: a guarantee money back, but not time; that and their storage she has, too, in all its advances tuppered and tamped, with the leftovers keeping for longer, maybe forever, their preservatives and then the plastic atop in its suffocate wrap holding everything in, to be freezered or fridged. And the marks this life’s left on her body, the cling: her fingers’ calluses, the burnstains and blademarks, brunting, the handlestress, kiss it; the tough of her palm holds a knife even when she’s not, the imprint, its mark.

Kitsch, what’s to expect: despite how new or improved, however much on-sale or off, everything here, all this stuff, she says, Dreck—it seems old, obsolete, no matter what dated past use. It’s terrible, this being bored not just with yourself but with your own special things, doing what you do every day because you’ve always done it and now you have to, forever (the tunasalad always made with shreds of hardboiled egg; the eggsalad always flecked with paprika—we’ve come to expect nothing less), and that making you feel over, old and done with, as if yourself obsolete, backdated to what my mother had been, what I never wanted to be, what I told myself I’d never become. How I’m kitsch, how everything is…existence itself ’s what she’s thinking, tradition this ritual reliving of what came before, it’s enough: the very moment that a thing begins to exist, is cooked from out of the ether, reduced simmering from the manifest of infinity or any other way’s brought into our world—it’s kitsch already, no ifs about it or buts. Immediate and total, kitsch forever and ever. As who I am, she thinks if with less form, with less apparency than can be evident in the embodied cause of this accusation, my purpose, my standing and station, my wifehood, my motherliness—how it’s just kitsch from the glimmering getgo, from its very idea, as possibility, as potentiality, it’s gone, eternally hopeless, over before it began. That it’s not the frequency, the regularity, the manywashings, the rinse and repeats then stirs again of digital clock time that makes the kitsch, that denies the dreck, births the disappointment, the failure, and so accepts anything as is, that takes on any task, that grants any request, obliges such favors for all: it’s more like my pure being, my Hannaness, she thinks, there you have it, there I have it, here I am but still, nothing but dated and doomed. Thanks a million, come back soon. I might as well make the most of it, though. Might as well follow it through.

Hanna the Bride-Queen, the Queen-Bride, whichever, or both, folded then stirred, into one. Too much for this she thinks too short, heavybreasted body. Two loaves of her rolled, kneekneaded. Stuck in this kitchen as if honeyed to the floor. Now, take all of her worry and thinking and rinse, sprinkle liberally with allegory, just a pinch of parable, pat dry then let sit overnight on the porch amid winter. Wait for the rise. Hanna’s preparing a meal for her intended, for her groom and her king…least she could do. Israel, her husband, and her Messiah, too, in that he might not be a savior but he is always late—forever, I mean, he’s taking forever: he’s been arriving it feels for as ever long as she’s been cooking with the ticker, the timer’s long stilled. A watched pot never boils, only blackens. How once she’d dropped her birthdaywatch in the pot, then went out to buy a new exact one so he wouldn’t think she didn’t like it, or lost. King and groom, whichever I’m saying he’s taking his time. Bound to her bind. And if he’s to be her Messiah, then this kitchen must be her exile, too: as far as dispersions go, luxurious enough, though gone to waste in her longing (the entropic pleasures of a homegym, replete in its deplete with adjoining mediaroom)—houses and schools, then those places of worship known as nondenominational Temples, they ingredient themselves out of mold, whip and whisk themselves up at the outermost rim of the range, the stovetop the manual says, how she’d thrown it away, the accidental trash…lives line the brass burners, burbled from grease, congealed from years fat and day’s oil; roads paved of grout run the length of the middle island, gas and electric link the further exurbs of tiling grid with the hum of the refrigerator hub, lit under the whirring, whirling sky, which is the hood once the bulb’s been replaced. The longing hum of the fridge filling everything with an eerie motion, an activity, a progress, the formica, the metal and tile, sets their mixtures spinning, aswirl, stirring up these new kitchens in new houses grown within and as the eternity of her own kitchen, her old home, rooms hacked out of groutrot, faience, spiced earthenware, and the cupboard with china: kitchens sprouting up from the neglect of her Kitsch (it’s so hard to keep up, it’s so hard to keep up, it’s so difficult), to fill her house, which is the home of the world, with scents of their own, a whirlwind of waft: cooking, she’s cooking still, which is stirring then tasting then stirring again, all the while judiciously laying aside the best cuts for him, for Israel her husband and—and he’ll come, he will, he has to, imminent, it’s arrived, the kiss of his keys at the cheek of the door by the side…when the kitchens’ timers will become aligned—then stop all at once, stilled, their massed ticking will unravel hands of hands both chapped and chaffed, ungloved and how time will mean nothing anymore: no more preheating, defrosting, no more of this letting sit or soak overnights; how everything then will always be ready, in a preparation suspended, preparing into itself, weeping within ever deeper, spices of spices, tastings of tastes, and then, suddenly, the phones ring out on all the lines pitched as softly high as the smokealarm or the light, individually yearning, but when sounded simultaneously bringing only darkness, thick spoiled noise. Grniinrgrginnigr.

He’ll be late.

Goodbye, kiss kiss the hugging of lips, I love you, goodbye, the polymer baby’s replaced in its cradle; and, soon enough, late’s no longer an idea, a recipe’s template or mold made if from scratch, the limited, limiting face of a clock set as wide as time but wound tightly in spite: it’s more like a state, this permanent not—though soon, please, God, I hope soon. If it rings again, let him leave a message.

It’s been given over somewhere or other, I don’t know, go ask your mother, that when you die, and you will, when you leave, finally, this terrestrial kitchen, that you live again, and in some other otherworldly kitchen, and there with every object you ever broke, cracked, destroyed, ruined, or otherwise defiled in your entire life at your disposal, and only those: and so Hanna, to drink her own spoiled milk, deathmilk from Israel’s clubby bachelorhood glasses sharded together from shatter, to sit on a chair missing a leg at a table that wobbles, to gaze out over Paradise from the platesmashed window of her brunchnook, shabby in skirts without knees, frayed hems, heelless solestripped athletic shoes, not so white anymore. At ten in the Eden of morning, an hour she’d almost never wasted in such reflection, with the kinder off at school, Israel at work, she’s at table, at herself idle, not hurting anyone anymore: having destroyed, if only objects, having depossessed possessions, and she herself, dead (the cancerous sunning, the fibrotic breasts, the two lumps ignored, she’d done it to herself, we all do or our parents)…or else, in another interpretation, this is life—and only death is when everything’s fixed, where all’s mended again and made whole: with glue on the seams of mugs, raggedypatches on the elbows of sweaters, sneaky shoelaces tied together to tie once again, with no more worrying knots to finger at numbly, what with the arthritis healed, that third breast lump gone and as for her car, its door’s intact and its fender, too, she’s sure he’ll never notice. And all the promises, all the vows she’s ever made and those that’ve been made for her and to her, fulfilled. And yet she’s still waiting, and waiting.

Though he never promised, just said so: babele, I’m coming…

It’s less him than the pain, hers, though all of it hurts. Tears are her eyes, pregnant pouches. At table, Hanna’s stomach gives a growl. Who can eat…quickly, she doubles herself, folds in, rocks her gut, the loose swell of her emptiness, the bag not paper or plastic but me—cries loudly for help from her kinder, her who never needs help or wants it; this is It. As there’s no answer, and sensing the timing, the ineluctably slow ticktock of the heart, she tilts toward the laundryroom, grabs a rag on her way through the kitchen to the hall—once inside shuts the door, her hand to feel shut the seam.

It’s here that she births herself. Insideout.

It’s all in the hips, their bones softened in her own churning water, a heavy flow like the chugging of laundry, the colors, the whites and the deathblacks, a night. A give in the womb. Her lips open, her legs come through, but the inside of legs, their insides, ligaments to tendons sucked up then out feetfirst, coming through bound in veins…then, her thighs follow, their fat greases them through, here the bulge of her waist, there the lower half consuming the upper, the teethmarks of her panty’s band, their elasticized chatter; she leans up against the warmth of the washingmachine, which is on, the sounds of which, its regular rumblings turned shudders, are louder than hers, conceal, consume, the shakes of the floor, flakes of basement’s ceiling, plaster-skin peeled and the heat: Sabbath upon Shabbos of this has accustomed her to the quiet required; still, her bottom lips tend to bleed. Her breasts come through before her arms, the underneaths of inverted nipples, their reversed areolæ like drinkcoasters on cedarwood, wet, how she’d always have to remind, Wanda, too, don’t put a glass on the wood—then the arms, their fingers to elbows to shoulders, and at the last moment of hold, the last stain upon time, she throws the rag she’s been holding to her mouth to the mouth of the thrashing machine (later, to that of the dryer nextdoor); she opens the lid, the cycle stopped, closes the lid to begin the rumble again, and the heat. Her limbs aren’t broken, they’re too weak to break—complaining, overcooked—gone is the fatty droop, their deflationary birthdayballooning…and the batwings, too, the darkening cystics of their wens: first the fingers of her servinghand, her slicinghand, her fork and her spoon hand and that, too, of the knife to carve in the kitchen not to cut with at table, these without nails, stripped of their prints; and then, her elbows push through, are pushed knocked like her knees are into shoulders, her head nods through insensate, serously, viscous strandings from scalp, placental skull, the sac of her mouth a bubble to dirtily burst with a thermometer’s pin, a dimpling thimble, get a lick of soap, wash it all out…hair down the sleeve of her throat. The inside of her face is amniobathed, bared gel the quivering skin of the eyes, her nostrils denuded, flaringly roused by a smell like the scorch of detergent, a quick bleaching, a twitch of a moustache her lightened lashes and brows…her lips lick themselves as if she’s eaten herself, not quite, more like she’s gotten only a taste, a free sampling, and wants more, needs it: she holds naked fingers to her lips insideout, gazes beyond her blind to the crack of light coming in from the door’s draft, where it should be, should’ve been.

The Table

And then the table—you’d like to know, wouldn’t you?

Our sages tell us thusly: that she sat on the earth, as if in mourning already…as one authority holds: mourning herself, her kinder, the world.

And that then a root grew up inside her, filling her up.

Others say the following: a root hung from the lips of His mother, those lips some say—how it hung like a tongue, prideful, waggingly wild. As it itched, she scratched, the mouth of those lips, and at her womb, too, full of dirt. Mud, which was the dirt wet from her, which fell from there according to some, here where she walked wherever it fell, and that she followed this dirt feeling dirty, as still others interpret—as if hope upon hopes the trail would lead to somebody else, would track yet another, a fellow mother to dirt…to mud, to filth, though she seemed if she ever existed to be always behind her. As she swept herself, she followed herself forever, swept up after herself and before herself, too, a monstrous mopping, as she circled (and circled) the barren of garden, swept herself with a broom bound of thistles, a mop, while others say thorns, then scrubbed at herself with the sea, the scrub of a bush—most say it burned.

All agree—she was not yet His mother; as per tradition, not anyone’s yet but her own.

It all began with an itching: when she awoke in the mornings flat out on the earth she had scratchmarks, manicuredeep, on her thighs, then around the low of her stomach, that she’d scratch at these itches, then how she’d feel suddenly huge, and ashamed, and then vomit, which made her feel better, a little, vomiting dew the texture of morning, that she’d then in embarrassment—though no one else was around—wander away from her mess, further always to the root of her home.

And that the root then grew up to a trunk, that the root then grew out to other roots, too…the roots hung there in the air, the air was rootrent—that she walked around the undergrown garden, which was too sparse with growth too small to hide the huge of her nakedness now, and with a tree sticking out of her, treeing up…its trunk protruding unwieldy, must be careful, she’d fall.

That she’d stroke the trunk through the night, a new limb.

How its slow branching made her bleed, O the cut of its bark.

She was impure and had to immerse herself, she had to submerge herself and her tree in the ocean, to water it, then, to scrub from it its bark dead like a skin—to shed, it’s said, the snake of her limb.

There was a hollow inside, and how despite that she’d complain of an emptiness…the form of its hurt, and not hurt itself. Hard to explain. How she couldn’t stand, and so she’d lie down in the grass; she couldn’t bend, couldn’t lean, only lie. That was difficult, too. When wet, the trunk would swell inside her, and so she’d throwup into a basin, now a river to island her garden—or, how she’d vomit into the sky according to some, vomiting the sky itself others hold, constellations of mouthstuff, acidic stars.

One night, she was flung high up to the air toward the sky, as the tree grew to height, took root deep in the earth down below her up high, cubits above in the treetop, atop sore and there swayed by the wind.

How do I get myself into these things?

And how out?

She found herself talking to the tree, her voice was the wind.

And then she slept, head on moss.

And then woke.

She stood emptied out on the sturdiest of her limbs that she’d slept on, atop the tree she’d just birthed, and gazing out over the lie of the land.

And its beasts.

There was a husband in the distance, too, years ahead, decades and menses—in his hands, he appeared to hold loaves.

This tree is our house—it’s more hers.

Of the tree grown down from within her with her on top of the tree grown down and then out of her up.

One morning, she began her descent: plucking the stem from her navel, from the highest of her tree’s branches the umbilicus bud, the soft, downy, prettypink petiole blooming in white, pricked and ripped—then slinking her shimmying way, down past boughs wet with her, in a pomaceous tumble soon splitting her legs and, trunkhugging, the tightening hug of such thighs…until she touched ground, a firm footing, arrived. An apple as if a breast of hers or another belly went loose with the rock and the shake—gravity fell is how, and the fruit hit her on the head, then hit the ground and rolled over the horizon, the sun. She gave a yell, he heard her yell, then turned his head to her and realized by this risen sun how late in the distance he was—that he had to arrive, must…he’ll be late soon enough.

Her tree grew down ever further, then, how it drunk down even lower to stay: it branched into the earth, roots to vein the beneath, seeking a wet other than hers, its very source that had seeded—down into the sidewalks, the breakyourback cracks, down into the asphalt, the now landscaped lawn of the garden.

Knots widened into plates, boughs wound into bowls.

Kinder, which were leaves fallen in the wind of her yell, ribbed in fall—they went out to retrieve them, the many plates and the bowls, and then to forage for more, with always an appetite climbed up, clambered down, scavenged their meat placesettings from the northernmost face, dairy scarfed from the south of her round.

As it’s been said, her tree was their house, and still is: this room here the lowest stump of the trunk, the diningroom, the room in which we all dine…it’d been hollowed out by the kinder, woodstuff taken to dust fluffed their pillows, which’re buds never to bloom, for night’s sleep within their rooms ringed of grain.

And from all that, from the root, the first and the strongest, the taproot it’s called—only this table remains.

The rest having been sided in plastic, roofed in who knows menschmade or synthetic what else.

A table of room hollowed out from around the table of root, that’s how it happened—we’re told.

But, the question the scholia still ask, a table tabling what—what comes cosmologically next, the penultimate celestial course piled on?

What’s to be served on the table—what savory dish, what sweet sacerdotal…what are we having, what’re we having, what’re we having, Hanna?

Ima, all your kinder want to know. Tonight.

It’s been handeddown, then tossed around hotly, thrown in rage—that the rock of the Dome of the Rock, which is the domain of the Akeidah, the altar of the sacrifice of Abraham’s son Isaac, and, too, if heretically, the purported site of the ascension of the false prophet Mohammed, due to an unfortunate leak in the minaret’s tip, a smallest sliver in the gild that let in the morning manna, was gradually eroded away, down to a grain of sand that, upon one morning’s dawn, went and drifted away on a westerly wind: and so what’s left, arching high above Jerusalem, is merely a dome, gilding nothing, stillborn, an idol kept from spilling itself to the street by only a wall thick with moss and graffiti, its cracks crammed with prayers suspected to be the only things still holding all up: the Temple’s precurrent platform, that dome atop, and the heavens themselves. Heaven. And it’s now and now only that reconstruction begins, with scaffolding and spackling, insulation and sheet—a different concern of conversion; according to our sages, they’re still talking, taking proposals, accepting suggestions, contract bids, a little help here, any ideas. We’re open, I’m saying.

Welcome to Palestein, the Resort State—a paradisiacal refuge once forsaken for exile, the diaspora’s good life.

And then the Holy One Blessed Be He went to the second assistant frozen foods buyer at the best, most centrally located supermarket in Greater Tel Aviv and verily said to him—

Have you seen Him?

And the second assistant frozen foods buyer at the best, most centrally located supermarket in Greater Tel Aviv verily said—

Nope.

And then the Holy One Blessed Be He went to the weekday resident pro at the Par-Shah Private Country Club and verily said to him—

Have you seen Him?

And the weekday resident pro at the Par-Shah Private Country Club verily said—

Sorry.

And then the Holy One Blessed Be He went to the head dayshift usher at the Mullah Moolah Multiplex and verily said to him—

Have you seen Him?

And the head dayshift usher at the Mullah Moolah Multiplex verily said—

Don’t think so.

And then the Holy One Blessed Be He went to the thirdline buffet chef trainee at Tumbler’s in Jericho and verily said to him—

Have you seen Him?

And the thirdline buffet chef trainee at Tumbler’s in Jericho verily said—

Wish I could help.

And then the Holy One Blessed Be He went to a roulette pitboss at the Vault in Hebron and verily said to him—

Have you seen Him?

And the roulette pitboss at the Vault in Hebron asked for an afternoon to review the surveillance tapes and talk to the host, I’ll get back to you then verily said—

No, but if we do, I promise—
you’ll be the second to know.

And then the Holy One Blessed Be He went to Him in the form of a bird I think a dove it was with the wings of a fighterjet and with the beak of an unmarried, unmarriagable virgin, and verily said—

Have you seen Him?

And He, verily—what could He say?

I heard nothing.

Not since has there arisen a prophet like Him, and never again…or, at the very least, not for a good long while—which is time enough to forget. Strangely or not so much, meaning expected, the holy and holying methods are proving inefficient, ineffective, too, until His God, and maybe, heretically, made in the Image of most of the other parties formerly interested, previously in pursuit, not a few of them no longer powerful, since ingathered into purgatorial failure—He just gives up, like He tried…abandoning the search just as B, Himself, once was abandoned, left limited in credit and options, unbasketed along the banks of the frozen Atlantic—not so much no longer believed in, but more to no longer believe in Oneself.

Walled in, and yet of the wall, too, towering majestically above the valley known as Hell…O the dwellingplace of Moloch, as has been most famously, as it has been most loudly, lamented by the prophet Jeremiah: this sepulcher doming the Cœnaculum within, alongside the tomb of King David, the Psalmist of Zion. Here let us sing of three rooms, communicating stonily mute, rendered dark by the cloying cloud of the drapes. A moon prior to B’s passage, twelve of them notables all take their seats around a table in this hall made of the rooms of the ultimate dindin, the Last Supper it’s known as, served upon the Seder of the first night of Passover as has been chronicled, too, in books finally forbidden, that and the site of the Holy Spirit’s visitation to the disciples seven weeks after, the day of their old Pentecost, unmarked, burnt from the calendar, its ashes forgotten. Apostles of a sort, He’s surely not among them, not gracing. Not fit to sit at table, to knock around ideas on last knees with the likes of His once could’ve been but now never future father-inlaw, Shade, no longer president of his nation, presently termed for the life of him the president of its Sanhedrin, with Congress converted. A Schade, though in losing his title he’s only gained power. What’s in a name: the new businesscards, for one, they’ll be back from the printers tomorrow.

An eternal, eternalizing idea, it’s said, Shade’s that of their Iscariot: we become humbled to prevail, we sin only to merit. Along with the envoys of Abulafia & Sons, Inc., their heads bent low, he’s in discussion, not prayer. Their muscle, enforcers interested both official and private, sit one room over atop the tomb of David itself, idly oiling their pistols, and smoking cigars as big as whole pickles, making their toilets and moves: ogling these newly Affiliated exnuns, here of the former Carmelite Order, old habits exchanged for new, bustling in and out of the meeting with ample vorspeizen, appetizing trays heaped with savory outlay: toothpicked olives dark and light and pitted and with pits, too, alongside platters of pickled everything else you’d imagine; plates sweetened & soured in every verity known, with many of them only dreamed up by catering last moon—though all of them new and old tending toward salt, their sweet more like halfsour, cheekhollowing, budtart, new green and dill, yes, though not only those pickled pickles, no, there’s pickled babycorn, also, and beetroot, cabbage, carrots, cauliflower, mushrooms, peas, peppers, pomegranates, radishes, tomatoes, turnips, and watermelon still in its rind, the delicacy that is the aubergine pickle, as well, that’s eggplant, if you weren’t sure; the reformed nuns stooping to enter the room, still sexless and humbled, musty and modest and decalced if only from personal preference, each time coming and going back and forth and back again in barefeet they’re tripping over the threshold and scattering all: the room, the rooms, pooling in brine, both vinegary plain and whitewine, and so out then in again with them, and then again with another tray, yet another of them to drop, to scatter their heap; they’re wading through the thick wakefoamy juice waved by their long logged murky skirts patched out of wimples, trying to serve their refreshment amid the spicing flotsam of bayleaves, peppercorns bobbing, dried red chilies, celeryleaves, cinnamonbark, vivisected cloves of garlic, coarse salt, coriander, dill, fennel, ginger, and horseradish, onion, parsley, and thyme floating atop the floor’s pool. At one end of the marble table’s a projector, this paleotechnic failing machine whipping its exhausted fan intermittently on electricity wired from the bulbless socket above: it’s projecting transparencies onto the opposite wall, miscellaneous surveillance images of Him, and of His former owners, Master or Hosts if you want, the official terminology’s TBD, interpreted—those of Laser Wolf (LAW), or he might prefer Glazer, those of the proctological family, too, them and their lawyers examining, then vague resource maps (oil and water) extending outward east the furthest known to what’d been Asia, an assortment of topographies and graphs, a Babel’s baffled charts; the bulletpointed, sevenday itinerary of an upcoming goodwill tour of Polandland entire, to be undertaken by Shade, and to be replete, they’re talking, with performances by yeshivish brass-bands and miscellaneous orphanages’ gleeclubs and choirs, summits with emissaries from seminaries, and meetings met with imported intelligentsia, promoting what they’re officially calling dialogue, cultural exchange, I don’t know…Shade, senior member of this assemblage as head of the Sanhedrin soon supranational, he keeps ducking down toward the table then almost under it as if he’s in the way of the image projected, fingering spiced at his nose, the shvitzy pimpling of forearm to forehead, tugs at the pants of his suit wetted through to the knees. Thinking why’d he go and agree to this meeting, this location, and with its timing so off: a tick too late of shade, this career’s blot, a soured stain; how he mustn’t lose the sun…it’s that he’s trying to follow its beam, windowed, slit, this ducking, dodging, feigning and feint, to stay within its lighted coddle. To keep low, if still wary of warming: the US of Affiliation shouldn’t know he’s here, or, if that’s impossible, then especially they shouldn’t know why, his purpose—his sitting down to break bread as much as covenant with these heathens, Philistines, meaning goyim he’ll Judas anyway. Silverpieces, futz them: the taste of coin in the mouth, a metallic bitter, too tart to talk anew. Fling a purse, and wing, he’s thinking that’s the schedule. Maybe it’s the symbolism, though, what stills. Its salty reek, the sulfurous retch: a time itself pickled, preserved, stuck fast in webs of herb, parsley/dill nets, onionskins…O to savor it upon the tongue, as the tongue, before the swallow and all’s forgotten, belched. He’s uncomfortable, feverish, tired from the flight. Hell should be this hot. And hell, he’s reminded, is only a valley away: just past the glassily shimmering walls, the arch widemouthed, the open lid of the nearest gate—giving way to the briny, brackish pit…

The purpose of this gathering’s hushed like a baby born into sin then flushed down the Nile, is to lay to suckling sleep the groundwork, in Jerusalem, for a lasting peace—and so nothing’s new under Ecclesiastes’ sun, Kohelet’s, which is as oppressive as it ever was, if only here, the shadow of its former dominion. Idea is to fix a ration of reparations to the remaining few Unaffiliated; who first need to be counted, who, Shade thinks, to receive such reparation would just love to be counted, and then and only then—it’s proposed—to get them their own nation, some small wound of bloody dreck somewhere, anywhere, to become infected, infecting…proposing to appease them, to shtum them up—to let the world get on with what it has to get on with, the Law. On the wall opposite the projection, there’s hung an extensively taut skinlike tatter, a parchment spliced then nailed as if to dry itself of slaughter in that light in from the one thin teardrop window still arcing, not yet walled: it’s a map, of the nation in question, that questionable nation, what to name it, why—partitioned wherever as an exclave, an excrescence, balmed in roughly the shape of B’s body, it’s said; that is, if you examine it squinting then sort of to the left, looking upsidedown, too, and through an obstruction, a column…Shade’s head in his hands, staring down, heedless, unhearing. What would’ve been B’s bodyparts: organs, glands, and yadda in that vein, leeching fourcolored inside these black borders some thick with others dotted as if for future severance, all sectioned then labeled with the names of the assembled, and to him the President what’re inexplicable numbers, indicating spheres of influence, responsibilities, domains of empire imminent only in their destiny, never to manifest…His forbiddenaround, tabooedabout hindquarters, there at the sinew of the thigh marked thickly in red with the term Undecided as if expecting, or provoking, a fight with any angel that would deign to sponsor; His heart’s hachures bearing the name Shade in black, His heart that is itself a Shade, which name is shadowed, too, under the tongue and then upon the forehead, marking due north toward a border that’s going to prove a problem, a pain in the international tush that’s labeled across the entirety’s lakelike middle Abulafia (its southern extremity, though, also marking the ocean, and so they’d be controlling what would be this country’s major port and largest city), a solution to which’ll probably eventuate even more death and, what’s worse for Shade, another invitation to a meeting amid the rooms of this scorched soaking Jerusalem tomb, yet another convocation of this body, and their seconded, protracted session of parceling His—this legislating of it parsed, skinned and grown then shed—this body that’s to be His not much longer, which will become as foreign to Him and to us as will be that makeshift nation to any, to be grafted onto the spine of whichever continent so deserves it, would deserve if only. And if, ultimately, amid all these arguments, these questions unanswered because still and forever unasked, unproposed, a solution can’t be found, and soon, by eventuality’s timetable, which is wellappointed, placecarded, and centerpieced, too, with Sinai’s two tablets, with the settings around them in place for first seating and already amply spread with the dew—listen, there’s always Shade’s solution, which is final, enough. Intifada. Plan B. It remains a Shem unnaming, however, this thirdtablet silence—for now not a label, placard, or scrap, but a gag. Hands are shook. If only in hope. All arches, their gates and their avenues, remain open.

The Arch

In the beginning as in its end—though Maimonides the Rambam might deny one—we are told Without form and void, and we listen, we respond, we repeat, Without form and void, generation after generation, Without form and void, generation Without form, generation And void…though we might add, if only now, forever late in a latening time, that it’d been soft, too, and as warm and as wet as a womb. Then the pressure from within, and then that from without, as substance separated and those separations separated; all was already old, existenced deeply. A mouth was forming, a mouth in the making—an arch. Then, the waters were divided into waters down here, waters up there, the waters were rent, the wet ripped, and hardness ensued, hardnesses, and we say—Darkness was upon the face of the deep…

An eruption down the dirtied throat, an irruption, others hold, dirtying, the blown breath of God, taking with its flow all the detritus that webbed the esophageal walls, venously scummy—ejectamenta, those spoiled little gel-fishes, and that vegetative stink, to fall laval down to the depth of the stomach’s valley. The stones, though, they went up the other way, were vomited up from where they lay like macle: there they sat as rock inside stones yea when they remembered…had been quarried up from deep in the gut, having laid there lo under layers and layers of layers maternal of rocks and the stony paternal for ages that weren’t yet ages but Then—finally to be formed, as found, unfinal, never. Verily, the finding gave them form, And it was good, then the form gave them function, and it was open, opening: these stones destined for heaps, which were found in other heaps, founded in heaps predating heaps, preterite piles, they were arranged, they’d be arranged—in an arch…into two arches facing each other, these arches of soaked stones rocking in vomit up from the gut, whites surfaced from the gutted river of tongue, not yet forked between the good, the bad, and the unsayable flow of the middle, which itself is never to fork. Rocks, punishments exacted to yellow. Gravestones. Teeth to lose.

B stands in front of an arched gateway once passingly ornate whose doming gold can now be found within the mouths of those around Him, those asking of Him, questioning with smiles that can’t comfort but glow, the untrustworthy wrinkles of the pious. It’s the opening here to a town with no name and, too, with every name they’re speaking in glinty hints, who knows the nyms, the polyonymous endos and exos, I don’t, onomastics masticating on and how, either, it doesn’t matter to nostalgia, never does…east from whence the world came from the belly of the bestial valley, vulvar and dark with a breath of its own that blows cold. He speaks none of the languages, I speak nothing. B yawns stumped, standing at its guardhouse, its gatehouse, passage’s home without guard, at least none that I’ve noticed, noticing me…His legs arched open to walk through the arch, to walk through this gate’s village, which town, then out its arch opposite, to flee toward the horizon then into the rise of the sun, from its set—all the while casting His own arch, against the day’s brightness, its shadow arcing His shade, behind Him then ahead its towns and its villages, toward the horizon that’s the rise of all arching and His, which wanders on with Him even while He’s fleeing it, too, and so arriving and departing forever, and never.

Hold on a moment, though, langsam, slow down, says the Guide—it’s that there’s this interesting thing about arches.

The Group quiets.

It’s that they’re built with crosses, just follow me here, the Crucifix…there’s mumbling, a snarky grumble—the cross being the frame, he says by way of quick explanation, hurried, hurrying FYI; they’re the gallows for the gallows, if you will, the construction of an arch involving the use of a scaffold, have patience, usually of wood, until the placement of the central voussior, the quoin as it’s often called, the keystone, or crown: a cantilever, that’s the stone that’s in the middle, to be placed at the highest peak of the arch, the stone that negotiates, that mediates, that bears every burden…the pressure, you with me—without it, all would fall.

A cross, the Guide says, it’s the form of the body—and the floorplan, too, of every ruined church that doesn’t awe, just disgusts…

A Crucifix, their Guide guiding on, but without any symbolism: only think of it now as two lengths of wood, how it’s urged…one just longer than the other, laid across it then nailed.

A cross, the Guide says again, call the crossbeam the lintel, then mirror that by nailing another board, as long as the lintel, across the bottom, down by the knees.

A hammer and nails.

Good, says the Guide, everyone with me?

Or should I wait?

Almost too easy to get a laugh out of them (it’s the nerves).

Now, he says, the workers here—gesturing to a group of overweight, overalled types who they grunt in response to their introduction, then make a show to roll up their sleeves…they’ll place two posts there, to form a V between the lintels, the upper and lower; then, they’ll nail two more between the upper and the very top of the arch, which is the keystone, remember—the crown.

Now we have two Vs, openfacing…imagine a diamond.

Can-ti-le-ver. Can’t you leave it? Here?

We’re touring an arch today, is what the next Group’s Guide explains.

Why? To support? to strengthen? what else?

To open, his opening goes.

As the Group nods.

The cross, the Guide explains now and again, it’s the wooden frame for the arch, erected to support the structure before the last stone’s placed at its peak.

These stones (Jerusalem stone was used here—a goodwill gift from friends former, they’re doublefistsized, about the hurt of a head if they’d tumble atop), they exert pressure, they push and they pull up against each other from both sides, from every; they ache, one against another, along their ways to the top.

They’re irregularly shaped, rough’s the word and unmortared.

Ages of pressure, of all this madinsane I’m talking tectoniclike pushpull—like, too, the process by which coal becomes diamond, it’s offered by way of example—will eventually annul the arch, destroy it, lay it to waste…will finally let’s say excommunicate the stone of the crown, casting it forward to B’s feet, without sin; and then with it, the other stones they’ll fall, too, with nothing to hold them up anymore, how they’ll fall to lie in two piles loose at the feet, as He turns to wander His on…

On the Island, amid the ruins of the Garden, which have been at pains staked preserved, made rubblesafe, they tour the subterranean tunnels, take in the vaults: arches barreling high, the groined crosses, lancet and ogee, passing through passages of all possible lean, of every potentiality for their own destruction; they walk in the dark, feeling their way toward a voice, following its light, that of their Guide what with the microphone and the miniature speaker clasped to his belt and the flash, the sentinel of his hardhat. As they’d descended from the floor of the Great Hall, there’s a sign: Mind Your Step, and God how they’re minding…you’d be proud; this way, please.

This began with the cross, there before the crown’s what we’re looking for here, the keystone, the foundation stone, the rock of all ages…then, Let there be the crucifix, and there was, heretically or not, here it crosses; the whole Group nods and they grumble, once an hour, on the hour, they nod and they grumble, like this, shuffly grumble, just so, six days a week nod again. And it was good, the Guide says, was good only because it lacked meaning, was not yet a symbol, not yet this curse, not so blasphemed underground: how they’re encouraged to think of the form as just two pieces of wood, really, merely material, nature’s own exuviæ, one actually a length longer than the other, these branches if you want them to be, sticks even, twigs; kinder poke each other, their mothers shoot them this look.

You must be this tall to…in the dark.

This tour, it’s a survey of the Garden’s fall, openaired: the State owns all of this now, owns this as they own almost everything, the public absorbed, assimilated finally to its power, a People. Their sleighs leave the city every halfhour, and on the halfhour nine to sunset, accommodating those who’ve purchased their tickets at least a Shabbos in advance, or, if sameday, maybe they know someone important, someone high up in the business of memory…I don’t, I forget, what’s his name. These workers, former Garden employees lately re-hired to work unrecompensed penance at the site of their sin: they have nails in their mouths, dulled, piggish teeth, they wave hands at the Groups with their hammers, then set to work, sparking the dim with their din. They’re re-raising the fallen, resurrecting what’s better left buried, graved underground. A Group makes its way to the furthest project, their present worksite, situated just past a score of glassed enclosures, up against a wall hewn from rock, the objects encased there (photographs, souvenir Garden products, personal effects of Garden employees) labeled with tiny tacked placards: naming names, materials, date, place. A lintel is mirrored, the workers hammer fiercely, another plank’s nailed below, there at bottom…a plank as long as the other above, both shorter than the central length, which is longer and goldengray. Another sign, this hung in the corner and rather beaten and crumpled, its letters handblocked, or in this pitch poorly stenciled, says—Please Excuse Our Appearance During Renovations. We’re reasonably sorry. And so they excuse, grumble and nod. A worker falls from a ladder, his nails scatter, and in the frozen darkness and noise the Group hews unto stone. Be right with you. Cleavage it’s called, giving a laugh. Then receiving, confirmed. Other workers don’t give any notice, though: they work on…now nailing two short vertical boards to the lintel lower, place two posts in a V between the lintels lower and upper, then place two more between the upper and the placement of the keystone atop, the crown of the construct: you’ll notice how they now have two Vs, openfacing, in the shape of a valley, think of a diamond, iyiyi, if you must—not to support, their Guide affirms, not to strengthen, and the Group nods its neck sore, approval. To open. Understand, more. This begins with a cross. All begins with a Crucifix. These wooden posts make the frame for the arch, are the frame for the arch, the structural support, he says, its strengthened foundation—to hold all up, he says, to keep it from falling down before the crown’s placed, he says, before the arch becomes crowned, they say now and so everything’s explained all over again how he says it. The keystone, the key to the stones as much as their lock. And then, a lick of a laugh. Every hour, this is. And again. On. The hour. Outside, even the sky’s stone, it’s goldening late, the sun the sky’s keystone falling the day into night, the night into dark and its scatter of stars. Ice holds firm under the freshgreased runners of sleighs. But it’s a walkingtour, and so might we suggest you wear comfortable shoes. People become Groups just beyond the entrance to the Great Hall, its steps, the Registry a floor aboveground, are then herded into Groups by age and by sex, hauled around by their time of arrival here, and there of departure, let’s go. There’s a mysticism to the making of a Group, it’s been said. In any Group, in every, there must be weakness and there must be strength, curiosity and complacency in equal measure, they’re told—the askers and the answerers, the talky then the mass, shushing silent. An arch—the height of a question, its mark. Photograph the video for posterity’s sake, then meet me in the giftshop for food, drink, and toilets. All groups are equal in function if not in form, in pressures, their pushes and pulls. What I’m saying is this—a person alone’s unsupportable. Be aware. Be burdened aware. Don’t forget to crown your Guide. A tip, always appreciated.

Inside, darker down these stairs spiraling into the vertiginous, spiderspinning of passages, webbed steps steeped to the pitch of night’s fall, precipitous, scary, and not recommended for those with the conditions of having a heart or a brain—the hammering’s loud, reverberant with the stone, and so he shouts over it, while apologizing all the while as he’s screaming, too, that he has to, their Guide he’s restless…now waving the Group toward him with a hand, then away with an umbrella, as if a warning of sorts, despite underground; they follow behind him, close and yet far enough away to estrange, always toward and then into what seems like a small, dankmoldy antechamber at the furthest eastern edge of the Island: an Introitus of sorts, a space just beyond dark, walled against light, keeping it from them, behind which heavy uniform slab this tunneling once went on, once led—as it’s said, as it’s guided over and over—into Manhattan: a passage proximately ruined into this wall, a progress thwarted, an answer, there’s your answer right there. Less than a mile off, what they’re sold. It’s told to have given out onto the bathrooms of City Hall, which stall…we’re not sure, that surety not included. I’ll take your questions only at the end of the tour. Inaccessible, too. Please, save them for the end, and yourselves. They feel at the walls on their ways so as not to be lost, though the tunnel tunnels on only straight, keeping their eye fixed on the halo of their Guide, which is the glint of voice from his person and that that’s flashed from the hat—not the voice of his person, but that of his function, his task, the glow of the plasticized crown…and so feeling their way, they go gripping a grope at walls knocked through with others, with these walls, and halfwalls, with quarters, ruin fortified, then reconstructed again to appear just rubbled enough to be safe, ostensibly, it’s passed around, ideally these fallen rocks falling as stones, some of them glassy, others dropped dull, this haphazard deconstruction of destruction even more haphazardly rehabilitated to now. And then—wall. Masonry. Ashlar. And now again, stop. This wall’s been arched, their Guide says, this arch’s walled in. Here, with newer stones. There, and with rocks found variously around the Island, its shores. In the style, though. Of the period. From the tympanum (which is the space between the top of an entry, or exit, then the arch arching above it, he explains while realizing, too, he’s forgotten to previously—wisdom lost on those arrived early) on down, all the way, it’s filled in now, full up. Me-zu-zah—there’s that, too. A crowning chink, beyond which it’s impassable, inaccessible, not today, try tomorrow. Kiss it, no matter—respect. The stragglers, those behind the curious, their spouses and kinder, their compensating others, have come to a stop, to a stand. Finally. They come and they come, they come then keep coming. Forever, six days a week nine to Shabbos. And then—they’re here, and then there’s no more, no further to go, turn around. About face. Stragglers first, with the Guide to guide now from the rear.

Take the keystone out, the Guide says, and this wall’ll fall.

And how the Island might, too.

Stick together, stay near.

Workers break for their brunch, which is tough rolls, gristly salami no harder than vodka…they’re silent behind the velveteen ropes hung from scaffoldings’ stanchions, makeshift brasspoles—how they’re almost exhibits themselves…

Please, no video, or flash photography. Tarnished, tarnisht.

This way, just this way—after you.

After the Group’s done with all of the Great Hall above, then the tunnelings of the Great Hall below, they’re led out to the rim of the Island, the Groups, toward the fall of the ice, daily marked at its thinning: there to pay their respects, it’s suggested, to the dead sunk beneath, to their dead beyond death, beyond theirs; which respects, however, and their prayercards and candles, aren’t included in the price of admission: according to their Guides, it’s another ten shekels to visit the Island’s wonderfully dilapidated synagogue, shul (which had never been a synagogue: there’d never been a shul on the Island, or one that ever was used—how they’d davened wherever they stood: in bunks, in clods of snow, amidst whirlwinds); which structure had been merely a trash facility recently redone to meet expectations, anticipatory of its legitimizing appeal…to there mourn reflection, it’s offered, upon the death of their—Ancestors, I’m sorry, slicha: many of them saying a Kaddish they’ve recently memorized, or tried to, whether in the original or translated, whether in transliteration Yisgadal or Yitkadash no matter, as many won’t register the difference, in meaning, in tonguing—to pronounce His Name Magnified and Sanctified, to magnify then sanctify high the Name of He Who Makes Peace a rote Shalom’s Amen. And let us say, you’ve been a wonderful Group. Applause. The best Group I’ve had. Thanks. Yet today, ever. Give yourself a hand. Clap fists all around. Across the Island, a tourist from the next Group—there’s always a next Group or else, there’s always another group of the Group—whichever neophyte ben Avraham with small needly eyes, colder lips marred with eschars, and beginning a beard, he not seeking the merit of any mitzvah, not even thinking that old do unto others: just do—he kicks out a shoe, nudges a pebble from the path up ahead, which is ice…the slate submerged, leading up toward the foundations of B’s house, exposed; so that the kinder coming up from behind won’t trip on their ways to the basement’s exhibit, then fall.

6

Welcome to Whateverwitz

ABOVE IS ABOVE, AND BELOW IS BELOW.

The Rambam says in the name of Rabbi Eliezer: The things in the heavens have been created of the heavens, the things on the earth of the earth…hence reinforcing the doctrine of two Substances, and anticipating an argument v. Spinoza’s interpretation of Aristotle—too long a story, for now.

They’re in the middle, though, the mittel, we’re saying.

Purgatory, if you want, a strange land without land, and without firmament either, domain of a third Substance, don’t ask.

Above is the sky.

Below, it’s the ocean.

The middle of the ocean, the mittel: halfway here, halfway there, maybe this, maybe that, and maybe…maybe yes, maybe no, and perhaps—all up in the air.

Above the ocean, stillnesses, the sun’s twin among waters amid water, fishes, the Leviathan and the whale, kelp and salt—enough salt to keep any Lot in wives for a long lot of hereafter, it’s said.

Below the sky’s waters—the flying thing, a refitted, updated chariot of sorts.

Above the ocean below they’re thousands upon thousands of an archaic measurement above, flying in an aeroplane now but in the wrong direction. Opposite. In return.

As for the aeroplane—it’s old, ancient, it’s losing things, rickety rack. Aisles of desolate plane.

Flappity, flap, flap—it’s shedding wings, the engines might stall at any moment; inquire as to the status of the landing gear, it’s not like it’ll do any good.

To any Omnipresence worth the Name, wandering would seem just like staying put—and, for a moment, a day, a week, a moon…they’re fixed there, they’re frozen, stayed in the sky like the sun of Joshua’s day: and the earth rests its spinning, and the stillwater’s stilled, from floor to surface of the deep nothing’s flowing anywhere, as stilled and as stilling as it’d been the day before the second day, precreationary still, a Sabbath from turbulence, in flight their Shabbos from flight, they’re just, staying, put…and all this Mittel’s dead to them, invisible, clouded and blue and white and wisped, though they peek through their misted windows anyway; they’re fingering rosaries, mumbling their prayers in American, and in infelicitous Latin, too, Kyrie Eleison, Christe Eleison, Hail Mary Mother of Our Fathers Who Art, but many are Unbelievers, if you can believe, still; some abstain, others drink…all try to understand.

They’re in the air. And the air is also above them…and the air is also above the air, then above that air, less air, and then through that lessening, no air, and the Above is more like an Around: there’s air inside in which they’re enplaned, there’s air inside them in their gasps, groans, moaning, prayers, and then there’s air outside, though that that separates the two airs is anyone’s guess: this separation, whatever it is, whichever’s it is, whether of heaven or earth, is the shell after shelling, the husk or the hulling, a movable mechitza, stay with me…the indigestible tubing of an unctuous salami slung through space & time; they’re the thick mixedmeat stuffed inside the inedible, indelible, tubing; they’re the nuts inside the shell, rattling around, the seeds inside the husk. Hulled. There’s one air on one side and there’s another air on the other, the air inside laden with virus, heavy with flu, stifling, I can’t breathe, I’m choking…the air outside’s pure and open, but they need the air inside, they need it to live. If pressure’s lost, oxygen will fall. Rubberized masks. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be at all. Make sure to fasten yours first, and only then those of the kinder.

They’re in the air inside in the outside air, with air above that and above that air less air, then above that air lessening itself into no air and then above that around, only space; they’re wandering, sort of, kinda, not astray or any other species of lost, they know their ultimate destination, terminus, the end territory, Niemandsland’s ever, the antipode poles…it’s printed on their tickets, what’s not printed’s the route: the route is known and the route is unknown, it’s known to be unknown; there’s an ocean to arch; they’ve risen in the air, then they’ve unleavened, evenedout: they’ve left the light and will leave it again later that day, only to…so long, too long, forever, never; they’re fixed like stars, they’re unfixed like stars falling; they’re migratory snowbirds flown east, the wrong direction, don’t squawk, opposite, gone opposed; they’re schooled fishes, scattering return with a flap of the tail; they’re shooting here, slingshotted there, through wisps of precipitate, high and thin nimbi, flying an arc through the arcless air—out over the ocean, and to the Other Side.

Many of them are flying Class; these people have plenty of food and drink, entertainment, magazines and newspapers the headlines of which inform fate. One interpretation holds that Class is the only way to wander, better to go out in style, what’s your time worth, what’s your money worth, now. In Class, they’re packed two, three to a row aisle depending, reparating their armrests, adjusting their position of recline: though the available positions of recline would seem at least theoretically infinite, mechanically, mundanely, there are only two, which are fully reclined and partially; no one is unreclined, it’s unthinkable. A Mister Sanderson is fully reclined, his shoes off, his socks a shade of night three hours lighter than the aisle upholstery, five hours lighter than the outside at present; they’ll fly through the night, and the morning; next to him, and presently asleep, a Misses Sanderson née D’Agostino (at whose insistence both she and her husband had been upgraded following the presentation of the deed to their home) is only partially reclined, minding the goy sitting behind her: that goy, a Mister Sells, with nearly adequate legroom, is not as thoughtful with regard to the passenger just behind him: he’s reclined fully, and the woman one row back is arthritic, and overweight. Deep Vein Thrombosis. Pulmonary embolism. Lost luggage, don’t forget what’s stowed underseat. O the overheads. Remind me, or don’t. This to be worried about, too. That woman behind him, a Misses Sims, is able to recline without guilt: no one’s behind her at present; that seat’s occupant, a Mister Smart, has been on the toilet for hours. This Mister Sells, obese, morbidly, bound in buckle, is unable to sit still, he shifts in his seat, which movement wrests Miss Sims’ tray loose, Miss Sims slams her tray up, fastens it, hoping only that the adamancy of her slam, and her murmurs of annoyance, might keep him still, whoever he is, stop his shift, whoever he thinks he is, and it doesn’t, nothing does, ever will; they’re all nervous if stupid and neurotic if smart, despondent and full of demands, and this despite the ministrations of any attendant, the stewards and stewardesses in their uniforms freshly ironed if not, also, stiffly starched, stalking the aisles with hot moist towelettes draped over their arms strong and outstretched, as if involved in their own personal Ascensions, with complimentary blankets, and pillows and, though only upon request, slippers and eyemasks; limbs and heads ache, they’re shouting to hear one another over the air, the airs, the air of the air; they’re all praying, though only some of them know that they are, while others opt for the prayer that is distraction, diversion, talk talk talk; the aeroplane entire’s one inestimable noise of many noises, and air.

A goy graced with ideological facial stubble rises, walks to the front of Class, then screams he’s planning to blow up the plane.

No one’s listening.

No, he insists, you don’t understand, none of you, shema, listen up: I’m strapped with explosives, I’ll blow us all right out of the sky…and still, no one hears, and so he stomps his foot, pulls down the microphone to the PA, feedback—the stewardess takes it from him with a stern reproach, return to seat; he yells even louder, shrieks through an accent who can hope to identify.

I have enough explosives wired on my person to blow up ten aeroplanes, one hundred, I don’t know.

And I won’t hesitate, not for a moment, don’t think I will, and still the talking goes on, a Babel of chatty.

I’m serious, he’s promising he’s serious now…I’m warning you, he warns, I pull this, motioning to a small pin protruding with a wink from his vest, and, honest to God, we’re in serious trouble.

And then one woman, sitting directly in front of his stand in the aisle, there at its head, this passenger whose attention’s flitted in and out of this outburst, insane and as such, ignorable, ignores, too, her husband’s response to one of her questions—Are we there yet? and motions instead to this enraged terrorist, who leans into an audience with her he thinks and, grabbing at his vest, she asks him another: Aren’t you hot in that? like why don’t you take that thing off? and then, without waiting for an answer, drops her hands, returns to her husband, to resume an even earlier discussion pertaining to what.

Okay, he says, one more time…I’m only going to say this one more time, listen up: I’m prepared to blow this aeroplane right out of the sky—if you don’t listen to me, I’ll end it right now, honest, and then when the light flashes on, seatbelts, turbulence, ding, ding, the goy quickly returns to his seat, fuming, and mortified.

Amid the rare silence, a Mister Smith asks loudly for a refill (water, coffee, tea, or disappointment), shakes his mug, plastic, into the aisle, taps it throttle him annoyingly against his tray, which’s in its appropriate upright position.

Here in Class, there are sons of Sanders and Sandermans and Sandermens and Sandersens and Sanfords and Sandfords, too, in this row alone. Up front are all the Arnolds, with the Zimmers down toward the rear. In Rows 1–2, the Abernathy family, with the Bertrams, and the Christians, the Christiansens, the Christiansons, in Row 3 the Donalds, and Elmores, in Rows 4–8 the Hards, and the Hesses; there are whole sections of O’Malleys, O’Nallys, O’Nellys, Spinellis, Tartellis, and Worths. Amid the Sandersons here in Class, there’s a whole family of them, myriad generations like stars or their light: greatgrandfather and mother, grandfather and mother, father and mother, and lastly Mister & Misses Sanderson, who were wed only last night: the sky, like the glass should’ve been but wasn’t, is freshly shattered; this trip’s their honeymoon, though enforced, if required, Misses Sanderson’s first appreciable time spent at the pleasure of her new relatives, the Sanderson-inlaws, and so far she hasn’t spilled anything, so good; let’s hope, we hope, this luck holds.

After the Zwicks, and the Zychs, there’s a vestibule of bathrooms, all currently Occupied, reserved only for the needs of those flying Class—as for the rest, they’ll go where they’re going.

After Class, then, is the section called No Class: there are no seats here and its people, they’re stacked to the top, writhing limbs and sinuous spines—the airing of grievance, the noise: that of a crack or break, a short dry snap; heads peek through holes the span of one life, heads poke through the holes of their mouths voicing death, screams fill the section, and shouts for help, food and water, then a hatch opens a draft and silence and a steward or stewardess who can tell or breathe even throws a mess of water and food out into the mess, then the struggle all over again: these shoes stepping throats to the floor, these hands strangling other hands, teeth gnashing at teeth, women and infants and their fathers, their husbands, turned a cargo of raw, suppurating, unidentifiable flesh; then, it quiets again with the hatch opened a creak, cracked light from the front, and another steward or stewardess throws in more, leftovers from Class, more food and water probably not potable now, then the struggle begins yet again.

Though soon, they’ll reach the Meeting Point…we’re talking the huge illuminated I, the zentrum, the centrum or center, give or take, they’re not sure what to do, what’s expected—where wakefulness is sleep, where sleep is dream, where dream is, forget it, all Under the Sign of the Eigenlicht, the hypnagogic giving way to the hypnopompic, don’t you understand (in Class, they’re popping those suspect pills, spread out scattered on their trays alongside tumblers of water, these medications on prescriptions from physician friends become newly Affiliated, feeling just terrible about this whole situation, I’m sure—tell me, what should I do about it, this isn’t exactly healing a body, it’s more like healing a world)—this is where everything falls into the Other, its other Other…a past, previous incarnations: the fall of the physical into the nonphysical, the idea into the act, the way the spheres merge, sun, then split, moon, then merge again, sun to moon then sun again…in Class cleared, a heap of maps now spread out on their trays, too, though no maps are really necessary, though they’re not forbidden, just not advised, excess, an overpack: after all, it’s not as if they’ll ever be left on their own, to fend for themselves and their lives, without oversight, without guidance. Anyway, they’ve all long memorized the Quarters—they’ve had hours, all day, days; they know what to expect. They’re only touring to confirm their suspicions, only traveling in order to compare their own Real with that of their others, whomever. They trace the land’s imperfections with eyes crucified on their forefingers; pointing some to the left, others to the right, they behold the sky out their windows though the sky is everywhere, too, and everywhere indivisible. Air. Languages over the loudspeaker interrupt one another, repeating, reiterating, arguing then…how an aeroplane traces the arch of the sky, is traced from land to Land in an arch, across the Ocean, then further: they’re lower now, at an elevation incomprehensible now. Pilot speaks garble now. Speed. Height now. Velocity. Over. Local Time now. Temperature. What.

Ocean meets Land, meets an ocean and the land, it’s parceled out, piecemeal from this high above, and everything at last—seems understandable: how they glide over whole green yellow smoky mirrored silver dead surfaces as if no one down there’s ever mattered, will ever matter, in passing, as passed, as if those people, if they exist and we have our doubts, exist only for the idea that the world, it’s greater than themselves—only an idea, though ours, too. Vert, luteous, the sprawling of awe. It’d been raining sideways earlier, or so, pit pat at a slant, but they’re lower now, and the sun shines, and they glide over morning again, through morning’s again, over the giving way of the measured to the unmeasured, the separation of the kept from the keepless, then back to the measured, again, the pieced together, the parceled and the green and the light, the—no way else to say it—awesome sprawl surfaced, as graveless. They’ll die here. Not yet.

They land on the Land, arriving now at the first of many gates, too many, too gated—then, begin to variously struggle their ways off, though there’s only one way…though the processes are infinite, near enough, the result is always the same; they’re taking stock of the underseats, then the overheads…overheard: the tips, the timesavers, the suggestions so helpful…they gaze around nervously, itch, scratch at themselves in wonder how they’re shelled, husked, they’ve deplaned, made it through; they stand with their suitcases, with their garmentbags, and their carryons, too, held between their legs; tired, they’re hungry and thirsty; and they’re complaining, they’re complaining already, always complaining; they’d paid so much for this, too much, were made to pay, to be here, to be here again, to arrive again here, which is where…after all this wandering, welcome, Shalom—and hour after hour, day after day, the planes keep coming and coming, circle then circle the circling, land.

Mister Smart on the plastic of the toilet he’s sitting, he’s still, his loud made inaudible above the din, let’s give thanks…he shifts on the seat, nibbles at the dried fruit, the apples and prunes, dates and figs, which he’d illegally smuggled onboard, then sips at the sink, which is kept on, or out of order: a goy used to spending so much of his time so disposed, disposing, he’s trained himself to turn the pages of his newspaper with the toes of a foot, thumbs out the hole of a sock, unkempt nail grazing the headline—Shade State of the Union: Transports Proceeding On Schedule…

At an aeroport in New York, called La Guardia as it’s named for a goy who before he became mayor worked with languages and with speaking them and asking questions in them upon the Island they’d died on; in case you were interested, just so we’re clear—there in its provisional chapel, a goy whose identity’s being withheld because his collaboration here should ensure the acceptance of his family’s conversion, a Chaplain, of a species nondenominational, a minister to the transient, retained to soothe the aviophobic, the afraid to fly, stands alone in his modest makeshift plasterdom, his cubicle celled between toilets, M restroom to the right of him, W to the left, and reflects: his departure date’s tomorrow…stink seethes in from both sides, urinal overflow, a bath of clogged stalls, leaks in under the leaning walls, a draft of deluge, waste staining in streaks, the mush of all plys; he flagellates himself with a pleather belt, snakeskin, bought surplus, dutyfree, then tries to find a name for a God that won’t offend anyone even if used loudly, in vain; blood falls from his back to mix with the piss, not his, mixing into a drainless dreckswirl on the floor, puddling around his feet sloping down toward the pulpit, or toward where a pulpit would have been if his budget would’ve provided: there’s only an arch of a rainbow on the wall there, an ennobling decal, with no ends to the rainbow, only its arch, the highest middle section in the middle of the wall; it would end, on both sides, in toilets.

Codename Thomachefsky II, though he’s no relation to, even after all these meals still follows the instructions given on the sheet they’ve provided; though it’s stained with every manner of savory costcutting, the steps he’d memorized his first day of work are still interpretable: on the tray, which is plastic, goes one Main Pill, a capsule of cholent, the protein, plasticwrapped, one Side Pill One, the rye, the starch, plasticwrapped, one Side Pill Two, mixed vegetable, plasticwrapped, one Dessert Pill, strudel, plasticwrapped, one Spork, plastic, one Safety Knife, plastic, one Seasoning Packet, plastic, one Napkin, plastic, one Mug, plastic, Nondairy Milk Substitute, plasticwrapped, Water, plasticwrapped, then Step #12, wrap all in plastic and affix the stickered seal of kashrut, plastic, atop; none of the plastic edible in the least, and often asphyxiating those to whom it’s occasionally thrown back in No Class: this, wrapped, is the Class Ration, prepared and packaged both in a warehouse far northeast near the aeroport in Queens; its exclusive food & beverage contract held by Al-Cohol Distributors, which is a wholly owned subsidiary of Abulafia & Sons, Inc. of Furthest Rockaway, maybe you know where that is…lately, I’m lost. Here, protein’s the upper, starch the downer, vegetable upper, dessert downer—they meet each other halfway; this once mixed with just one packet of powdered wine (extra, ask your attendant for further details), and your average air passenger’s rendered regulation unconscious for up to eight hours, zonked, all ready to go.

Finally, the Solution begins—yet again.

And so there was more trouble for Him, and it was not good, and no one could get any rest.

And we all say—forget it.

Welcome to Whateverwitz, loosely translating to whatever’s joke, anything you want, we’ll laugh, hahaha, O how we’ll indulge you. Those who had chosen not to Affiliate had chosen their deaths…alternately, “those who have not chosen to be chosen,” it’s officially said, how they’ve been chosen for death if not by it. Jawohl, their fate sealed so you needn’t be a sphragist to figure out how. In the beginning, to incite dissent within their ranks with the appointments of quote unquote selfgovernments, establishing a collaborating class of privileged VIPs (Very Important Polaks), all toward the aim of obliterating any sense of community, and so any organized resistance, they hope—to lay the blame upon the blameless, is how. To quote unquote remove them, the Unaffiliated we’re talking, first to enumerate them, round them up, transport them Transatlantic to Polandland proper, then give them the Grand Tour, show them the sites, take it all in, the works, allinclusive; then, terminal transfer to extermination facilities situated at the outer limits of major metropolises throughout the Pale, there to set only as many as neccessary to hard labor servicing the deaths of their family and peers, attending to their minimalized needs, the wanting basic, baring essentials though one goy’s subsistence be another goy’s dream, and this in a manner most costeffective, as inexpensively as possible’s what—and then to murder them, every one of them, dead, and so only the pure will be left; that’s the plan.

Nu, Torque, Hamm asks, what’s the plan—was He on one of those transports? is He dead yet? and what about us…he’s futzing with the yarmulke he has to maintain for work purposes, survival, to avoid the Gestapo’s attention.

I don’t know, says Mada, I don’t think we’re that lucky, or not. My guess is He fled here, not expecting this, who would have. And if He did expect, hymn, then He’s dumber than any of us ever thought.

But they wouldn’t kill Him, would they, Hamm takes the pleather disc from his head (this a newly issued operationally commemorative model: it’s white inviting dirt with prussicblau piping, replete with serial number and a litany of daily blessings wrought on its underside in silvery script), spins it supple around in his hands: they wouldn’t, why would they, wouldn’t make any sense…He’s one of them.

Is He? Not anymore, Hamm, my friend, not anymore…or He is and He isn’t, it’s tough to explain, so difficult nowadays with everyone of no extraction, all these late designates of fractional Faith—the questions, is He a Mischling, who knows, and, anyway, are They, Whoever They are, Whoever They ever are (up to you), the type to make such distinctions; it’s up to Him to decide, the chosen now finally choosing. Who are you, that’s never been voluntary before. Freewill and all, freewilled. This time around, martyrdom’s wholly assured. But He’s not on any of the transports (Mada spits on Hamm’s yarmulke, palms it down into his kink), and neither is he dead…Frank Gelt says, having slid downstairs and across the waxed lobby of the Hotel Under the Sign of the Hotel’s newest Polandland franchise, the Hotel Under the Sign of the Sign of the Hotel in the house’s silkslippers, he’s waving in front of him, in their faces, a sheaf of papers that gives the impression at least of being thick, smallprinted, and tiresome if not entirely, unappealably official—still they’ve been religiously stamped and signed, approved like nobody’s business: nothing registered, he says, apparently He has no number, no designation, whispering crisp quickly to Die once they’ve sequestered themselves in their most modest of suites, with all tips paidout, shades drawn, door locked with the radio on, so as to buzz their conference from any who’d pry: He’s wanted dead, Gelt says, but only by authorities on the Most High, orders direct from the Sanhedrin, Shade himself; lowerlevels have instructions only to turn Him over, ascend Him upstairs. An orchestra chokes. And then come the sermons.

Must’ve entered on a false passport, says Die in complimentary smoking-jacket falling open, exposing his hairless, smallnippled chest; he’s lying on his fourposter, canopied in black, originally topped with the taxidermied head of a grandly shot stag whose eyes, which are glass, he’d suspected of hiding surveillance cameras, microphones, or both, and so had the head ripped from the wall, now hugged under an arm, deantlered. Or, he says, maybe He’s paying His way through, if He can afford it, if He isn’t too cheap. How hard is it to be here illegal, unaccounted for, off the books—that’s the question He should be asking Himself. More like: is anything at all illegal here, eins, zwei…and will anyone ever be called to account?

First thing’s first, though; He’ll be dealt with later, needs be. In order to Polish them off, they all have to be first trained, fistragged then spit: chugged over the landscape, locomotived with cause on back to their old homes, belated, the Kowalskys returned to Polandland as the Kowalksis, neighbors there as they’d been Over Here to the Wisnowskis late of North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, what’d been Illinois, now once again Wiś nowski, you know them, moved back into their houses, their perpetually disarrayed modest flats located in the quote old historic centers unquote, packed in a million tight along with the families that’d usurped them; others, and don’t ask how, we have our methods, their addresses, yours, know from whence everyone came…what’d you think the Library’d been for, goes the thought, such intensive genealogical genius—sent, shipped as damage refused back to the graze of their lamed horses, their stables, their sootdarkened woodenshacks ever further east, further paled, empty for generations it’s been; fires in the hearth, eternal flames, as if history’s been waiting all this time for return, for itself. A facility sprung up outside Camden, Joysey, a magnet for the Tristate, then they’re packed off to the Continent aboard an ancient fallingdown skyshort aeroplane struggling for lift out of Newark. And from there, no one survived. Others soon sprang up everywhere, Canada, Mexico, Americas Central and South, and every flight landed Here, lands—this whole land, its lands, their hemisphere entire, made an enormous, ostensibly infinite Whereverwitz, a Whywald, Nohausen. How, it’s too hard. How, the corrupt, corrupting, commentary, I’m sure. The best and the brightest newly Affiliated lawyers in the world, hard-tushed hardballers all, are initially consulted for free, then retained at cost, to make sure everything’s kosher, that all the ink’s pure and that each binding letter bears its proper ornamentation. Menschs of the conscienced Cloth are rolled back into bolts, stored to mold until the paperwork comes through; their mouths shut with red tape, fingers and hands, too, needle and thread, warehoused for another yet another delay, which has first been scheduled, then rewarehoused, only to be rescheduled again: They the newly Affiliated go and rekindle the whole of the old Garment District to shvitz out the uniforms, largely piecemeal patternwork except for those of the Elite, you know who you are, Singers spooling overtime into night, the darkening lapels of sky collaring closed, silver pips, litzen and ribbons, badges and trim the red of their blood. After they come for the merely clothed, those who are housed, too, they can’t be too far behind: when the hotels go overbooked, Affiliated architects, contractors unto subcontractors, lowly subsubs owing favors to it seems every zoning board president brother-inlaw to ever deface with concrete and cement the turned cheek of the planet, they’re drafted to salary, set to work on the barracks; with layout wall-to-wall, mounted multiunit entertainment systems, hometheaters sounding in surround, minibars, minifridges, the ganze amenities, for the money that is, everything they’d ever expect and at the bare minimum, at least for those traveling Class, every solace basely afforded; lonely housewives/parttime interiordecorators do up even the No Class barracks in differently attractive combinations of mocha, peachish, and a very bright teal; newly landscaped oaks line every perimeter…

Thanks, but how’s the question, how are they killed, that’s what we want to know. For the record, I mean, for the books, History 101—not that we get off on that stuff…but there’s no need to whitewash, delouse, purify, there’s been no call to talk down, we’re all adults here—all the Unaffiliated, those who didn’t voluntarily, of their own accord, up and Affiliate, too?

Oy, you didn’t hear it from me.

There are drownings of aeroplanes downed is how, no way out north or south, east or lost, Ost. There’s only up in the air, then down in the ground.

How they’re immersed in their own blood’s how—that of the youngest saved up, stored in gigantic underground tankards for use in Passovers to come.

How, the ten plagues litany how; they’d cut open bodies still living, then stuff a live frog (alternatively: locusts, or a bevy of firstborn mammalian male beasts), down into the innards, stitch up the poor schmucks again, cauterize, burn, the frog to hop around under the skin, it’d rot then, and soon the patient would rot, too, patience, right in the arms of the greatest Affiliated doctors the world has to offer, ordered, then paid, to withhold treatment. Research. Observe. Or else—experiment your hearts out, or theirs; sphacelate, necrose; do what you will, you’re the professional…

How, too, the methods of an older age have been proven, still are: gas and ovens and air and less air then lack of air, fire. Smoke billows from the chimneys of the Unleavened Bakery—and then, the ash snows, the winter of winter. And the transports, they keep coming and coming, only coming—all day everyday, except the Sabbath, which they’re all ordered to understand as Saturday, is Saturday, are conditioned to the calm of its Shabbos, upon which even the mass death would rest for a light’s worth of life, to be spent sanctified at what has to pass for their leisure: Friday nights roasting Hebrew Nationals® (sponsoring) over the open fire, wieners stuck on a stick wrapped in pareve marshmallows, too, they’re holding shiralongs, swapping ghosts, reminiscing themselves unto morning, free from muster. As the sun would set the next day they’d make lineup, to make their weekly payments: room & board, the last installments on their life insurance, extending their policies through next Shabbos with money their Guards would shylock them at an interest that’s damn near fascistic.

Don’t worry, though…it’s all to be found in the informative placard you’ll find in the seatpocket in front of you.

In the unlikely event of an emergency, says Doctor Tweiss to his seatmate, his twin, apparently, I’m responsible for this exit.

And you have a problem with that? asks the other Tweiss slapping his twin away from their armrest conceptually shared.

How am I qualified? he slaps him back, I didn’t ask to be seated here.

How are we qualified for anything?

I didn’t ask to be here.

What’s that supposed to mean—you didn’t ask to be seated?

I never asked to be born.

And we’re all out of time…says the other, nu, we’ll pick this up next week—if there’s to be a next week, for them, a tomorrow for any of us…

Inevitably, by dint of their atheism, their agnosticism, what should they call it, this their refusal to convert, stubbornness, pride, inability or unwillingness let’s say to get with the paradise paradigm, they’re on an aeroplane themselves: nearsightedness on their part not only an ocular condition, though each is partially blinded in half of an eyemask they’re sharing, their shoes sheathed in barfbags, whitegripping knuckled their armrests, those separate, and often both of them at once at the armrest in the middle so that they’re unconsciously holding hands; they’re, they won’t admit it, but they’re scared out of their goddamned minds…only hoping, hymn, waiting vaingloriously, for the powers of the Garden to spring them, thinking it’s impossible that this should happen to us, do you know who I am, who we were; thinking, too, if privately though, under the pride, each to his own, and his own personally unlistening God how they’re saying silently over and over again, God, we should’ve listened to Minnie, I told you so, Doctor Tweiss says to the twin of his mind, we should’ve listened to Minnie, I so told you, says the other Doctor Tweiss to himself, too…Minnie who’s living quite safe and happy and all’s good just now, thank you very much, no complaints: a belated Mazel Tov to you and yours is called for Minne who, I’m sorry of course I meant Miri whose God He’s quite foremost in her life as of late, hovering just a hair above her reddened wig or hat the one with the redribbon and feather, a pool-eyed, unnaturally gingy Miri the rabbi’s wife, this rebbetzin recently married into the Dushinsky, formerly Seele, dynasty of what’d previously been Central Ohio, wholly occupied visiting the sick, attending mostly to the souprelated, shoemending needs of what’d been Cincinnati’s direst poor. And so they’re not All here, but most are: those who’ve refused to Affiliate for provide your own stubborn, stiffnecked, pigheaded, sowhearted why—ingathered, but only after being given ample opportunity to afford their release for the price of a soul, what we’re asking: an angel’s sale at a devilish discount; exiled, though only after being given those famously public three chances in which to convert, wishful thinking (a personal stipulation of Shade’s that’s lately earned him the loyalty of the Abulafias; themselves safe for now—but ultimately not to be spared), then taken for a tour of othering’s origins, and the origin, too, of their own deaths, of death itself, the Continent’s chosen export…in order that they should know what opportunity they’ve forsaken, what history they’ve foolhardily refused, shirked, shunned, in favor of fidelity to what—explain it to me.

This is their arrival. Again. They’ve thrown handfuls inside their suitcases—stuffed them…they’ve chalked their suitcases, allowances of one per person unless you’re prepared to, and can, pay for your excess—this limit though not inclusive of any garmentbags, carryons, and toiletrycases, one per person as well; they’ve stuffed themselves, also, with itineraries and with reservations numbers: too many numbers this trip to remember, none of which, though, is to be their date of return. Then, groggy from the flight, lagged and on empty, they’re linedup two-by-two, with some of them to the left, others to the right, to be stripped of their names upon their identification with those of the passenger manifests, the arrivals platform yelled through with a language of mispronunciations, corrections to, corrections to corrections, again—then, to be given a stripping number, yet another, who can remember, who can’t, and they wait.

Funny, you don’t look Unaffiliated…or so these darkuniformed, imperious Officials joke at their foldingtables, just past the baggageclaim, the signage for. A Mister & Misses Pigger pass through, manage a parting wave behind them at what’s their names, from Sunnyvale, Sunnydale, Sonny I forget, husband #4675-89, wife #4675-90, whom the Piggers had talked to the entire flight across two seats and an aisle. At a check in desk halfway around the world, the globe this destination shares, too, at a desk resembling in all of its details the receptiondesk here, both of them made of the same materials, in the same nowhere and on the same day (they’re from the Garden, bought before the fire as a government favor, repurposed to the present), the attendants had been supplied with bags of coal, amply: each passenger of a given sample Group, and each plane a Group, had had a lump stuffed up into him, into her; shifting on their seats, in transit, they’ll squeeze these lumps into service, ensuring mostly unoccupied bathrooms this flight, and centuries of constipation; that is, if only they’ll survive, which is unlikely, and then…diamonds—which are yours to keep, an attendant reminds them over a loudspeaker, until.

They follow the white lines for disembarkation…beyond the desks, receiving a welcomebasket, also, complimentary, gifted with oodles of ointments to apply to their new tattoos (add them up, subtract, make a mountain, sustain); they receive scraps of yellow circles and crosses and circles within crosses within circles, which are still symbols though they might symbolize nothing save the quality of having once meant, which they’re to attach to their new clothing with the needle and thread they’re provided, and display prominently at all times, everafter; they receive spoons, too, then they receive knots of rope in unpredictable lengths with which to hold up the new pants of their uniforms, predominantly comfortable, casual separates; they’re burdened, overburdened, with gifts (one per person, per family, it depends, what’s my mood), and everything’s dutyfree, save their own duty, which is to follow, then die. They-that-went-to-the-right are to report immediately to the baggageclaim; they-that-went-to-the-left, mostly the ill, the already neardeath, in wheelchairs, on crutches, stretchers, and hooked up to tubes and to tanks, are to remain where they are, as if they could do anything else, as if they would, being alone and barely able to remain at all, anywhere, to be met by a representative, shortly, we promise: the pairs are being split by a cast of Selektors, only the finest blue eyes for talent Holywood ever had.

Those who’ve arrived single are forgiven, always are.

Then, there’s Customs to worry about—upon a return that’ll never be, they’ll have everything to declare.

There Is No Monorail Service Today, an announcement, announcing itself, We Regret Any Inconvenience. Thanks, appreciated, sure you do. Menschs with anxious lowerlips and insomniac, daywide eyes stand at Arrivals holding placards with numbers on them, laboriously inked: #’s 4677-18/19, a wave/smile, a smattering of currencies and courtesies, the couple formerly known as the Hicks find their driver. These signs lead the responsorial of welcome: Hello, how was your flight, let me help you with that; the natives are almost excessively kind. The Sandersons meet their mensch: he has the face of a bird, once a bomb landed on his turnedaround cheek, don’t ask, you’re forgiven, he’s forgotten—and are soon en route, motorcaded. Now, drivers are giving them all their first of two options, either I can point out points of interest along the way, explaining to you notable history and geography, what else, architecture, economics, the fine arts, geology, local plant and animal life, you name it, no problem, or I can keep my two hands on the wheel and quiet, your choice. First the tour of this world then, arrival in the next. All their expenses have been paid, by them. They fixed the place up real nice, didn’t they?

Impressive.

Under its previous management, this land had been neglected, had fallen into disrepair, as it’s said. Then, and only after extensive foreign reinvestment, restoration, and the involvedly grantgranted international like…it’s been reopened, and expanded, only now as Polandland (an Americanization of Polyn, it’s said, a word easterly derived from the holy tongue rededicated to meaning: Po, meaning Here, and Lyn, meaning Stay a while, won’t you?), having annexed everything from ocean to ocean, the Atlantic to its other, having displaced its inhabitants at the pleasure of invasion, its new owners presently engaged in turning it into one of the top tourist spots in the world, second only to what Palestein had been, had tried to be, if only for a sun’s slower season—enjoyable, though forcedupon; an excellent final destination; as far as terminus goes, you could do worse for a grave…yesterday’s arrivals monorailed through the outskirts of Polandland, their faces held up against the speed of the glass with the ice and the misting, condensed webs and fiery cracking—though it’s been said that Polandland itself is only an outskirt of Polandland; its outskirts mark the arrowed Meeting Point of all Eternal Returns, past warehouses of factories, processing plants, industrial temples in which it’s said imperfection’s maintained: here the Wechselstube made of weather, Imbiss, Auskunftsplatz, everything rung around its Appell, there plaques screwed to the sky, Zimmer frei, advertising all species of dead, deadening, entertainment…

At one hotel or another, which are really fashionable barracks, doneup Nouveau Beaux, neoArt Deco, in the lobby—its floor underneath the mound of skirts, shoes, and stockings, inlaid with a cruciform mosaic of gold trimmed lavishly in silver and bulletholes—the wives strip for delousing; then, they’re shorn; some opt for a pedicure, others for only a gruff buff of their calluses; as bodied, they’re blushing; there’s a great washing of armpit and feet. Husbands, having been separated into yet another line, are mustered in an adjoining ballroom, its walls hung with tarps over heterodox tapestries and arras. Today’s the first the Sandersons have ever beheld each other naked, it’s more silly than sorry; they avert their eyes; paunches hang over endowments, a money pouch, their testicles, then contracting, broke; water rushes onto them, interrupting the triple winds, triple strings, much brass, a musical revival of the Romantically destructive: their happy shrieks are piped into the Square; the water’s halfway to ice, it opens up everything: like the air amid the airs, this water is both separate and one, both water liquid and water solid, of the ocean and not of the ocean, of the above and of the below. Then, once the ballroom and lobby have been depopulated, they’re deloused further, cleansed more completely, and with better service: they’re remanded to individual luxury stalls, marble, with floors heated, mirrors un-fogging; their pants, shirts, skirts, and panties, underwear, purses, wallets and watches, namedesigner, are left unattended on hooks, socks stuffed into the throats of their shoes gaggingly tied together then piled to one side for the rack expected in a matter of professional expediency: the bellhop’s on it; don’t bother, he’ll pick their pockets for tips. Management Assumes No Responsibility For The Safety Of Personal Effects.

There is an Ocean around Land, there are lands around a Land, there’s land around a village, there’re villages around land, there’s land around towns, there’re towns around villages, there’re villages around hills, there’re hills around a wall: the walls are walls…there are walls inside walls inside, in sediment layers, strata, concreting calcite, limestone hauled up from out the earth then stood on end around the settle. They-who-went-to-the-right, we need a name for them, the Rechts, let’s say, those righteous Righters of way…they’re at the westernwall, the outermost wall of walls, the westernmost limitation of the wall’s because circular infinite limit.

What’s the wall protecting, a Mister Dapper asks; these people, you know these Rechters…they’re always asking questions, to impress the others he asks the Guide in a loud sleepless voice—the inside from the out, he asks, or is it the outside from the in?

The Guide snorts, leads on.

A mensch reels in the ladders from the wall. Impregnable.

This is ritual. Everything is.

There’s an Ocean around Land, there’re lands around a Land, there’s land around a village, there’re villages around land, there’s land around towns, there’re towns around villages, there’re villages around hills, there’re hills around a wall, there’re walls around a city…this is cosmology, davka from dechn: the ether to the Leviathan, to the water to the rock to the angel to the earth; this is the ringing of the rings, the inlaying of the spheres, the way a city circles out like the trunk of a tree, annularly, the annual dendrochronologic decored to decode—and then inside, toward the Square, toward the middle of the Square, the meridian Mittel, a descent down its steps of an immaculate blackness, flanked by two columns recounting two histories both correct though conflicting…there they are, through the winding streets winding around then amid the limitless beauty of ruin, each street perfect in its distress, distressing, a creation impossible for a limited God—down the old Royal Way, the ancient coronation route from the Church in the Square up to the Castle above and there, upon the mountain, the hill, the burialmound, the pagan cinders still smolder, the ancient beheading route from Castle back down to Square one with its Church, at which we crown a new king, again, the son of the dead with whom all of this is now enacted again, reenacted, princely as proper; and we all say, There they are, through the narrowing alleys, the fallen and the narrowed, felled to sewers, drainage ditch, guttering runnel, cleaned now made sparkling bright and doneup in periwinkle, sunshine yellow #3, it might be…over the old masonry, the inlaid memory, cobbled crosses ringing the plinths, past the statues under tarps, too, and their horses in bronze and in coppery marble, through the smaller antecedent squares, kleiner rings, the squared circles squared, these triangulations of the Baroque condemned to fresh life and then, circled, past the tortuous birdcage, rococo’s ornate, in which the king would’ve kept those who’d blaspheme his queen or the princess the same, there past the souvenirshops and the stands, the huddled, huddling, stores, with their windows wellstocked, an inclusive assortment of creditcard decals prominently displayed—there they are, toward the Square, again and again all roads lead to the Square, roamcircling it, triangulating it with wander, inescapable once there and then…into the Square, across its meridian where, it’s been said, a great gnomon once stood, whether a flagpole, a cross, or a crucifix, who remembers, who lives, casting the entire spanse as a dial of the sun hidden by cloud, opposite the low strixed Six that’s the plaguecolumn it’s called, erected again to pierce the night air at halftime, its perimeter plexiglassed, an enclosure sponsored by whatever company or corporation, its pediment replete with explanatory plaques in seven languages, each translation preceded by the flag representing the country in which that language once reigned, long ago.

And we all say, There they are…alternately, hineni; to the center of the Square, to the infinite Square without center and there circling the square within, there they are—facing now the Astronomical Clock, which is the face of the Town Hall, bureaucratically blank, unremitting; Church spires and steeple shadow them, shade between the legs, as third arms—the infinite hands of infinite clocks clocking what time they have left, the too many faces, with too many names…the entire Square rendered a clock of clocks, a confusion—all of them timing each other; many standing and sitting and lounging a lean atop and against the statuary at the base of the Clock, until a municipal livestock inspector, maybe, a hiredhand, like everyone else here who has words and his orders, comes around and yells at them to move on in a tongue forever unknown.

There they are, by the Clock cuckooing every hour on the hour—the Church’s bells on a timer, too, to ring mechanically, every fifteen minutes, the quarters, four times, not much time, not much life.

Nothing left.

The Church itself a bell rung by the clapper of its cross.

There they are. Just one crack, all it takes, one crack more, more like the merest chip in a sett or a cobble, broken—the first imperfection not party to the Land’s ruin perfected, perfecting—and it all falls apart. Goes to pieces. Exposed.

In anticipation of their impending Tour, they adjust their glasses, which have been mandated, and straighten their uniforms, tuck their shirts into khaki slacks, skirts, zip up fleecejackets, and down; walkingshoes comfortable, check, cinch the belt, camera apparatus, no film, not allowed.

What else? The rules…

They await.

They’ve been flown in from cities—from the aeroports of Atlanta, Boston, Chicago, Dallas/Forth Worth, Denver, Detroit, Miami, New York, Philadelphia, Washington D.C., with flights to those points of international departure from the hubs of Minneapolis/St. Paul, New Orleans, Seattle, St. Louis, Honolulu, and Juneau, having driven or been driven to any of these points of origin from way out in Siburbia, from Longport, Margate, and Ventnor down the Shore, Joysey, from the City by way of those Rockaways Near and Far, these Five Towns, purely White Plains, deepest Scarsdale, easternmost Westchester, the Sleepiest Hollows along the Hudson due north…the liquidation of Central & Mountain, the purge of the West: a utility vehicle parked in a relative’s driveway in Los Siegeles so that they’ll only lose one is the thought…left there until a return that’ll never depart—a lonely unmarried nulliparous aunt driving them out to the facility in her wagon so that they don’t have to take theirs then leave it for whom, a taxi sold for scrap, a limousine junked, masstransit transfers to terminal feet…an extermination without resistance, except with regard to its price; with stopoffs where and for, urination at the Manfred “Manno” Marx Memorial Service Plaza located twenty or so miles outside the limits of Angels, horsefeed and watering at a condemned gas station in Danbury, Connecticut, caffeine, the succor of a last phonecall, a goodbye cry amid the glassed bosom of nowhere, now former, to be filed under “as, previously known,” yesterday’s, to be repossessed by the Affiliated; arrived tomorrow and whichever way at whatever aeroport then waited, soon to miss, everything, routine, ritual, the illusion of the interminable, the long for forever…they wait almost in a suspension, in a Messiah’s slow time, late and latening, in the lagging pace of quicktime, never enough—O never forget, never waste a forgetting: always a people in transit, in motion, on the move, with yesterday’s or tomorrow’s newspapers already to pass the time passing, to waste the time wasting, comics with their bubbles popped empty, glossed magazines, tabloids and rags, other miscellaneous leisure reading material of a let’s be honest fairly unimpressive intellectual level; then, they’re shuttled everywhere, shunted, to places only imagined, voicedover in advertisements, announcements, orders, the Law, dispersed beholden to all conveniences of transit to gates, at which they waited, and wait, patiently laughing at their passport photos, passing them around passing, impatient, waiting, still laughing, waiting to wait—then they left.

An Affiliated bled on fences everywhere, bleeds…a village becomes a town becomes a city, has a Square around a Church around a mensch there, an Affiliated—the others always lived downhill, though, where the sewage flowed to, flows, and everywhere is like that with huge fields between everywheres: a town bombed does not rebuild its Square—all roads there lead to all roads there, road, and not to expectation, a holy vacancy, holying, an empty nakedness, the void, denuded; the Church like an old giant roach, perched atop the head of an ancient snake…maybe the river that halves the town, swallows other snakes, the snakes swallow rats, perhaps, poison becomes poisoned, the snakes swallow plaguecolumns whole, slither themselves into the streets around houses, homes their doorposts once marked now spackled over in reddened black, scales.

It’s easier than ever to enter this city, this station, this stopover; everyone off—and they all have their maps still handydandy with Selected Retail Outlets writ large. There are separate marked gates, each reserved for each and every kind of ingress or egress, rest assured; abandon all hope, but not humor: there’s a Low Gate, for the penitent; here, the entrant or extant must stoop to enter and exit, if exit’s ever allowed…a process of humility, this purely indifferent deference, a making of modest if not an abject denigration; then, there’s a High Gate that’s the source of much controversy; two opposing interpretations obtain: the High Gate is for a pompous entrance, many hold, with hubris, intended for the use of the visiting clergy and for the accommodation of guest Heads of State; alternately, a few say, the High Gate is for the exclusive use of the awed, the obeisant and penitent, and here amid this modesty many have found an unseemly double of the Low Gate, though various mapmachers have agreed that the humility of the High Gate is a stranger, possibly holier, humility than that of the Low: this High Gate is so high; okay, everyone, How high is it…? disappearing into a cloudbank, that an entrant appears almost insignificant in comparison, is made to feel so, is made so. There’s a Wide Gate for a willful entrance, that’s for the young, and the healthy. There’s a Narrow Gate, which is for the intestate dead, who’ll never leave either: here, the entrant must squeeze past the others, with all the others at once (how it’s really no narrower than the Wide, only that more than one person may pass through at any one time), their arms held in, head to chest, must bow through the opening, soulthin, stepping down upon heads, the olden pave of each other’s sick skin.

And then there’s the Tourist Gate, which is incredibly low and high, incredibly narrow and incredibly wide all at once, whatever you want, we aim to please. Next to it, a bocher’s selling postcards imprinted with the likenesses of their parents’ parents’ parents unknown; there’s an older woman in a formless shift, skinned over tightly with one of her own products, she’s hocking tshirts, emblazoned with the slogans and logos of earlier regimes, acronyms who even remembers their alphabets, what’s that say, what’s that mean; there’s a crockery dealer, the tshirt saleswoman’s small, fat husband whose face has a hundred noses, all but one of them buboes: as for him, he’s selling the porcelain of their kin generations dead, commemorative plates, spoons from longemptied, raided, Kitschen cabinets; you better believe their stalls have all the relevant permits, notarized twice. A gaggle of Guides loiter there on the other side of the Tourist Gate, holding umbrellas though the weather’s not yet been scheduled. Sh, the storm’s not until Thursday. What’s your Friday look like. One of them waves to her Group, walks over to them, meet & greet. All the Guides are required to speak at least three languages and have at least three names, or it’s that they all share the same in three languages. Then there’s the language they talk amongst themselves, that and the language of money. Don’t make the mistake of pitying them—they’re all on enormous retainers.

An itinerary schedules the unveiling of monuments to the past—a past none of these entrants ever lived.

Doesn’t matter.

This Tour Group comprises old friends by now, from the aeroport, acquaintances from the plane, and even before: old homes; who sold who a house, a condo, a car whether used or previously owned, who knew who from this Lodge, that fraternity with the handshake to prove, who fixed what in whose houses, who worked in whose office with whom, who was a volunteer for what cause, and then those two what’re their names we met at which benefit for what do you call it…here, though, they only nod, grumble, shuffled exhausted, smalltalked to silence, out of their territory, out of their depth. Here, at the Tourist Gate, they stop, at the line marked a shock of white across the stones; they nod again, shuffle with their papers some more.

An inscription above the Gate’s been inscribed twelve times over again the last who can tell how many centuries, roughly the same words though each time in a different language, until the words took on new spellings, newer meanings, newer words, until even the intent, the message, was inevitably altered.

To what.

One guard’s missing an eye and can invent a spiel on order as explanation, for an appropriate fee, which the two of you can later discuss, if there’s time. On his shoulder sits a songbird: a Kavka it’s called, which is a stealing, gossiping bird, commonly known as a jackdaw, Corvus monedula, a bastard crow, a mutant raven of sorts, popularly referred to as a Halka, or Galka—the winged symbol of the world that would inherit its name, Galicia, a kingdom lost to history’s flight. Silesia’s silenced itself. Ruthenia rerouted. To here. In the socket that once held the guard’s eye, is the egg. In the egg, is the songbird for the next Group. And in the next Group’s songbird, the egg. Who’s singing now. Mingle though, if you can, as they’ve been instructed: do whatever’s necessary, is the idea, but try to seem amiable for the Officials, likable but not too, anything goes, but don’t attract undue attention, unwanted scrutiny, you’ll just hold everyone up; avoid Shibboleths of any kind, memory, remember, smile and be amenable, whatever you say. They line toward the barrier, the wicket just beyond the line. Waiting here, they try to memorize the tattered, torn scripts the Guide’s just handed around, not enough copies for everyone, you’ll have to share, doubleup; surreptitiously, at least they think, they whisper the lines to themselves, those prefaced by ENTRANT—roll the words around on their tongues, a muddy pebble, a common sweet (See—Where To Eat). Their Guide’s explaining everything quickly, muddled what with the passing and handing and folding, the grasping and the practice of whisper: the person desirous of entry would tell the setup, and the Guard would get the punchline; it’s all in the timing. Often, though, and here’s the trick, the tongue that trips many up (trepverter of the guardrail), the Guard would come out with the punchline first, and then the entrant—prospective—would have to be quick with the setup. If anyone fails, nu, it’s okay, acceptable, there aren’t any consequences worse than what’s to come, there can’t be, and, anyway, they’ve all don’t ask how managed to smuggle in money with them, mere sums, a few valuables, too, gifts negligible when compared with what they once could afford but still, trades in kind, plenty, enough: with each entrant failed, the Guard would nod, hymn, then walk back to his house, little more than a hut, on his way pocketing the quote unquote admission fee, to which any gift is to be considered supplementary, knuckling a rash at his scruff. The entrant then must wait as the ritual proceeds.

Within an hour or so, the Guard returns, or a day, says some little phrase to the effect that the entrant’s papers aren’t in order, which is nonsense, of course, but no one’s to panic, this is just part of the ceremony, carefully scripted if to be played lingually loose, each time different. The entrant then protests, politely, yet firmly; the Guard then intimates through shrugs, nods, shakes, wrung hands, finger fiddling accompanied by guttural vocables that something might be done, after all, you’re a friend, about this little mess only if what, a grunt guarded by swallows, if only the appropriate measures and yadda. At this, the entrant is to raise an eyebrow, one eyebrow and only one eyebrow, make sure it’s the right one, though, a left, and that you don’t raise it too eagerly, not too earnestly (they’re being prepped as much to inform them as to ready them scared). The Guard then appears to lose interest, suggesting to the entrant an alternate gate, a referral, only a suggestion that the entrant must, of course, though with less frustration than friendly adamancy, refuse. Then the Guard’s partner, and no one knows why, the guard of the guard, maybe, he’s to suddenly give a loud laugh from inside the guardhouse (don’t ask, I didn’t write the script—it’d been found in two parts atop a mountain slugged Lost)—leaves the hut to approach the entrant and then demand from him or her either a smoke or a light, a sip or a swig…insisting on posing for a picture with the entrant to be taken by his partner, the first Guard, him holding their camera to his eyeless egged socket, snapping them with their arms around each other while the second Guard picks at the entrant’s pockets. Once accomplished, the second Guard, who later will become the first Guard, the negotiator for the next Group, returns to the hut, and the first Guard, who becomes the untelevised good cop as second guard for the next Group, say, pretends to inspect the camera for security purposes, in the process allowing his songbird to fly away with it, its strap in the bird’s beak, toward the sun. Momentarily forgetting his lines, where he was, in the script, in this role, he then again suggests that the entrant might want to try another gate, there’s another gate only right around the corner, a perfectly good gate, just as accommodating, really; as the entrant, who’s by now—or so he or she always thinks, flattering—internalized what they’re supposed to say, how and where and when, getting the feel for this, the idea, yet again insists that no, that yes this is the right gate, the Tourist Gate, right. I’m sure of it. Has to be. Anyway, their Guard says, they’re not allowed in through any of the other gates. Just as well. It’s telling to observe, too, though none do, that throughout their entire encounter no one exits through this Tourist Gate, that no one passes through in the direction opposite their intention. And so it’s only now that the entrant, exhausted, and exhausted, too, of his or her options, searches around in their pockets for their offering only to find nothing’s there, nothing to proffer, not money nor any valuables smuggled, without item; he or she feigns denial then, anger, grief, and blah blah these reasoned excuses, it’s in receivership, escrow, I’ve been robbed, there’s a thief in our midst, as the Guard laughs to his guard, winks a lid over his socket, shakes his head, avoids the hopefully imploring eyes of the entrant by shutting his own one functioning. In time, a week, a moon, the songbird returns to his shoulder, without camera, twittering caw. And an exchange like this—it can last for hours, and often does, an entire day, days…in truth, who can tell as all the clocks are within, and are on their own time; this is how the authorities of Polandland control incoming flow (amid everything else).

Finally, bribeless, moneyless, and only after it’s been endless haggling, accusation, recriminations, a strange sort of compromise is reached, inevitably, but don’t tell them that, don’t let on: invariably, the Guard settles upon an appropriate denigration, an adequate indignity, and so requests as prerequisite to any admission the presentation of a story, a fiction, essentially an additional falsehood, the supplement lie; for example, he might do anything…maybe asking each entrant and always individually to tell him why he or she wants to enter Polandland, for what purpose and how badly, perhaps, to which all replies are equally valid, if they so satisfy the Guard, the only arbiter here, the only gatekeeper around—all replies, that is, except one that betrays circumstances, the true nature of their presence (with forms long filled out, everything signed away, waivered): one that divulges their forced entrance, reveals their future unfutured in its impatience, impertinence, how put out they are. He needs to hear from each of these entrants all about, up to you, it’s your call: their invalid/dying relatives, their family reunions, business engagements, Polandland’s cultural wonders, the absolute necessity of visiting this religious shrine or that historical site; and expecting, too, to hear in reply to his demand however absurd an accounting of lifelong goals and kinderhood dreams, the more creative the better, the more outlandish the more convincing, the crazed and impassioned among them the most effectively entertaining, it’s said; he hopes to hear names dropped, held on to tightly, then let go of, dates and times invoked, of longstanding invitations, of unalterable appointments with specialist doctors or lawyers, engineers, industrial executives and municipal agencies the more obscurely recounted the more valued, the more nonexistent, whether delusionary or merely imaginary, the evermore incredibly received…to hear, too, their whining and crying, to see with his own good eye an ample measure of their begging and mouthgrovel, knee-beseeching, and tears; and if at any time in this entreaty the entrant might fail, falls from his or her identity within the role into an acknowledgement of the lie that’s required, at depth, then entrance is postponed, delayed until further notice, until a more convincing offering can be developed, and delivered, and it must: if you refuse, though, don’t worry, as one’s eventually forced upon you, delivered for you by proxy, in your stead, however embarrassing it is or will be, how shameful, and base. And only when appeased—or delighted, applauding, and laughing, or merely wryly nodding acceptance—will the Guard stamp for you the appropriate document, which is the stub of the admission ticket previously ripped in exchange for the fee originally pocketed upon your Departure, and then his guard, the Guard’s guard, raises for you the barrier of birchwood, the peeled white of the wicket. Only now is the entrant allowed inside, finally, permitted to pass through the Tourist Gate only to wait on the opposite of its portal for the rest of his or her Group. And for hours. For days. Though the ritual’s only begun.

Some find it perplexing, or funny, even, gatesgallowshumorous, but others understand its seriousness, its gravity, and it’s them that do best; understanding that it’s all party to the experience, packagedealed; that what’s required is less an appreciation of the end than of the means by which the end must come to be suffered: what’s important isn’t the moral, which is bankrupt despite, but the spiel by which the moral must be indulged. For the sake of the sake, say. Get in line; stay for the line, too. Throughout, without doubt, and yet with doubt, as well, the entrant must suppress an urge to seek, to turn, over a shoulder, to receive or solicit advice of any kind or kindness, and must also refrain, once passed and waiting again, from offering any advice to those who would follow, to provide them with any encouragement or instruction from what’s only the safety perceived of their waiting area, their line’s muster, its haven hopedfor, designated behind a cordon of columns. As they wait for the rest of the Group, any pride in their passing slowly diminishes, gives way person to person, with each other subsequent pass; a disappointment: by the time the remainder arrive, pass through and wait for their Guide to pass as the guiding umbrella’s inspected for holes, their supplicant stamps are already gone—it’s disappearing ink.

Unprompted, then, they follow the script, though entrance is becoming easier and easier, easier than ever these days, especially once you’re inside…in the earliest days of the first transport, the initial experiments, how Polandland had tried to micromanage, age and height and health requirements strictly enforced; for certain attractions, that is, but not anymore—what’s the use? Lately, all are welcome to everywhere, whether they’re ready or not, preparation or no, they’re forced to a welcome—and now, it’s become not program but pilgrimage, is how it’s put, now that they’re not scheduled but punctually leisured to death, that’s how we like to think of it, anyway; the Gates swung open, rustily, perfectly, perfect in their rust and swing, and everything’s available, save exit, of course. They’ve paid their entrance in eyeteeth, fees in wives and daughters, in family, in fingers and toes; reduced admission for students, and seniors, too, with presentation of proper ID. Many have been wheeled through the eminently accessible Handicapped Gate, steeply ramped. Most are happy to walk. To pay extras, miscellaneous surcharges, the price of exorbitant whim. To sign those waivers, initial here here and here the disclaimers—there’s my X, cross me off, black me out. They replace their wallets under their layers, larval, their varval strata, these personal rings…stuff their documents, too many documents, too much paper, into their shoes for warmth, too many seals, too many approvals. They’re lined through the turnstiles just past the Gate, a distracting concession to the modern; despite the ceremony, an accounting must strictly be made. A record, is meant. A son, too short, underneath the metal arm and so, unregistered; despite, even he won’t survive. Clock strikes Bell, the nest of a cock whose comb is a bejeweled caparison. Crowing. It’s never closingtime. Until. There’s so little of it, time, and O their God there’s so much to do!

In the Cemetery

Here is the Cemetery…a field circumscribed by walls, which are a fence, shot through with gates of its own. The field’s a sharp rise, a precipitous mound, almost a grave itself, unmarked and yet mounting against that anonymity, a natural monument to its own forgottenness, a mess of enclosed earth overgrown not made of layers poured upon layers, which would be like the turned and turning pages of a book, or like consecutive, linear, narrative time, but more like a book whose pages are inseparable from one another, its covers, more like a time that doesn’t proceed forward or back but that stands still subsuming every moment, past, present, and future. Atop this hunch, within it, of and below it, it itself, are its tombstones, the topmost of them lately pulled up straight to stand, reset, like starved teeth, like cuticle parchment, the exposed bones of eggs…becoming pushed in, out, clustered, crowded, dirt-dense, rockthick, stonetight, as if the most impermeable efflorescences of the mound itself, forget weather; of the same material, only its most exterior, and so necessarily hardest, manifestation, that with the most edges, the sharpest against the shaped, shaping wind. Overgrown with grass, weathered to pale, this small parcel of fenced land, this earthen scar allotted for burial—a hump’s wound wanting for raum, for its healing. There will be no further exhumation; it’s not allowed. For them, it’s only the transience of this one walk through, a quick cursory circuit, twisting left, winding right, their eyes trying to take everything in—to mouth to themselves, each other, these names, which are halfheard, which are mispronounced, between their tongue and these teeth: to see the, which is the sound the tongue makes clucked between the teeth; to inscribe them upon their pupils, too, to make gravestones, tombstones, headstones out of their very own heads: stonestones, markers made of wood and of rock, of all different ages and eras leaning on each other, falling for one another, and over, huddled to keep warm in the freeze.

This is one of the very few cemeteries to be found inside walled cities, or so the Guide says.

Most are outside, says the Guide, most were forced outside, had been granted outside: begrudged to them nearby sites of execution, adjacent to carrion pits.

Everyone with me?

Here’s where you wash your hands clean, called the lavabo; don’t worry, we’ll be passing another.

Here’s where you purify, where you ritually guard the body, the corpse, keep watch over and yadda.

Here’s the shed for the funeral coach, the caravanserai’s the term, if you will.

Here the bier, here the common coffin for transport, because…

There, the loom of the shrouds; they’re woven from eyelash, you know…the Guide points with her umbrella, she’s poking.

Here the Sexton’s quarters, the Shammes’, the Cemetery Caretaker’s there. Across the street, the Guide umbrellas—the mason and wheelwright over there then the smithy, turn around, marked on the maps they hold in their hands with their respective guild seals, interpret…here, she says, it’s another lavabo, and so someone finally stops, riffles through his clothing for a camera not yet confiscated (how even the few survivals have been carefully planned for effect), takes a photograph of this relic in silver tarnished, smoky, handled in ivory, austerely no frills, half sunken in ivy, grass, and miscellaneous weed. Suddenly, that blackishbird swoops down out of the sky to fly away with the camera that anyway wasn’t loaded, that didn’t have any film, which’d been confiscated back at the aeroport.

There’s a nest of lenses, somewhere, it’s said.

Here, the Guide says again, the gate for the Priests, opposite the Gate where we’ve entered.

In the beginning, there were slab tombstones, stele, then the tombs with lids like sarcophagieyes, Egypt, if you remember it, then the desert, which’d been tented in rock like a mountain; then a period of double tombstones over a single plot, like another pair of peeled stones keeping watch: husband and wife sharing one earth. Menschs laid to rest under their names, the symbols of their family, their labor, occupations, as they once lived under the signs of their houses: the Cohens, the priests, they were buried in their own section under the relief of their hands, splayed and winged, then a fish, for the Levites, a jug, a dish, a crown and a book, a tailor’s scissors, a doctor’s scalpel, a lawyer’s scales, lions and deer; more birds swooping down to perch atop tombs, crows turned to rock, ravenrock. Dark. Pinch me, the icemensch’s pincette. They approach the inscriptions, wearied, weathereffaced, and they kneel, go to make rubbings with provided materials. One year later, their Guide says, not that they’d live—it’s the consecration of the burial, the unveiling, that’s when the tombstone’s set, placed: at least, that’s the tradition, they’re told, they believe. There, the rabbi’s section of the Cemetery. Here, husbands and wives had been buried separately…over yonder the sections reserved for the suicides, for the murderers further, and then that reserved for the bastards, no more illegitimate than anyone else nowadays. They lay little stones upon all the graves except these, as their Guide suggests, then instructs against their compliance, then for it, resistance, then none, stones, pebbles, gravel obtained from vessels in locations wellmarked, well in advance of their arrival, thousands of years; stones atop stones, they’re burying rock, consecrating memory itself, to itself.

Embrace what you’ve forsaken, the Guide guides, and they’re guided: this is just fascinating…

A trainful of them disembarks outside the Cemetery, about onehundred strong if weakened families with little ones mostly, only a few unattached, singlestoured, apprehensively lonely, unsure whom to beg for their comfort. Among them is Kaye, pale, darkhaired slickly struck down, tall, thin, and alert, impatient to visit the grave here of a fellow insurance mensch, a hero of his from the days of his very first policy. A brother worker in the service of adjustment, assessing liability, a companion in the divine office of limiting risk. Weather’s coming blown so regularly harsh it feels almost manufactured, machined, whips across his face, he squints, slowly makes his way across the street from the trainstop, toward the Gate. A pilgrimage. All those days of scrimping and saving were worth it, he thinks, have to be, he’s convincing, and now that I’m here, I’d better enjoy while it lasts. He heads up his laggard trainload in their march, keeps pace with their Guide who—with an order to them to wait at the gate for their Guide to the cemetery, because here, everything’s specialized—leaves them with a flourish of her umbrella to attend to yet another Group now doing the shuls, which are the synagogues, the houses in which these people once prayed. Hoping silently that nothing should disturb his Grave audience, Kaye’s intending to appeal for an exception, maybe a divine intervention, perhaps his merit for my predicament—even a few sales tips while we’re at it, useful if he would survive, if he could, advice regarding indemnity as if that were a theological issue, a coupla policy pointers. In his pocket, a scrap of paper folded thrice, company letterhead lined with strict, anxious handwriting that resembles the remains of insects swatted, squashed: a message for the mensch in the Grave, it’s a last will & testament, too, in addition to not a few other things; once inside, if inside, Kaye might use it for a yarmulke, a backup, just in case—he’s not in insurance for nothing.

Through the fence streaming its wall from both sides of the gate, through the inkdark smears and smudges of bars, everything muddled falls into focus: a lavabo to the left, a lavabo’s for the washing of hands…then, a vessel filled with tiny rocks ground down to pebbles positioned to the right, those are for placing atop the stones, the stele, the tombs; he’s prepared. Kaye tries the handle to the door set into the gate, tries again, grimaces wrinkles to an appearance older than he’ll ever live, to grow into his face to hide whether a blush or a blanch, turns to his trainload to ask for assistance, meekly, open of palm. Out of nowhere, there’s a mensch. His is the uniform of two wars ago or so that were never reported (who ever knew, the question every Group asks itself), a medal of uncertain insignia weighs as heavily as a head itself, decapitated, scalped to hang its shine from a scrap of ribbon a filmreel strangling a neck that’s scrawny, and mutual; that old sharp beak peeking from a bifurcate beard, one for you, one for him; onelegged, too, he feels deserving, and so he’s demanding an admission fee, supplementary, wordless, with his hands out, a sum additional to that of their entrance, which’d supposedly been allinclusive, extracted from each of them previously. Kaye shows the mensch his armband, reaches an arm through the bars, then, retracting to roll up the other sleeve, his tattoo, glossy with ointment lately applied, and then from his pockets, his documents disappeared of ink, everything he can think of, anything even remotely indicative of officialdom, of payment in full, but the mensch won’t understand, he couldn’t…he scratches his head, hops around in irrritation on the spring of his stump.

Anyway, says Kaye, cemeteries don’t have entrance fees…it only costs when you want to get in and stay in forever, that and a stone with your name on it spelled right, with the date—then a woman, thicklipped, frizzled, adds: they shouldn’t anyway, it’s not right, it’s a sin; we’re going to have to report you to Management. I’m sorry to ask, what’s your badge number, your name?

The mensch nods to second his silence, again shows his hands: tremulant, knurly; he grips the bars with one, keeps cupped the palm of the other as if to save in it weather with which to wash the dirt from his face; the trainload searches its pockets, a sprinkle of lint, as the mensch brings that hand back to pick at his teeth, with the teeth of a huge iron key, kept roped around his gluttonous waist.

But we came all this way just for this, Kaye protests.

No, says the mensch in their language, perfectly, without accent—you didn’t come, you were brought.

I’ll have you know, Kaye’s not listening to him, only to himself and that woman behind, whoever she was, how he’d like to know, that this armband entitles me to entrance anywhere within the borders of Polandland, then he nods admiringly to her, though it’s him who’s blushing. I’m prepared to talk to the Manager personally, he’s threatening, he’s not, if we’re unable to reach a solution.

The mensch lays a hand on Kaye’s shoulder, the shaky arm slung between the bars, with the other pokes at his own stomach with the tip of the key. Have a nosh, he says, a little to eat: you all look so hungry, so thin. Then, come back in an hour.

An hour, the woman asks, disbelief in the twitch of her nose that’s either repellent or enough to snare you for life—do we have that much time?

There are many fine restaurants in the area. Might I recommend one? It’s regional specialties you’re in the mood for, am I right?

Kaye graves his hands into his pockets, kicks a heel into the mud, turns from the gate only after his trainload’s dispersed: only after many have lifted themselves up on their tiptoes to peer over the low falling fence, a few attempting to decipher the inscriptions in an alphabet foreign, in a few alphabets equally foreign, abbreviated then acronymed to unintelligibility, dazzled into diacritics forgotten: acutes, graves, breves, carons, hooks and horns, dots and diaereses…it’s not that they’ll never understand, rather it’s that these invocations will always only make sense to the dead: a readership as obsolete as the language in which they’re left reading themselves—they’ll be literate in no time, give them a night. And yet, a flurry of bicker, of entitled complaint: some whine in hot whispers, others moan, then quietly enough dissipate into silence so as not to offend the sensibilities of Management (who or whatever that is, if undivine, though merciless), their observant Gates, their surveillant trees: the weather, the service, can you believe, the accommodations, the food; then, they go eat.

Their houses are emptied, almost, nearly, of all their valuables, worldly; repositories of remnants lie locked and alarmed: locked against an illimitable force, feebly, foolishly, alarmed against an emergency any response to which can only be probable cause. No deterrent. Nothing can be protected from putrefaction; there has never been any safeguard against taint. A red cancel to blemish the summons. Only open wounds on the tractearth, gashes of infecting possession, festering forlornly in the latemorning sunfrost: food rots in the refrigerator; the fridge and the freezer the twoheaded unit, huge, idolatrous, rots in the open kitchen like an unfilled, welltongued tooth cracked black down the middle of the stinky sink of a mouth that’s told nothing but lies, that’s prayed only to the wrong God for curses. A dozen indentations for eggs on a shelf at eyelevel, empty save unidentifiable stickiness, enspidered. And the refrigerator, the freezer, hums in the mouth, the hum shakes everything loose, rattles fillings domestic: the windows, the shutters, the pantries, cupboards and cabinets their wares flattened out into steps down the stoop toward the slates, the supports, the foundations, the earth below the concrete; and the food rots into smell and the smell rots into room, a wall of smells, walls, a sink of smells, a floor undusted, splotched, dulling, fading, evanescent as dulled, ephemeral as faded, becoming formless as the rot soon usurps, replaces its form: bathrooms of mold, ceilings of fuzz; the siding weathers, blighted cedar shingling (with not even the larvæ or the moths still surviving, whose nests Israel would shoot out with water from hoses, or ash with a torch lit from headlines), the morning newspapers mound on the porches, soak into one great rising page, as the weather weathers itself and the evening editions of newspapers, a mass of wet print blacker than blood: Problem Nearly Solved, says the subhead, Shade to Address General Assembly Meeting of Sanhedrin Today…mail mounds in the mailbox or is held in perpetuity at the postoffice where a few, responsibly, have thought to stop it, ridiculous, too many bills, collection agency notices, magazines, catalogs and bills, always more, always too, unsolicited; lights switch on on a timer, switch off again then again on timers, sprinklers switch on on a timer, switch off, it rains, it pours rain, sprinklers switch on yet again, and then snow; the house settles, the settle settles, the earth swallows the house rotted above deeper down, a sinkhole, a pit; lights switch on with the moon, off with the sun; the keys rest under the welcomemats, a grinding of teeth with the wipe of strange feet; it stops raining, snow, no one shovels, no one sweeps, forget mops—maids have off, depends, or have been brought along, too, attending even in death, tending to the little ones to the end, a last tantrum of breath…sprinklers switch off or are frozen, immobile, the settling of the settle sinks down even more, kneemud then up to the pits, hipwading slime to the sidewalk, deeper the street; grass grows into weeds, unweeded, seeding themselves; telephone rings, machines pick up, a message is left or is not—tears; lights switch off then on again and then off and then, die. A waste of energy, wasted. Affiliated neighbors, many of them let down their shades, will themselves to ignore; an intrepid few gaze out their windows: at the lawns wrecked with neglect, strewn with the rusted carapaces of bicycles, tricycles, left leaves chattering cycles in the spokes of wheels blown onward nowhere by wind—and the oven’s timer, the stove’s watch, someone set for something, it just ticks and ticks, and they tock. Looting wagons, many of them in the northeast, at least, licensed to a certain Johannine familyowned Moshe’s Movers, proud recipients of a government contract courtesy of a friend of a friend—they’re backedup into driveways, they’re being loaded, they’re taking everything left: these schleppers, what aren’t they doing, what aren’t they responsible for; they’re smashing up a last idolette of the Virgin out on the lawn, they’re repoing the samplers, wrapping ornament valuables fragile in tissue, then hauling all of it out; what’s left that the neighbors aren’t holding onto for the hope of return, they promise, it’s just for safekeeping…

There’s an Ocean around Land, there’re lands around a Land, there’s land around a village, there’re villages around land, there’s land around towns, there’re towns around villages, there’re villages around hills, there’re hills around a wall, there’re walls around cities, there’s a city around a Square, there’s a Square around a Church, there’s a Church around an Affiliated—crucified, he’s been nailed up to hold everything in place, keep it together; this is all pointed out to them, duly noted (understand, that if this tour seems somewhat disjointed, appears somehow confused, then it’s been conducted about as well as any could hope: plopped down with a foldingmap with arrows popping sharply everywhichway, and with all these sobbing disconsolate kinder wanting, needing, to do just about everything…his personalized armband slipping down the starve of his sleeve, icecream melting down the cone of his two fingers holding he’s licking, his parents’ patience tested by the whim, the desire, the demand, fedup, wearing thin, what would you expect—he’s been excited for weeks, counting down the days, blacking them off on his calendar, a secular luach, not many of them left nowadays, secreted under his bed he’d countup the hours, the minutes, the clock the beat of his heart, despite how they’d discouraged); the city’s around a Square around a Church around this mensch, you know Him, an Affiliated, too, crucified, starcrossed, the center of every universe at once, and here, too…the city has a Square around a Church around an Affiliated, an Affiliated has the town around, the village, the Church, the Square, the city, the world, their Guide repeating again and again: a formality, memory; like, how many times do you say a Kaddish—before it becomes less than the sum of its words, its vocables and gutturals, just Amen noise, perpetuo static, no summons? Zusammen! The other Affiliated, the rest of them, though—they always lived downhill, turn, point, where the sewage flowed to, flows, the wounds of puddle, perfectly imperfecting scars (manufactured stains populated with ash, louse, and the vomitous remains of seven species). And everywhere’s like that, with huge fields between everywheres, plains: this quarter of Polandland, bombed, incendiaried, blownup, what do you call it—gone, didn’t rebuild its square; all roads here lead to all roads there and not to expectation, road, the nakedness of late night denuding earliest morning—to stand alone amid nowhere, surrounded only by the sacrosanct and furious quiescence of the ancient, made modest only by the light of late noon…at the markets: there in which numbers, for a moment, a bark or a cry, had other meanings; in which hands, so often put to violence, to death, here merely gestured for profit, the satisfying murder of urge, the gross indulgence of an object desired; at the festivalbooths: amid the gurgle of crated livestock and birds, suspended high amid the scent of the tree and the glow of its lights, always lesser. Prosit! Prost! Servus! Rooted in dregs. The Church here an ancient cockroach grown fat in a crack in the sky…a gargoyled snake (maybe the stillborn son of the river’s or river that cleaved the town, that cleaves here from banking flow to ebb of bank) swallows other snakes and islands, the jutting, falling slips, the dilapidated docks, boats and barges that themselves, in their feathered wakes, cut new forks into the snake’s tongue, the snakes’, corrupted limbless without current, to slow the flood of speech, unremitting, the water of words, as if in punishment for unknown, inchoate, sins. The snake of the river swallows rats and the snakes swallow whole plaguecolumns whole. Waters recede into mute twice daily, at noon and at midnight, then silence reigns again—that great holy and maddening still.

During reconstruction, doorposts had been spackled over in reddened night, the mark of where mezuzahs used to mark, when.

Last latest evening the Square gets klieged, shorn and drowned, the ganze obliterate: an oblation of light, beamed pitilessly from behind spires and turrets. Hordes of tourists walk in walking shadows, footed to shade, shuffling, limping, walkingshoes and galoshes, weatherproofed, wellheeled on tank-treads: a Miss Angelica gets herself caught, between two cobbles she trips, falls and sprains herself hurt, that evening to consult with this goy named she forgets who he once posed as a Goldlust, one of the handful of old Unaffiliated lawyers still around if out of practice of late, to ask him about the intricacies of negligence, liability: ideas of suing Polandland, Inc., gosh darn it all to heck, she says to him, while we’re at it why not sue the whole religion, the race, the world, to which the lawyer will have to admit ignorance of international law obtaining, especially now, though he’ll ask her a few questions she should ask her insurance provider should she ever again find herself home and alive. She can’t walk, the Group continues on without her, no one hears from her again, not a postcard. Here to make the circuit across the water to the Castle, house roomed to house from Square to Bridge felled—not the trafficked bridges where the cars would swerve to avoid the trams, where the trams would stop to avoid the horses, where the horses would throw riders over the railinged edge to avoid trampling the lowlier passing: but the pedestrian bridges, the historic crossings no vehicles allowed, the oldest spans, of ancient arches, their ways lined with statues, of saints and others, the saintlike, the sainted, the saintly, those beatified and still waiting bruised with rust in the purgatory of holiness, Salve; St. Whomever who died whatever death, who knows or should, St. What’s his name or hers who they were martyred together in each other’s arms for something under the reign of another. Polandland, Inc. knows they’re in mourning even if they don’t, and so Management’s gone and covered the statues of the Bridge, and those of the lit and touristed Square, too, with these flattering red tarpaulins: untenable to let those old Saints out alone into unsupervised night, to grant them the honor of a moon, who knows what miraculous madness they’d get into, what they’re liable to do damagewise; crosses and swords, crossed swords bulge out from under their coverings, Cupidic arrows and roses of silver and bronze. At night, the Bridge’s statuary, like the Square, shot through with a bright river of light, an air luminous and rare above the dark river flooding below. Here on the Bridge, there’s the miraclerub, that in the light, be it that of the sun, moonlight, or artificial, flashed from the bulbs hidden behind the statuary plinths, shines more golden than anything else. A handful of stragglers lift the tongues of these tarps, to get a glimpse: how they’re turned to stone, into statues themselves to bridge high the banks, above the rocks that fork quartered the flows: uncovered, they’ve beheld eyes without pupils, faces without noses, cut off to spite, torsos unlimbed, dismembered by weather; swordhands of St. Who Knows holding tulips wilting and yet petrified, frozen, fists with macle for knuckles, or jewels, their emptily suppurant settings; a starveling dog with a mouthful of genitals prowling still at the feet of St. Anyone bound in crystalline vein. The plinths, the pediments, which are left uncovered and so visible to everyone, haven’t weathered well either, hundreds of years of thousands of precipitations would do that, and worse; as always, words are easier to efface than the fame that is form. A few, though mostly the clerical crowd, stop to make themselves rubbings of the fundament Latin, which is inept, terrible, an imported language of no one now, having been churched out of existence, its conjugations scattered, and muddled, frozen then thawed into incoherence, again—epitaphs to the stone itself, themselves…here lies, here lies

Through the Employees’ Gate, which is less a gate than the secret weedy mouth to an underground tunnel to probable sewers, the catacombs, the basement bodied in the form of the worms that once sustained themselves on their filth—worryingly late in punching in, Peddler and Wife of Peddler make their hurried way through the tunnel to its terminus: a gutter’s cover just beyond, a grating, heft it and descend fast down a ladder then down that passage through to their respective prep areas, there to wash, appropriately dirty and then uniform themselves as quickly as possible, to avoid being reprimanded if not penalized, having any fine deducted from pay. In their personalized lockers, all their worldly possessions—in this world: all the accoutrements of their trade, which is peddling whatever’s to peddle, husband & wifing, they’re peasants, they’ll do what they’re told. In the M’s for Mensch’s area, everyone’s already arrived, prepped and ready to work: boker tov this daily briefing…these rabbis and priests, these lepers, the schnorrer and shylock and solicitous shtadlan, a merchant and shochet, a baker and a candlemacher, this taperer who he’s also a careful eggcandler, the latter three fumbling still with the strings to their aprons. Tie me up, doubleknot, thanks. A calendar’s confirmed by an announcement over the employee PA: Plague’s scheduled for tomorrow at 1400, then a flood, to be followed by famine, next Thursday at 0845; next week, advance notice…gevalt a pogrom—Friday night, you’ve been warned. An old regime, the previous Management, which had been aged, morbidly obese, had fallen, on any last rung or step that itself was a wall, an ironcurtain; they’ve been exiled out, in favor of these pretenders, impersonals, who are only the usurping real, those who hold the true birthright to this nowhere, lately corrupted in the service of money, its pursuit and ambition, we’re just hustling, getting ahead in the newest of worlds spinning around and so fast there’s no ahead, there’s just now: the Peddler’s parents today earning more as farmers who don’t have to grow anything than ever they’d eked out as real, true farmers who really grew, for subsistence, for the good of the State…Peddler’s Wife’s mother lately working nights in a glass factory, huffing souvenirs until her lungs would give out; they once remembered, though only vaguely, and not anymore, a property once owned, that’s still owed them (but how lately they don’t have much to complain about: they’re working, finally free, how life works—made employees of existence, hired merely to be, to breathe their own native air, paid to stand around wherever scheduled and scratch, to putter around plots, to peddle itchy of finger, though stomached with guaranteed salary, door-to-door-to-door through the hotels, around their lobbies and pools). Mayor’s an excellent position, wellpaid, though the Mayor’s also the municipal Treasurer, the Second Assistant Poultry Inspector on alternate Monday afternoons, a Sunday Horse Trader, a Thursday Horse Thief, though during Carnival Time (dates vary, spring) he’s assigned to the rear of the pantomime, the equine tush, you do what you can, all the best. Horses, the real ones, here they’re mostly just showy, they don’t have to work much: they’ve been trained to neigh on demand, and when they drop, and O how decoratively they drop, out of nowhere ride the hostlers and a stable of squiring grooms, many of whom are by now too old for this work (most of the native young have already left, or—disappeared; it’s all about innocence, that of their memories: as youth’s too painful and blushing, it doesn’t reproduce so well in black & white, official colors of the frontoffice); despite their age, then, despite their knees, spines, and their ridiculous shortpants, buckled shoes, tricorner hats and flounced cravats, how they’re uniformly quick to cleanup.

Are you following, the Guide asks, any questions?

How [much is this]?

How [much is] this?

How [much] is this?

As you can imagine, everything’s been thought out well in advance, all problems have been solved for them, already—save that of language, which is unthinkable, which is unsolvable, irresolvable, what, I don’t know the word…

Good Morning/Good Day [afternoon]/Good Evening/Good Night—excuse me, do you observe afternoon…afternoon, can you say afternoon, can we say that—is there even any afternoon here?

No speak __________________

And no light.

A resolution, though, has emerged: it hasn’t been offered, only recognized, and in public (it’s been around since the very beginning). It’s money, many say, that money renders language meaningless, makes it peripheral if not unnecessary, for the pleasure of purists alone. Money speaks for them, for us, more exactly and more fluently than does anything else. No speak, pay me. I don’t understand, I’ve busted, gone broke. Here, the stores for the Tourists are invariably small interests, smalltimed husband and wife handlers their shopworn concerns hustling a double as restaurants and drinking establishments, extensively understocked: ten or so dusty cannedgoods, their provenance as obscure as their contents, if any contents at all, spaced at uneven but you can bet (a gambling parlor’s in back) exactly surveyed intervals along the rickety shelves; whereas stores for the Employees, invariably tenanting underground, are stocked like you couldn’t believe, with the newest merchandise imported available, the shiniest and most desirable that their new paychecks could ever afford. Browsing on their way back to their hotel (which is in a building formerly known as the Castle), the Lays are ignored by the Employees they pass, and those they’re actually scheduled to encounter as they pass, ignored except for the latter’s encountered litany of approved snide glances, appropriately angry sneers, willfully obscene textbook gestures, an entire repertoire of unspoken derision (in passing). I [want to purchase] this, phrasebooks Misses Lay holding up something or other, and the shopkeeper laughs: everything’s for sale except that’s what he means, and so she picks up another object, yet another thing selected and she waves it around; everything’s for sale except that, too; there are currencies within currencies she soon realizes, languages within languages, and misunderstanding abounds: anything you want or need is exactly that that’s not available, if only today; tomorrow might be different, come back then; feign disinterest, pretend disgust; anyway, who has the money or time. As they leave, out past the slovenly benched menschs and wenches employed to smoke and drink the day down—in a frenzy of folkdress, every national costume conflated: ledered in hosen, dirndled in tracht, alongside sarafans and kosovorotkas—they’re saluted from across the unlit space with toasts and flicks of ash that might be mocking, or vernacular love; to sidestep the owl feaked on a gauntlet left by the end of the bar, pecking at the foam of a beer or on the crumbs of a sausage or roll; to wind their way around a miniature bear, the bartender/shopkeeper’s pet, unmuzzled and up on two legs standing to beg for another shot, just one more, on a stool of only one leg, which falls from underneath it for the animal to gnaw planks from the floor—it’s a rug now…then, finally to nimble over the Drunk, passedout in the doorway, mind your step, and how he’s the Mayor, too, whom they’d forgotten they’d met just earlier in yet another capacity.

Outside, their Guide gathers them together again, then leads on: a lot nextdoor, in which neighbors are employed to argue goodnaturedly, next to a lot in which neighbors are employed to argue not so goodnaturedly: they’re each selling the other their daughters, their wives, their wifedaughters with breasts like umlauts over buttocks like vowels, they’re uxoriously unloading, renting out the loving labor of their tractorhorses, leasing that of their avuncular sons; the Lays are hurried past (they’ll be late even for their strongest reservations, is why, hold my hand), the Laychocks, the Laycocks, the Laycox, the Laydens, and Layes, and whoever L’s else as their Guide persists in umbrellaing out sites of a General Interest, often not as much providing information as merely reciting the facts to them directly from plaques: everything’s been labeled, of course, every property, every house, shack, field, outhouse, destabilized stable and nationalized fence, every square and alley and courtyard, every brewery/winecellar, smithy/whorehouse; there are donation plaques on just about all: This Tub Was Donated By Rabbi & Rebbetzin Mordechai Rockafella; This Trough, and yadda; This Fountain; This Pump; This Bird (oy, so they put a plaque on a familiar bird, flying low) Has Been Donated By The J.P. Morgen & Rabinowitz Co.; everything fixed up, reinforced, all foundations set firm, all gloss removed, then reapplied, glossedover again, two coats, thrice colorless now, façades restored, insides dusted with dust, aged to a perfect decay…

Onto the Castle, impressively converted, remade a hotel, five yellowstarred. At their arrival, the Sandersons’ suitcases are ported up to them: up the hill, its stairs spaced widely for the hooves of horses hauling around the slope; these mounts mounded high themselves, humping duffels and trunks over such prettily landscaped terraces—the other luggage is on wheels, though, and tiedoff to the tails of these rides, such a racket…stepping over the bridge over the moat then into the courtyard where baggage’s offloaded for staff, who burden it up a staircase unwound, torn open to the elements, flush with slush; up one ripped wideopen turret of twelve piercing the sky without flag (though it’s already too dark to be sure). A bellhop takes his tip, a weddingring, hers, splits it setting and stone with the concierge who’s informing on him. Rooms are pleasant, airy; taxidermied trophies antler over the kingsized; everything’s been prepared, immaculately: marble scrubbed, galleries gleaming with polish.

It’s charming, Mister Sanderson says out on his balcony, facing the city cankered below. He’s slowly understanding how to be guided: Charming, his wife’s pronouncement upon arrival, she’s right—he can’t fault her, just follow. Polandland, despite itself, its history, the appleweight, the wasting welter of years, seems untouched, lit from an initial lapse, the first Gardened Fall: everything in a gorgeous state of disrepair, slow decomposition, almost organically, as if it’s living with him, breathing within him, to soon breathe no more, soon to die…it goddamned better be—charming, Mister Sanderson says in his throat, know what I paid: the most expensive accommodation in town, nothing less for his honeymoon, theirs, his wife inside, his relatives already asleep next door then across the hall (the grandparents will have to cope with courtyard views, sorry). Mister Sanderson flicks snow from his parka, returns to his room to lay himself out on the bed like he would tomorrow’s outfit, next to his wife, who’s under the covers snuggled with a leaflet found in a drawer of the nightstand.

What’s so interesting? he asks her, on our honeymoon, too, darkened above and in appearance less honeyed than milked of its meaning, more like a coin with which to call home, her family who’d converted, parents, they’re always (worried) awake…but her, she’s already asleep, and he’s exhausted just thinking of waking her: they’ve done so much today, so much more to do, too, not enough, and tomorrow, if that. He kisses her on each eyelid’s veil, lifts the leaflet from her hands, it’s a menu: roomservice, it offers, and him thinking why not, a surprise; he picks up the receiver, dials 0, it’s picked up, put on hold with Mendelssohnian muzak, he’s picked up again then quietly orders a Wedding Night Package, For One, advertised as You’ve Never Known So Romantic A Special—and please, he asks, do me a favor, knock soft. He rises to throw water on his face, on his return to the bedroom goes to make sure his passport’s still with him, in his pants pocket like always, expected, he’s nervous, it isn’t, remembers: how they’d confiscated it earlier, that and their marriage certificate. He sits down in a chair that’s older than wood, Louis the Worst King its style, worries himself removing his shoes amid a sagging of joints. Then, an attendant knocks, opens the door himself, wheels in a live carp in a flute of freshwater set alongside a flask of VSOP, mashke, it’s what they call whiskey, their brand; he raises a finger to his lips as the aged attendant wheels the fish directly to the clubfooted tub, knobs the water on cold then emerges to hand him a knife, handlefirst. Mister Sanderson rises to tip him his ring this time, and their last; the attendant shuts the door slowly as Mister Sanderson turns, trips over the luggagerack, falls over himself toward the wardrobe, opened, his grasping hands falling hangers a heap to floor. Star, how she sleeps through anything. Bless her, he’s crying. He sits in the chair again, straightbacked to attend to the flask, nips this abstainer (fresh habits, fresh fates), shuts his eyes to think of her not lying here but standing alongside him again, though not gowned, unfortunately veiled with his slicker, the ceremony at the aeroport’s chapel and there its bargain chaplain who didn’t know Jesus from the schmuck who’d betrayed: thinking, too, there’ll be other nights, not many of them, they should pray, not if it means waking her, though, and so he goes to turn on the television to maybe divert himself with the image, its mute, haven’t lazed with one of these in a while, and suddenly how there’s this vast mechanized voice, arrived in their room as if an angel unmodulatedly manifest, hearken the shrill revelation of its graceless announcement: Polandland Is Proud To Offer Its Guests Two Wake Up Options Polandland Is Proud To Offer Its Guests Two Wake Up Options Polandland Is Proud To Offer Its Guests Two Wake Up Options Polandland Is; he turns the thing off, picks up the receiver again at 0 and waits through the Purgatory of organswelled Hold to order a rooster for 0700, wondering if it’s early enough; there’s so much to do, so little time, and let us say—Amen…amen.

Tourists are only required to attest to the Land, to acknowledge its place in memory proper, once lost since regained through that loss: destruction destined from the beginning of creation, which itself came from an ever greater destruction…no, what’s only required’s their presence, that and their money, nu, always welcome, admission with interest compounded every hour on the hour after sunset for those who might choose to sample the night-life that only gets going after Curfew (it’s rumored—with appropriate permit, which is unobtainable, that and a notarized letter of transit offering safe conduct to the bureau at which such permit might be denied, if they’re open, if ever), admission advertised to guilt as a reparation, or restitution—this debt owed, snowed collected, their lives, sunk static in sleep, which is white without dream: surveillance’s offering a vision of blue skies over blond. And then—as if on the timer of the divine, here it is, your personal rooster. Cawing crow. A blood dawn—the sun’s desecration of its host, the horizon. As if to remind him, Mister Sanderson checking, consulting the itinerary printed as the front and only page of Polandland’s daily and only newspaper, punctually slipped through the draft of their door: it seems a Libel’s scheduled for 0900, hymn…which well’s long been mapped—they have two hours to kill, if you’ll pardon…though slicha’s what they say, meaning zeyt moychl.

On the Sabbath, no one’s allowed in, and on no day is anyone allowed out.

Take it easy, enough.

On Weekdays and Sunday, everything’s open dawn to dusk, beyond that into smoke into air (on request), that’s long been explained: how the Groups revolve, depart for their selected schedule by times TBA, how it’s all always repeated again…but of course, the Guide goes on, during the day, regular opening hours, there are still a handful of places, just a few, really, designated offlimits; this is for your own safety, please understand; we’d hate for inquisitiveness to interfere with your experience here: certain cafés and libraries, that theater and concerthall, this park, this garden, this phonebooth, that bench, the westbound monorail, then the monorail eastbound, too—whatever you’re unsure of be sure to ask, of yourself. Those aren’t noted on the map, of course, avoidance is up to them, rather it’s a basic measure of selfcontrol, curiosity’s suppression, a modicum of delimitation’s denial; it’s up to their paranoia, we’re saying—and as long as we’re at it, their Guide repeats herself quickly, there’s one last rule you should know (contingency comes when it comes—how we all have to keep inventing maniacally to keep up with the real); this the most important, keep it in mind: you are not allowed not to have fun, she brightens for this, but artificially, you’re not allowed to not enjoy yourselves, or at least learn from this, an education, explore us, discover yourselves. In the script. Remember, we’re here for you. Ask us anything. Except that. It’s experience’s absolution, it’s wild. Total immersion. Meaning, a mess. Also, strangely, but this they’d been told at the facilities before being mustered to the aeroports, then off: all species are welcome in Polandland, your pets are ours; except dogs, they’ve been explicitly forbidden, though certain streets have been littered with their droppings, dreck wedged smeared between cobbles, at many doorways, too, atop specified stoops, and barking’s to be heard at all hours of the day into night: apparently, Management has their turds imported from overseas, and employs specialized droppers to secrete these foul piles throughout Polandland during the darkest hour of sleep; reel-to-reel barking’s piped in as well—and in wells, down and distorting, up from a gutter of speakers also occluding the mouths of every statue, reverberant under every sewergrate, a low rumble. And finally, so that nothing should distract: smoking’s actually encouraged, and snuff, too, pinches of tabak handed freely around, as is imbibing from open containers of overfermented kvass, vodka, slivovitz, an assortment of schnapps widely available, vice included in the price, that on their immoderate heads—in public, whenever, whatever you want: l’chaim, l’chaim, you’ll probably need it.

Once deloused and uniformed for the day, the Sandersons walk a botched hip downstairs together to the Castle’s courtyard then toward the Banquet Hall, to break their nightly fast in the continental style, with free refills on hope, coffee or tea with your choice of juice. An hour later, they make their way to the lobby, to join a handful of others just waiting around: some are with kinder, some are with parents, others are parents and kinder themselves; they’re flipping through pamphlets “evilly communicated” (badly translated) on purpose, stapled reams listing optional offerings, a candlelit tour of the catacombs, a river booze cruise late afternoon; some are talking, others asking yet even others to take images, initiatory in the mysteries of what to press where, the button click when and then, wind: not that they’d ever have the opportunity to develop these photographs, movies or memories, to share them with loved ones, in slides, projected upon eyes and their livingroom screens—to mount them in albums, framed on the wall or for the mantel shelf in the hall, pass them down generations and further, but again maybe it’s only an initial record that matters, only the semblance they’re after, the image of image.

Of course, no one has film.

To begin, is only to begin again: they’d often lived scattered amongst the Others, interspersed among the general population, sometimes in houses Otherowned, never their homes, oftentimes forced into an exchange, though it’s explained that’s only when they’d been allowed out, allowed to mingle, to mix: emancipation, the Enlightenment, you’ve heard of it, I’m sure, read the thick books under thin covers amid the springs of your lives—a great flinging open of doors, an airing, we’re talking…when some left, many purchased houses and businesses, too, on the Square, becoming assimilated, intermarried, became unto others; though that’s not what the Sandersons want to do, not what they’re wanted to do, that’s not in the Schedule today’s what they’re told: not enough local color there, no flavor for the bud of the tongue—they want In, the clusters, the cloister…O follow the shivering river! the thaumaturgical thatching of roofs, their walls below a blessing for the prevention of breath, before falling: the Ghetto, is meant, and soon, in a matter of steps, there they are—a narrowed network of streets, the grid of Diaspora, the matrix of Exile left. Are we there yet? Is this it? What about this?

One more street, one last step—here we are.

Many times a city would have two ghettos, says Miriam though I don’t think that’s her real name.

Whatever, she their Guide.

If there were two, she says, they’d be situated at opposite ends—at the limits, we’re talking walls within walls…

How do you know? asks a Mister Johnson, where’s it marked?

And Miriam umbrellas to the Gate they’re just passing—unknowingly—through, higher and lower and narrower and wider than all.

Here, she says, there, this was the boundary, the border, this, the limen, the threshold—in one world out the other, you with me, keep up…

Now, if you’ll just follow me.

Often in the absence of a gate, she says, you’ll encounter wickets, relatively unobtrusive, or a highwire strung across the street at the height of first floors.

One step more, one last step.

Here, houses are less houses, lesser, Mischlinge, miscegenetically mixed to impure; more like piles, like heaps burnt to cinereous pyres, uncertified mud-mounds of lowest class dirt, weathered by interracinate winds into unpedigreed tumbles, sloshing around, slipsliding about without concern for any code or hygienic legality—they swallow each other, consume even the bloods at their jambs: how there’re no doors, only open mouths here, or their sores, and these doorposts, they’re marked by remove…an outline, an indication, thereupon the edict, Nur für who else, such a mark, the contagion of Cain—down the well, the slither of the street’s scaly tongue. A gurgle rising, all’s poisoned, all’s locked. These streets of ringing streets ring ever outward, spinning each other on orbitally through graben and platz, spiraling Altstädter Ring into the Neue…a viper’s nest, a spider’s nodeglobe—to the left, an umbrella poking holes in history’s story, wind: a synagogue, say it along with me now, I’m saying a Shul…adjacent to that a prayerroom, repeat after me, Shtibl, established in a private residence after a fire extinguished the original synagogue, which now stands again, Ner Tamid: This Synagogue Was Reconstructed Thanks To The Generous Support Of the Mister & Misses Ronald McJackson-Schmackson-Abramoff, In Loving Memory Of Their Parents olev hashalom, their Foundation…a yeshiva, sunk to the depth of a mikveh, a community center, a Gemeinde, an Obec, HQ of the local Społeczno, a kahal or kehilla; their expectations reify, manifest themselves in the particulars, like worms there they root, there they rot, they’re severed, they’re quartered: in the Record of the records room, the slanted inked lines of the shelves, the smeared invitation to fire that is the study, the file of volumes, the ranks of their learning, to be annually purified, repristinated into the function of a winter sanctuary that went up in flames, only a season ago (the smaller Shtibl or Klaus, for when all freezes, like now—it’d also served as an auxiliary prayerroom for the High Holy Days, which are Rosh Hashanah, the New Year, followed by the Day of Atonement, Yom Kipper’s its name), its ashes to be scattered unto the air—Tephramancy, or so Miriam says, everything has a name, everything to its name—for purposes of prophecy, forbidden as of the failure of any attempt, even yours; to follow the footsteps inked on the stones, dripped in wake, progress the tactic of smear, to follow their dark for the rest of their lives, footprints slaved on one shoe only, often half a shoe, soled with rock: they serve as the touring routes, the sequence of sequence, the sequence of Once—the Hospital, next, and then next to it, the Home for the Elderly, the infrastructure of the indomitable spirit (so easy to celebrate, when all the rest goes to corpse): here are your young, there are your old; here are your healthy, there are your sick; next to that the Ceremonial Hall, the Burial Hall whatever you want to call it, you call (Miriam, she hates their languages, spits them with spite the seven she knows), the place where the bodies of the deceased were prepared, had been purified, guardedover, then next to that through the night, the Cemetery itself…there between those cerementally façaded outbuildings: Ceremonial Hall, the Cemetery, then the Carriage House, let’s not forget, a caravanserai it’s called commonly, housing the bier, the communal coffin, falsebottomed: no way out, and the only…how we’re buried only in the bodies we live in; she nods across the street, in the direction of any salvation—the Goldsmith’s, adjacent to his son the Silversmith’s, then his son the Tinsmith’s nextdoor, whose daughter’s husband he’d worked up the road at the Mill in the employ of his uncle, whose…a wide arc of her umbrella, it’s familytreehandled, canopycutting, encompassing all and their kinder in shade: the Watchtower, the watchtowers, then the further walls, their gates, beyond, the world entire and furthest…then back again in a sweep, a swoop of its plume unfurled, its sharp ferrule piercing at hearts, open up and bleed for me, can’t you—toward the Square’s center, again, which is the core of it all, as Polandland entire’s the center of the Land, of the earth…the pole of the pole’s and, too, the fundament of the whirlwind, the indwelling of the presence and the fall of the numinous veil—what do you say, you’ll get the footstool, and I’ll get the throne…I’ll meet you back at the hotel by supper, I swear. Then, back again toward the edge of the Mittel, the margin, the vale in its paling: the Ghetto’s square, which is smaller, lower, and narrower than, almost a miniature of the Square, the Square-Square, she means, as if fit for the dog of a king: the court-god, the lawyervizier, the jestering doctor or the traveling bard…toward the houses they owned altogether there, had been married into here, were born into here, died out of there, become centered in huddles around courtyards, communal; then, within this middle’s edge, this shoulder shrugged or hemmy fray, and toward its own center, centering, a shard of but whole, a reflection, say, or an imitation or satiric parody of and yet intact again, as whole again, theirs—ruined replete with its synagogue, its Great Shul, the Grand Shul, the High Shul, the Low Shul, the Old-New; its entrance humbling their shamble down a stairwell the steps of which and its wall are of headstones, mortared in memory: repeat after me, a shul is a synagogue is a shulagogue, a temple is what…

Miriam the Guide with her Group passing these houses also used as shuls and as shtibls, as places of worship, as corners of worship, as worshipnooks, or prayercracks, please notice—how their roofs sag under worries, stooped under the weight of the heaven the weights of the heavens their septenary sum; past the houses sagging under their roofs: thatched, timberframed, Miriam says, unframed, like here without door…knockknock, this poor quality wood, wormwood, turdwood, rotboard this collapse: these houses stoopshouldered, with no door in their doorways, openmouthed, how they’re gaping, stairtongue, step the buds, what’re they saying, calling out sore whose name or the wind through their windows shattered though shut under lids of dust under lashes of wind and dust shattering blindness, fever, and hunch; sgraffitod façades scumbled to innards, viscera, a decomposition from without to within as ashes to ashes to…Miriam the Guide with the Group, with her next Group, the Group always next, how she staggers them forward they’re staggering ever forward on over the Land—sagging under the weight of the houses humpbacked, so burdened they follow the passage parsing southwest toward cool noon, slowly manage the wide street, which is actually named Wide Street, which intersects Narrow Street (never doubt home’s street names again: how the Market’s on Market Street, the Synagogue’s on Synagogue Street, the Cemetery’s on…no, it’s on Butcher’s Street, sorry, named for the shop at its end—got you there, you’ve got to stay on your toes…ten, the quorum hoard of your wandering feet), which leads into and out of the Ghetto, leading them into and out of the city itself, the village, the town, Polandland’s proper limits coming toward the Square now as Wide Street as it widens itself into the Square that’s called a Square even though it’s a circle, and then—it’s enough: a street storelined, its Square shoplined, too, overpriced, why not splurge, it’s over so soon; and then, only a block more…a few blocks beyond the Square, north, east, if here there be blocks, even (grid superimposed upon grid, cycles atop cycles, clocking, a staggering mumble of settle after all’s razed to very foundations, then rebuilt to fallover again), Long Street, Short Street, she leads group after group, guides group after group after group, umbrellas them and herself from the wind and the rain and the snow a few steps more just a step, and it’s darker, quieter, it’s…a Quarter, says Miriam, this is a Quarter—shush silence, isn’t it heymisch? though Polandland’s been divided into many more than mere fourths…though the streets might’ve been straightened out (like one might shake out a sheet, wave out a tablecloth in preparation for a bridegroom’s banquet, the chatanchazzan’s drinkwindy, unwitnessed tisch), by the best efforts of what we call modernity, of an involved government and public goodwill, there are still traces, in the way their feet want to walk, in how their hands need to reach to touch and to hold, of the older ways and the winding ways, the natural course of decomposition, the unchanged change of decay leftalone, gnarled spines, splintered ribs, streets ghosting their own olden roads through newer guesthouses, deadroutes trod heavy through livingrooms, deadrooms, and over a light sleeper a stumble then out through their wardrobes, empty, the walls.

At the border, here, the bruised, bloated joint, perpendicular to—the Quarter seems to genuflect to the Square, prostrating itself at this estrangement of knee, this arterial way…Wide Street intersecting Narrow Street, only to become on its other side Ghetto Street’s its name, set apparently straight, with regard to the lean of its living, though with an underlying windingness bisecting the clocked circle surrounding with the secret of its holier, unhanded time—to flow its river of homes, rushed people and the livestock they resemble into an opposite street, bounding, containing, River Street it’s called far toward the back of the Quarter, unwalled to tumbledown at their intersection in neglect, to decay; there to bridge with its loosened cobbles the most polluted swell of this river, whatsoever its name if it isn’t just River, formerly Water: this is the world, roundsmall or it was, and how everything they’d want or need, everyone they’d ever know, would exist inside its circumference, had been encircled in bondage, encycled, bound up in one; this tightness, the throatconstriction, the dizzying breath of containment, overwhelms many, all, the market, the marketed package…and so Miriam takes it upon herself to assure: what you’re feeling is normal, to be expected, and them, this is fascinating stuff…O I didn’t know that, did you, honey, I didn’t—reassured as she guides them, whichever them, with each group the same, these undifferentiated, unindividuated, up shortcuts, switchbacks long around, as handeddown father to son, generationally hand to mouth, dor l’door: mouth to ear, out of mind to its foot in through the alleys and courtyards, Baroque culs-de-sac, rococo loops, maniacally fine and fripperant turns…

We’re heading back to the Square now, says Miriam, for the clock…about to ring us the hour.

You shouldn’t miss this!

A mustdo—is everyone ready?

Let’s all stick together. As much as she sticks to the script.

No use getting to know them, Miriam, no use to even think of them as them—and not just as It, the riveredabout.

And so to begin again, again then all over.

An Affiliated bleeds in a bleeding memory, wilts in a willing memory—dies in a dying memory…dies.

In the Square

The Sandersons arrive in the Square, having passed through innumerable subsidiary squares on their way, through intersections intersecting pedestrian malls, through stretches of municipal openness buttressed by statuary and somber monuments to the most important who cares (Miriam’s stretching, herself—and the feet, they hurt so), that, too, and the Ghetto’s constriction, the poisonous suck, the thin wick through which passes the hour’s glass sand—arriving finally in front of the Clock, just moments prior to its sounding the knell of our noon in twelve tones, halved hollow. Here and waiting, they behold the Tree, which they’d previously known only in photographs, from films, promises, descriptions of print and the mouth; how it fulfills all expectations, exceeds in that it’s “simply fabulous,” though “amazing” is preferred (upon the forms they’ll later fill out—help us help you to force you to fill: our trip was amazing, we had an amazing time, everything was “simply amazing”); earlier, they’d toured another tree, the other Tree, rooted in a lesser as mirrored square rooted across the river from this square, the Main Square, Old Town’s, that’s the New’s: the tree here’s watered larger, it’s historyswollen, greater, obviously the more important of the two trees, the most, they didn’t have to be told after all—despite, even its plaque’s larger, more luminously polished; as for its ornaments, the other tree can’t hold a candle…

Here, everyone holds an umbrella.

This is the openedwide heart of everything, and everything is around this, in pulse—around the Church that is, its cruciform insides, and its Affiliated, its mensch, his own heart almost too open; its death. Mister Sanderson fusses with his jackets (slicker over nylon windbreaker, in layers), a zipper’s caught, he struggles to find the catch, zip himself up again against the bleat of the cold. Of course, Miriam says, many cities, many towns and villages have not rebuilt their Squares. All roads there lead to all roads there and road, not to expectation: the early morning/late night nakedness of a Square, paved with—how do you say, she asks herself, gnaws a lips, for their edification, how you say—tongue, that’s it, that’s the language, that it paves with bare rotted tongue, its buds suckling toes, buds roiling underneath toes, boiling, burning…keep moving, step on: the whole Group’s more pillow than head this morning, the wakeup cock had cawed too early for most, betraying, cuckoo; they’re overwhelmed, too much of not enough, sites of time, landmarks timemarks timelands, monumental disasters erected to this battle, this fire, this burning, whose auto de fé tragic death. Advertisements on the martyred façades, have been pasted over windows, nailed over doors or wherever doors should be, should’ve been they take paper for things, offer things for paper (the only falsity here, or one of the only: selling souvenirs, they’re recommending purchases if only to spite), signs & wonders ask for paper with number, with numbers, paper with faces and face; pay their way out of death’s debt, is the thought, using as guarantee the images of their executioners famed. This way, this way. Mind your step, mind your pockets, your mind, your personal possessing possessions. The Sandersons with their Group pass under the Tree, heldover for them cheerbright, starry and twinkling, toward the Clock’s clocks and their toll as exacting as promised, leaving behind them a husband whose nobody knows, maybe not even him; standing high on the exposed roots of the growth, leaning against its trunk to search for his wife, whomever’s if not already a widow, the Law orders him off, nightly takes him away, he isn’t seen or heard from again, his wife either, if ever she was. A shocking bustle of black forms as if spilled from the river, its ink: the tap tap tap of a nightstick, worming as if sexually from its wielder’s disintegrate shadow, a pain palmmuffled, fistfaced. A helmet invasion, segmentally regiment with how many limbs. Everyone turns, then turns yet again. Unrunged, standing expectant in silence. And then, suddenly—of all things a gazelle, if you can believe it, leaps up from an open sewer, clears the canopy of Tree and of houses, maps a vast arch over the Square, naturally calm, like it’s risen to bow, appearing even, couldn’t be, to nap in leap amid the weather and with groups’ umbrellas lowered not as trees bent from the ascent but as flags hung low in a respect that’s spontaneous and yet, also brave—the gazelle’s own arc the umbrella of sky, a rainbow the covenant of colors that mark us as different, and yet all of a shade…not to worry your belief, though, it’s animatronic, in truth that’s its name, on a timer, and Misses Sanderson stares beatifically, points, forefingered heaven—with the scurrying rivered away, forgotten even in spirit, banished, consecrated to thatwasthen, thisisnow…everyone gasps, it’s amazing. What’re we looking at, Mister Sanderson demands still concerned, confused with the turnings around and the oohlings, the ahs, who, he asks, where, I don’t see anything, will someone please tell me, is it over yet, what? He stares openfacedly, a square unto himself in his jaw, in chin’s jutted flat bone, at the sun at its nooning; loudspeakers swell along with the rising, having faded out the Square sounds, the Market Sounds, the prepared Livestock Reel, fading in now a fresh snatch of music, a fan’s fared anew, just the perfect accompaniment this period score: basses surge celli, harps strung tautly with rays of the sun above gliss up and down these winds of every hue and hewing direction—light to the east, dark to the rest, in a flutter…a swirling crescendo to crash, at tessitural height, steepleward pitched, resounding within the upsidedown bell of the Square, stonebottomed the catacombed Church (Mister Sanderson’s missing everything, he’s scared without the Adamic sense of a neck whether to raise it, to let his apple drop for the slitting—he falls to allfours, reversionary, as if he’s being bombed back into an animal, strafed into the bestial again he begins sniffing at the lampposts, commences with a great licking at the territorial plinths). Having reached its apex, the higher meridian, the gazelle then descends, with smoothly greased grace, to land on the opposite side of the Square, to disappear into another sewer open, then shut. At its disappearance, the Clock handed into the face of the Town Hall sounds another hour, clocks another life, strikes twelve times over twelve tones, and how everyone just applauds like their lives might depend on it.

The Church, too. Ringing.

Isn’t that delightful, Misses Jones asks everyone…nu, wasn’t it, she demands, just incredible, hymn—and as if in thanks for such a display she goes searching her pockets the nine of them for a spare coin to toss to the busker, a streetmusician still playing amid the echo of the bells, those onehanded, clapped clocks, these flutes and splits of champagne and Sekt, bubbly bottles, magnums, jeroboams, rehoboams, and methusalehs even rimmed with wet fingers, ringing a dry and fruity accompaniment to the tutti orchestra just tuningdown, too, that and his sister’s sweet, ethereal mezzo; in hat and sunglasses, she’s most definitely blind, though whether her handicap’s a condition preexisting or yet another directive from Management’s for the moment unclear, and who would presume to insult. As she gives, so does Mister Jones, and the others, they just have to keep up: hoping perhaps not as much to express their gratitude by charity as to obtain for themselves a pardon, at least the assurance of any afterlife preferable to light touring in hell. In this, discretion’s of the utmost importance: the Sandersons lower their eyes, pretend to search around in their purses and pockets before doing as the others do, as the Joneses have done, which is to remove scraps of clothing, strands of their hair, their shoes even, then the ropes of their belts, the only donations left them. Underground, an employee rewinds the Square Sounds, sets it for repeat, a circumambient loop cycled down from the pitch of the dogs…the orchestra dimming din to moos, even oinks, oathed obtestations, the blessings and curslings of commerce returned: May you grow brains! Market’s moody mistrust (mark madness, ruble rage, the zealotry of złoty, the grunting of groschen), as Mister Sanderson approaches the musician’s singing sister, slowly, he’s muttering his appreciation to himself as much as to her—thinking, perhaps she’s deaf, too, thinking aloud, just listen to her do that dies iræ and illa—he holds out his hand and with it holds hers, presses a rag of lining, from a pocket of his pants, into her palm hot with lint, then nods over his shoulder to his wife who she’s nodding to him; the musician’s sister drops their tips, buttons, snaps, zippers, and hems, into one of three pockets of her vest, each one set aside, earmarked, as it’s said: one for her, one for her brother, her lover or maybe he’s both, and of course one for Management, always.

Atop the viewing platform of the spirant spire of the easternmost and yet also northernmost, as it’s alternately compassed it’s breathed, magnetically imposing tower of the clockfaced, clockhandtall Town Hall, Mister & Misses Sanderson the two of them, Misses especially, in excellent physical shape, more than able to manage the centuries of steps spiraling their way to the culminant top…a dizzy cornute, a shofar’s staired chute—they stand gazingout through the telescopes mounted: they veer far to the mountains first, focus, the hills, stomachlike imperfections, these pregnant, tumorous, cystlike, or otherwise cancerously raised from the pale of the land skinned around, and then further, focusing, squinting…behold, a stretch of spines, prickles and thorns, ensnared, ensnaring, as far as east and as north, their sprawl left whitened out of the maps once provided, the map they’d purchased at the aeroport back in Topeka, which they’d been required to purchase, a provisionary splurge—a whiteness, which seems, initially, only a haziness of the eye…this glaze, glaucomally dim, the gradual graying of day, the freezing dusk of an incoming headache—I think I have to lie down…a patchwork of briar and bramble, hooks and snares and of starthorns. Here are the quarters of Polandland they haven’t the time, nor the permission, the permission that is time, to visit: the Lumber Yard (everything here’s labeled, and large, signs in every language to satisfy even the most impotently compelled of the curious), in which the wood’s apparently, according to their Guide later asked, dried for clarinetreeds, for the planks that husk the hulls of boats; then the Gut Mill, in which strings for violins are made, alongside the workshop for knots in the suiciderope…the Ink Distillery, the Nib Works—and then further…if glassneared: out warring the mittelground gone already lost, overlooked—this to which they’ve been made the mere witness of two whose testimonies would stand if only together, as observers only if twinned and with the testified third taking the trinity starred, with them left alone in a garden in which to observe only the sin of each other, it’s said: a son possessed by a wife who’s a ghost, a holying spirit, a soul incarnating a faithful entwined…it’s all coming together, a convergence of sorts, dazedly stooped atop the Town Hall to squint themselves stupid against the gaze of the darkening wind—the cloud pouches, the black rim of their squint: a horizon that’s a hill, with a swarm of night presently tumbling over its height…young kinder with their camp counselors, too, matching in their white & bluecollared shirts, screaming and shouting and having what’s been called, oy, the time of their lives: they’re streaming down the slope latterly cleared of alders and catkiny birch for their gallows, to fall down to the rocks and stones of the valley below and its shadow, the sun’s risible grave—even their orphaned kinder have been ingathered, too, each to their own special programs, their own particular schedule, sensitive to their limitations, whose not, forsaking history for the unique requirement of the young, those at heart. This hill, lastlit, and membraneous as if the rising of the moon—if sectioned conically, maybe, if we’re to be obliged by these workers espied, just off to the forests (in a veer of their scope, working their ways around the shroud of the sky—though with no further focus on what this all means), carting with them their twohandled, manyteethed saws as if the trussed remains of wolf trophy, its flesh for the sacrifice, then the feminine meat of the pelt with which to hide nakedness from the lusts of those whom that flesh would sustain, and their gods…there to clear land for whatever facility’s next, wherever’s next stop to last—if sectioned conically, we’re saying, this hill whether concavely or convex, into a crosssection, a slice taken out, only a sliver, a glassy rind or a peel: that portion removed would be a lens, and so perhaps could shed a ray of light, could straighten and narrow the light now dying, upon the tumult planned just beyond.

Grown below, a ritual clamor: the thrones are being reseated, the bear and the lion are chewing the scenery; between fanging at each other, that is, and keeping from themselves and their schlock postcard prey a hovering, twoheaded eagle: whose claws clutch two gold constellations, that of the hammer, and the brilliantly sharp, horizoning sickle. A scythe, harvesting souls: a reaped vista vast with its armies just massing, partiuniformed, ununiformed, tatterdemalion nighthooded and grim, scarred with elaborate insignia of their own private winter’s invention, already exhausted in their hearts and minds just by the effort it took, it takes, to get lined, accounted for, at the ready. Misses Sanderson swerves from them—better to ignore until even ignorance’s no longer an option: in favor of collecting, if only for the grandmothered attic of her mind, a host of rare, deepbeaked, earthturning birds, carrier butterflies their wings mounted a span across rivers and streams to facilitate pillaring, their bridging cocoon…her scoping the metallic, mechanized work of what she’ll think of as oddlegged, scurrying spiders, her delicate, birdboned face with its fluttery eyes fortified into the spin of their webs, the last caught light of their barbs. How she nods to her husband: a herd of ragged kine, see, Samuel, how they’re grazing on wire, upon heaps of moldering scrap. Lately, she’ll take any wonder as sign, anything fantastic as expected, deserved—Samuel, just look: the making real revelation of another living thing, however mythical, however purposemade, wrought if only for the spectacle of their paying indulgence—a miracle, she says, this place has it all, thought of everything: a ram ensnared in a thicket, look, and missing its horns; sheep sheared naked, then garbed in the skin of the Unicorn, see; locusts, my God they’re locusts, Samuel…storks on parade; geese born of barnacles, grown from a remained grove of trees, hemiformed, varibirthed, the progeny of Ziz or from zat; deer sniffling the moist streaks of snails; gelatinous worms splitting earth; ostricheggs boiling on the back of the salamander, slithered from flame; an ass without rider talking its own tour to itself, if only to remember its remarkable name—ask Miriam, she’s reminding, if she doesn’t know no one does…sly like a fox, it’s swinging a rooster dead overhead the swine of the Romans, suckling süss its perfidious Sus; a calf brightly gilded, tethered to the goat of Azazel—how she wishes she had that fieldguide to flip through, but she’d left it back at the hotel, the only thing in their safe—secured with only the thinnest of threads, reddening then whitening then reddened again, its needle lost to a camel’s pass, the hump of the hillocked horizon: it’s incredible, Sam, just amazing, a caravan of mountains, a procession of clouds—all how they’re leading themselves, led by nothing, toward the sheer edge of the land, a divestment, this divergence, clearing out before their contracts expire, their fortyday, fortynight creation to fall, yet again, from this world, everflattening…further even to where it’s just a blip of the eye, at the tear of a lid, it’s the Behemoth, fashioned from Golemic clay, searching the earth it’s of for the love of its impossible mate: Titus’ gnat perched as a sentry atop winged and wingishly bearded Nebuchadnezzar, powerfully lionlegged, pitifully lion-tailed, heading out toward the oceans, the ocean…to where the Leviathan lies, swallowing forever the whale of Jonah, which itself is forever swallowing the Foundation Stone, the nesting place of the raven, with the dove hovering its reassuring attendance above, flown from its blackened arked cave strewn for the sleeping with eggshells and ashes, where sitting now until perpetually swallowed is only the wisp of an Adam—yet another Guide, the most senior, the first: sitting as straight as a knife for a finger he splits the tongues of the snakes that wriggle up from his throat, wiggle out his mouth then onto his lap, slicing off their arms and their legs, then offering their loss to the beaks of that white raven and that black dove above, to fly their slithers off to any ultimate shore, to poison the final void there to sin…

Again they present themselves at the Cemetery, a full five minutes before the hour appointed: a clock cheeked big and bloated, its hands expanded, as if the two hands together they’re a belt with not enough teeth, stretching as far as it can go, about to snap off the scale into…they’re full to groaning of traditional delicacies, the very best of the regional kitchen, their fingers and lips wet and salted, their kinder messily smacking a snack, licking two scoops each for dessert—might we recommend the Creamatorium, MAP 3D? Can I borrow your book? Can I hide with my guide? A young mensch squats in front of the gate presently open, shuckling lowlife and sucking away, at a cigarette he’s rolled like his mother flakes pastry, like his favorite barmaid flicks her tongue at his…slowly coming apart.

We’re closed today, he says, keeping his eyes from the smoke—closed, the appropriate state of the eyes for memory’s opening.

Smoke required, too, and so, the puffed tone.

No, it’s not, says Kaye, then nods at the woman who’d supported him earlier, who over the course, third, of their meal has become his fiancée. Maybe they’d let them marry at the church in the square.

Who to ask?

We’re undergoing repairs, the mensch says, reconstruction, please consider a donation, you know the spiel, I’m on break.

No, says Kaye, I don’t. What gives? He turns to the Group, it’s his Group he’s thinking of it as, he lets himself think, if only for a moment, a shut of the eyes this meditative minormorphosis, a protomorphosis, perhaps, come unto the minatorily mundane, whichever’s opposed and so comfortable, known: his Group that’s beginning to lose interest in the Cemetery, though, any at all, really, beginning actually to lose interest in even being a Group, would just as well give up on it, individually, call it a day, without loyalty, go back to the hotel, take a hot shower and—suddenly, the mensch springs from his squat, steals Kaye’s hat from his head (a new, spooning bowler he’d upgraded to upon arrival: a pity, its brim had been bending just perfectly, upturned and immaculately round as if a haloing smile), then steals through the gate, leaving it open and then into the Cemetery itself, disappears behind bars, imprisoned by trees. Nothing obstructing their entry, Kaye walks in heavy, freezing shoes two, three steps to the gate but as he reaches for its handle to open it wider to allow his fiancée to pass through gently first, a gale swings it away from him, fled: rudely shut, rustily latched, locked in an untoward kissing of metal; and so he tries for it again, tries at it, the hefty knocker founded obscene as a fist, the handle yet again an extended palm cast in iron but empty, still nothing, then remembers, the first mensch’s key, in that memory withdrawing a hand to knead the full, lumpy hurt of his stomach as if to heal a bloating of boils, their expression, a carbuncle’s emote, an indignity lanced, brought to a head from which he’s soon weeping; that, and he’s developing a troubling rash. He falls on the gate with forearms, elbows, shoulders, the edges, the sharps, but no one answers, none opens, then presses the full but also emaciated, increasingly fevered, almost tubercular weight of his body against it, catarrhconsumptive and bleeding its time what a waste of good scrofula, such a squander of nodes…it won’t budge, and so he turns to be comforted by his fiancée, Faye her name is, stepping into a mudpuddle that wasn’t there before, he hadn’t noticed: it’d probably been secreted from below, piped up from an underground tank designed especially for this muddying purpose—it creates business for the hotel shoeshines, keeps the rag industry going through a tough patch, scuffed, supports Polandland’s polish; and then there’s his hat to worry about, food poisoning, indigestion, or an allergy, maybe. All at once the skies open, nature ungated, the Group huddles together under the gate’s overhang…as a girl with hot rubor eyes and dark hair that’s inseparable from her dark, deepnecked dress makes her way past them, topped with—it seems like, Kaye’s hat. He twitches ticks to the front of the shiver, yells out to her in a voice of hoarse ice, the expected: that’s my hat, you’ve got my hat blah, but in response she just stops, turns to face him, shakes her head sultry, even more hair tumbles loose to the sky the hat flies to, coldly brimmed by the wind, swooned up through the air. Then she reaches among the pockets of that dress, which is slinky, formfitted by gusts, and empties herself, untucking: coins and bills omnidemoninant, (telephone numbers of and mail from the) presidents of shipping concerns and inspectorate bureaucrats, produces from her bosom a key on a chain inscribed with the legend: Room 50, hands it to Kaye with a whorish leer that makes Faye jealous enough to slap the wet from his face.

And surely—the key opens the gate.

Nu, fill in your own personal details, your own private designs—these coincidences have been keeping culture going for ages…it’s a paradox, all of it, it’s easy to think, in that it’s a parable, too, and as such, parabolic: always returning to whence it arose; a parable in that while it might make sense within its own system, which is closed, it won’t be applied outwardly, however you try, nothing corresponds…though how can anything be both paradoxical and, also, something else, in possession of any other quality, hymn, not so simple’s the thought: if it’s paradoxical, it’s only that, and nothing else, only a paradox, and then not even that, too. Kaye knows only this—he wants in. But there’s always a tug, isn’t there, the chain and its decapitated ball with a face, without eyes, without mouth…Faye his fiancée seething but dumpish, petulant, pouting, with the rest of them almost wholly disinterested now, though anyway becoming herded behind him—and so, to narrate themselves on. Kaye steps toward the gate, halfway through it, making it to the middle of the arch, between its archings, just as a mass of people stream out, umbrellasfirst, an even earlier Group or groups nearly impaling then trampling this Group, his, trying to make their way past in orderly file, trying to make their ways through, to insinuate themselves if only halfheartedly—but the other Group’s too strong, too willful, and anyway wanting out of the weather and home, their hotels, the ferrules of their umbrellas too sharp, too accurate, and black with hate, they beat them back, gouge eyes and navel, prick and slash. Finally, the old mensch with the one leg that this time around it’s the other he’s missing, him with the moles and nose and bifid beard, and a crutch stripped from birch, shuts the gate behind the Group just departed, wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, points at Kaye, grins angrily.

You’re late, he says along with the bells of the Church, ringing out in echo Kaye loses count how many tenored times; the mensch winds from them, their toll toll toll, his pocketwatch, chained inconspicuously what with the heady medal and the beard obscuring, setting himself five minutes early just to be sure.

We were here, Kaye yells, nodding fiercely to his fiancée and faithful others, jealous friends, hers, for support.

And then the mensch shakes his watch to his ear, you were early then, he says, whatever makes you feel better.

Kaye throws up his hands, and his fiancée with that earlier episode obviously forgiven places a palm on the back of his neck, which is soaked: he grabs the bars with his fingertips, claws…they’ve been caged in the open, are starving and thirsty again, and afraid, it’s contagious, this fear, this conspiranoia, made animal amid the human surrounding—Kaye shakes the bars and growls like the beast he’s become, aguish, abject, like the creature they’ve made him to be. A mutant, a changeling, a cockroach if insects have hats, if even they might deserve, might merit the commandment of cover. Here’s yours back, the mensch says removing his own, the highpeaked, mothworn relic of a war too anciently besides the point (the thrust finger, whose) to matter which cause he bled for, survived; he throws it up and over the gate. Management Assumes No Responsibility For The Safety Of Personal Effects—Anything Found Will Be Held Until Your Death, After Which It Becomes The Property Of Polandland.

That’s not mine, Kaye whispers as the hat lands on his head.

Thief! the mensch yells, accusing; he leaps in the air, upon finding ground his crutch snaps in two, into two little limbs, and he steadies himself, leans, waves the amputee splinters at Kaye, wildly, clattering them on the bars, between them.

Two Security scamper over, pat Kaye down with lingering hands.

Your papers, they ask, your passport and visa, your name, date of birth, which would you prefer: cash or credit?

This is preposterous. I have nothing of the sort. You know my identification’s been confiscated.

Is this yours? one Security asks, this the short fat mensch; the other’s as tall as his partner’s wide, thin as he’s short: always, they were hired that way from birth, have been bred for this gig—without culture, tradition’s convention, how would these two ever get work, stay together? He waves around the Room 50 key he’s found in Kaye’s pocket, turned the outsized iron key the onelegged mensch had used to unlock his teeth. How’d he exchange it so well, with such sleight, Kaye thinks: no doubt about it, these are professionals.

A woman handed it to me, a woman who had my hat.

You expect us to believe a woman stole your hat? says the tallskinny, taking the mensch’s from Kaye’s head and snooping his nose around the thin lining.

Not this hat—this one isn’t mine!

And so you’re also a liar! the onelegged mensch says, he’s leaning between the bars and panting, heaving his lungs out; he broke my crutch, too…shortfat takes hold of Kaye with one hand, liberally pinches his fiancée, unprotesting, with the other, as tallskinny goes to telephone, maybe, and never returns; shortfat relents, it’s getting dark and there’s Curfew to think of, last rounds coming on, rubs his hands for warmth, grows tetchy about the eyes and mouth then nervously asks the old mensch—who’s turned out in his second statement to the officer to be only the cemetery’s (and at that, third asst.) caretaker—for the time…are you sure that’s exact?

Quite.

And so shortfat dismisses the caretaker, nods to Kaye his release, walks up the street leaving him alone, without fiancée or Group—one gone back to plead his case to the head concierge (The Swiss is his title), who she’s been told has vast intercessionary connections, unspecified privileges, abusable power; the others gone showered, then mealed again to their sleeps, forgetting about everyone not dreaming their dream—as Kaye, enraged, freecaged, tries once last to bend the bars of the gate, smacks them with his head, flails in an exhaustion of even frustration.

You’d better be getting back to your hotel, shortfat yells over his shoulder, it’s Curfew.

Soon enough. Whenever we want.

We wouldn’t want you getting into any trouble you can’t afford.

By now, it’s dark, and the Cemetery would be closed: he’ll have to try again tomorrow; that is, if Faye’s up to it, if he is, not too sick from a night out in the snow; if she’d still love him, if he’d love her still, if they’d let him live just one more moon into morning.

A trashcan upended to its rumbustious side tumbles past him a laugh down the street—rolled in snow, rolling, still burning cold: crumpled corrugated with letters that’ve been sent by and to these tourists, his tourists, these postcards not censored, only forbidden, unsent, consigned to, cosigned by, a sinister flame. Dear Father dead father, and yet, never Sincerely. A dissevered chimney bellowing ash, the ciphers of sentiment’s cinefaction: Kaye follows the smoke, as he slips down the street, and every other step he takes he’s making moves for his hat, though he knows it’s not there.

It seems to be the season of disappointment, now, doesn’t it?

And so, in the spirit, here’s another interpretation: it’s that the Cemetery, this cemetery, was open all the while. It has been open, and is open still, six days a week dawn to dusk, major holidays excepted—though if it shuts its gates a moment too early upon Friday afternoons, which is the eve of our Sabbath, who can blame them, who would—and that anyone who ever wanted to might’ve walked in, and wandered around, without hindrance or hurt, beheld the Grave, had their audience, spent however satisfactory hours in contemplation, in suitable prayer, appeal, thanks or no thanks, a murmuring of hope, the laying of a florid rock, mulling over own mortalities, your blessing, your call. Without denial, without interruption. But it’s that these visitors, these maudlin tourists, wouldn’t have wanted that, wouldn’t have had it that way; it’s a situation existing only in their disappointment, what a waste: as it was, as it is, as it could’ve been, as it still can be—they’d file in, to pay not admission but homage, respect (entrance is free, as it is to every cemetery, the way it should be: after all, the people interred, the permanent visitors, the visitors permanentmaking, they’ve already paid for the privilege of any future visitation, dearly, in death then in the fees for death’s upkeep); the Gate’s open, any gate’s open; generous hours are prominently posted, again: excluding holidays secular, and religious, and Shabbos; the elderly groundskeeper or caretaker, call him what you will and he’ll smile, he’s always smiling, he welcomes the visitors, happy to have them, he’s lonely, he pities; the Grave’s kept in flowers, it’s kept full of them season depending—they’re sprouting from the very earth that’s the grave of all graves.

As for the mensch so sought after, this Cemetery’s most visited burial, this famous writer of stories and novels unfinished by night as by day an ironic functionary, a bureaucrat’s sarcastic conscience, this lowly insurance assessor (and they need insurance now like a hole in the head, Kaye’s thinking for whose peace of mind)—he lies alongside his father in a dark, leafy plot; given the relationship, their grave’s incredibly undisturbed, at peace is the feeling. He lies with his mother, also, they both do, under a stone that, however, is not the original. Regrettably. Wasteful. Ultimately, for its own good. No, all the originals are for the museums now, organizations only recently not for profiting, lately chartered, commissioned, just securing the necessary paperwork and approvals, stamps, clearances, and blessings to move in, to refurbish, spiff and shine. Now, about their own rejections, their touristy trials by delay, their processes interminably scheduled—petition after petition, only frustration to follow appeals to any Authority designated supreme—here’s the truth: they secretly wanted to be turned away, they not so secretly want it; we welcome that species of horror: after all, it’s all part of the experience, isn’t it, figured, refigured, packagedin. Terrible, that in the end it’s mere—entertainment. Anyone who has achieved purpose has failed it. Anyone who gains entry has lost life. But neither are such wretched exempt: if they prevail, even they must be humbled; we, too, must cover our heads—with something, with anything…with even the sky, or with the earth shoveled above us, a stone.

In the Church

All the sites taken care of, the musts, the have tos and don’t misses, checked off the To Do, blackened from red as if blood in the night lacking air, canceled from memory in anticipation of the final cancellation (no refunds will be offered, don’t even think it to ask), annulled in the face of the allannulling, the hind allannulled—they’re indulged, as if thanked, given the grace of a single allowance, their last. They’re shepherded perfunctorily, if with a slight disappoint with regard to the derision expected by most, to the Square, and into its Church: before any sacrifice, these lambs need time to mature, need to fatten their lean time, need to be fleshed out in full so that we know what exactly we’ve slaughtered—they’re lain down in a valley of glass, watched over by windows eve’s eyed…a marble pasture of Church. Though others hold it’s a Cathedral. Godfearing forget it, faith me no faith—it’s naming that’ll always be the duty most sacred: to church or not to church, that’s not the question—it’s naming, it’s number, its Record. And so the answer’s that no one knows from Cathedrals anymore, and that this building, whatever it is, whichever it was, whether the footstool of the bishop or the throne of the homeless, might be anything at all in its next incarnation: an orphanage, a hospital, warehouse, granary, stables; or else, it might be left empty, to be remade if into inutility, purposelessness, without worth; it might even be destroyed, like the rest, like its worshippers here, rubbled to the rabble of the Square, never to be remade, never to be rebuilt, resurrected in memory only through the sky that, over the centuries, in the course of the worship’s erection, has held its spiring shadow, now faded in the ambition of form; the heavens would waste away into a nothingness, a void, found in the volute shape of the grandeur that once shaded the further light of the furthest sun from the earth and its barren cold dark. Though if a grandeur, then a grandeur unfinished, always imperfect, imperfecting, anonymously flawed in its failure to effect, to aid, in yet another opportunity forsaken by God to rejoin us in our own supplication. And so as not to embarrass them in this moment of need, let’s say it’s whatever they want it to be—a church, a cathedral, Saint Someone’s, Saint Other’s, Saint Anyone They So Desire’s…if only they pray hard enough for it; only the best for the conduct of their martyrdom, their decisive confession, what else to expect from such accommodating hosts? No need to thank us, just die. To fist a hole in the ice of the font, knuckleshards from the lip of the piscina, a flotsam of blood, stoupy skinchips, bergs of bone. With quick nervous fingers they flick themselves pure with the lick of filthy water restive under the freeze. Maybe it’s holy, blessed—by their pain, by their (even the Virgin groans) tears. To kneel at the threshold, then rise, they make their way toward the altar.

Here, this place of worship of nondenomination…enough to know that it’s theirs, not much longer—arching Magnificat, delicate yet hulking, an elemental transcendence of elements, less rock and stone than an architecture of them that is in its totality history itself, an earthrecord, time bound within a complex of complicated masonry, ascetic iron, vitirform trills, rills of gold. Here, they’re here to pray, to flagellate themselves with tongues, to mortify—to pray though for what they’re not sure exactly, besides the condition of prayer itself, innerness, attentive mindquiet: for salvation, maybe, for an afterlife, perhaps, let me go without pain—to consecrate themselves worthy of such terminal martyrdom, it’s important before anything else to make a firm ground of faith, to more deeply found their belief. Please, let us go, let me loose and I promise to do whatever I’m asked, even hope…O if only You would send us an angel, an aeroplane and fast, parachute me a new pair of shoes. Redeem me first, then we’ll talk about trust. Blame, later bargain. All fall to their knees, the Sandersons prayer to prayer. From its console in back, the great organ shakes, throaty pipes, its diapasons woken to rattle, giving a gag; divisions shatter like the stains of the glass, admitting pure light. To pray for their own souls, no—to prey on the souls of family immemorial, sacrosanct and died long ago, whose scavenged holiness might merit for their inheritors, they wish, the most meager of Miserere, all they Psalm to ask. To be delivered into the very hands of the stigmatic, openpalmed, dirtynailed…clasped seeking prayer, clasped seeking the blessing of prayer—for the miraculous resurrective unto the sacristy’s hide, Amen, hold me near. Mold weeps from the altar, flows from the skinflint folds of the wormworn antependium, the glaciate rot of settings high and without jewel atop the jut of the retable, the reredos, oozing wet down the apse westward toward the opposite apsis, down the nave, also, toward the stumps of the transept, its cruciform arms uncrowned, without hands, fingerless…sheathed in thorns iceformed, iciclebarbs, clots of cold veining the floor, which is marble. A dust stirs, as they kneel to rise only to kneel again, then rise again, and then again kneel. Hassockfooted sons of a Father with the head of a Son, they swallow their paternosters in a teemed teething of lips: less to invoke the divine, His mercy, not one authority holds, than to ensure the remembrance of history, the good faith of record—if such ideas as History and Record could ever exist in a future to which we, too, would impossibly survive.

Pray, Miriam’s offering encouragement, pray your hearts out, if hearts you have; this is your last opportunity, be…how do you say it? be grateful, that’s it, for your lives, for its plenty, what was. Thank us; thank your God for us.

Again, she reminds—don’t forget to enjoy yourselves. I’ll be back to collect you all in an hour.

Above them, the bells: their waves ripple out a sea in the air—an ineluctable mass of soundweather, the sonant oceanic, a diluvian rumbling flume: it reverberates a rusty air, stifled dully by that other wet coming in through the belfry, the eaves. They’re too many tolls…they can’t all be counted, how much time: their ringing descending deep from the hollows to patronize the leaden vaulting below; they’re heard resounding as if brass beaten to lime, encrusted in cirri, balmcaked in salt; theirs less a bright clanging clank in the belfry than the clattering shatter of frozen fire; less the brilliant lick of an icebound bell than the cloudcast sounding of an anchor struck wreck: the walled claps of the bells’ wake swelling a sensed force into a felt power…reaching upward in prayer, our worshippers making as if to clasp them beaten as hearts to their breasts, are then knocked down into a thronging Mass, humbled, made modest at the knee—the hindmost hinge in the door of their bow, the gate of their prayer: to enter the sound that is the church, the sonic itself that is the cathedral with them rendered unto air, the substance of only an echo; to exit, they have merely to remain ringing until they’re no longer—to shut their mouths, stand alone. Fade. They’re pewed, rowed, fallen down to one knee, bent to grovel at the hovel made of another’s bow—the father one ahead, the stranger one over, the same. Then, they’re righted again, now again, up and down they creak, they crack, as if their bones are deadened wood, suffused with an ache, dull as deepgrained, the knotted throb of limbs, sapped alive if cold with thin blood. A few older members of the Group, many of them more stubborn than believing, more habitual in this than ever swayed by a faith, they get up after an initial kneel, sweep their slacks and skirts of dirt and must, remove themselves from pews’ hassocks to the seats rowed along the walls in cornered chapels, to sit a while and think less of God than of the art hung around them. To look and whisper, to point and listen and touch and—to tour. Then, as if not feeling quite confirmed in their covenant, whatever that would be, they all, eventually and without exception, fall down again, prostrate: to make meek, an attempt at the inevitable abject, their souls weak, but pathetically true; humility as an order of wretched sublimity—the immodest shame of those who would seek eternity not in heaven (which for us is merely the forgetting of earth, a mundane, temporal forgetfulness), but rather in the lives of tomorrow, the future; their names to be writ into prayers to be invoked by generations, of and for generations, to come, seeking favor far in excess of anyone’s merit, even that of the very son of God, whose image—which merely usurps the miracle of his existence, they should be told—is splayed up on high, nailed to a cross just beyond the further altar. Up and down they kneel and they narrow, they straighten, they genuflect, bow down and up—as if this Group’s nothing but a congregation of marionettes (which are a local kraft-product, and after antique home furnishings Polandland’s most notable export), wunderpuppets strung down on spidery strands from the vertex of the highest spires, tugged to the innermost peaks of the vaulting and from there set down slack on their wood, the flaking flesh, now made to rise up again, then down upon their knees again and again, writhing along with the snakelike wriggling that holds them: slitherine dust, illuminated through the roseate windows, mullionmartyred, the iron hairs of the sun, them being made to cross themselves madly and, inevitably, silly…tangling, becoming knotted with the crux of that sacrifice maddeningly ancient, laughable as so long ago and yet still worshipped, held in immemorial awe. Spectacles, testicles, it went, wallet & watch, and with time almost up: all those millennia later and still they libel us with blood, long deserving, earning, their present fate—the conscience of such curse…to cathect every Christ’s the idea, the sacred heart of the Mater, dolorosa, virginal in punishment, mangered new to a retribution as exacting as this: they pray to her, too; her son, they’ll begin to ignore: if any would survive, they’d survive without him, soon to regard God’s putative heir with less love than pity, the submission of only a pitiful shrug—now that they’d know what he went through, now that they’d know what even he didn’t survive.

Dogma, it’s worthless, gone to the dogs to bury bonedeep…and the lion shall lie down with the lamb, sure, right, whatever you say. They’re thinking, what makes a ghost holy, what’s so holy about any old spirit, and what makes being holy that much better than being alive—a catechismic calamity, lost. They weep a last Lacrimosa; their teary mass rips a voice through the Mass. Have mercy on us, Kyrie, whether we be flawed or perfected as one. To sing through a single mouth, sunmutual, sunswallowing—silent. Lord in Heaven, we’re homesick…there’s a moon through the window, it’s time to go home. Miriam, her umbrella ever aloft (clutching in her other hand a weave of basket, her own late brunch), wades through their tears down through the nave, through the reeds of their rush, their quick murmur to finish, to sum—then herds them, in a docile flock, as compliant as corpses already, back down the nave again and out the doors of the Church, parting, their weeping streaming out in advance of them, though, as if to announce their end to the coldbrazen air: their flow to freeze, then, into a slip of steps; they slide down them, this stair shed of flume, how they fall—into the gaping, screwtoothed mouths of waiting trucks, gasping exhaust, to be hauled out to the sorrowed stations, and there…trucks dumping their burden to the insatiable bellies of idling, smokefoaled trains: their tracks as long as the rail of the day and as torturous, thrashing, wild—chartered by dusk, they’re to be hauled through the night, for tomorrow’s yawn, the dawn of their death…

Thank You For Visiting

Our Tour’s over, finished, sof, thank you kindly, we all really enjoyed our time together, the little we had to spend, here on earth, in the world; maybe we’ll do this again, get together one of these days, a reunion, to reminisce, remember already, it won’t be soon enough: my heaven or yours, name the cloud, we’ll be there…

For now, though, it’s time to settle up, and to fortify, too, one’s position, armed with nothing amid the turrets of a castle of cloud—time to validate a status on the books: to grave an encampment deep within the lines of the ledger, wisping smoke to burn at the bind. Affiliation’s moved in, demanding its dues, and the Solutioneers, professionals that they are, expect prompt payment. Their remit, pounds of flesh impounded. Less a revival of an olden play, less to rule a ruleless game, more to revivify for the sake of spiel, they extract their knives from a cast of smoking, boiling vats, sharps culled from dripping wicks—to cut deep at the primordial rib, then turning to flick at the quick of wrist, exacting their dribbling tribute: incising a gash of mouth at the gut, excising the imprisoned flesh, the imprisoning flesh; a ribcage: a cage of ribs, caging the ribs. Once gutted from mass to individual, with appetites, wants and needs, with indulgences, with schedules and itineraries of their own, they’re regrouped, again coagulated, permitted to circulate as currency of newer veins: assembled in nerves, bundled in sinews, heartmusclebound, freed from the tight pack of trains, regurgitated from the boxcar tract, the intestinal track, then rearranged in limb. Allowed just a moment of air, an eye’s breath of outer light, they’re then reassigned to inner dim, a roiling gurgle, to these bowels of barrack, these quarters halflived. Drained of starve. Shivering, bluelipped, blacklipped, without lips or voice. Made fit to slip into bodied bunks, between meager slabs of spine, columns brained, rows shorn of ornamenting thought…they’re numbered as if all are mere vertebræ in a mythically infinite serpent, stingily coiled yet envenomed with combustible poison: it sheds its skin as it slithers its multitude, forever stretching out to the outermost end of its endless span, to make its greatgorged swallow—the enormous prey, itself, fixed to the tooth of its fang. Helixworming. Petrieyed. Lensed in reversible time…

Understand, what we’re confronting here is a reversal, Peripeteia: call it the evil of banality, the protocol by which we enkitsch the lives of the no longer living, rendering the rendered unto Caesars unceasing, offering their memory up to the dicts of any armchair dictator, to the pronouncements of any weekend historian, decrees from the sofa, the judgments of the further den. Here’s what we’ve only now understood. You’re either historically alive, or you’re historically dead. There’s no argument there. And that the purpose of life is only to revolt against dying, and that we do this, all of us do, through our rallies and speeches, some delivered to millions, others kept locked in our heads, marches and parades through what was Berlin or our bedrooms, through wars both global and intimate, fought forever and on infinite fronts. Please, it’s all about relations (discourse with an image, intercourse with the imaged and yadda), all a matter of access, of narrative angle, story arc. Institutional support. A career track. O the tenure of breath. Pay attention. Important. How we live amidst the publicity of privation. Witness the unique willingness of our people to package the product of experience both collective and individual, only to market it—that experience of living through history, that experience of being forced to live against history (as simulacra not impelled by duress but by choice, it’s been said, not compelled by oppression, torture or threat, but amazingly by elective affinity)—it becoming a matter of preference to engage such sensation, to become occupied by such strange infotainment, as virtualized in seemingly every medium to be just enough real that you’ll come out of the commerce alive, and perhaps even willing to be upsold on an ever newer revelation, an even more intimate experience: that of your own life no longer yours, lived only between the deaths of your preference. Identify and die, deny thrice and survive, up to you. Debread the morning. Crumbling noon. Mooncrust saved for soup of nightsky. Birdfingered. Candletoed. They’ve drunk the dogs, they’ve eaten the hooves…sleepless—they’ve forgotten how to dream, in what language. This is what they remember, from what they never knew, from what they never experienced and never will, and we all say—Never Again! Camps are reconstructed. Reopened. This Camp Has Been Reconstructed Thanks To The Generous Support Of The Lauder—Muggston, Corp. Reopened, but less to host the victims than to provide for their subsequent visitors: admission’s always flowing blood and coin when your guests don’t die on you; it’s only once the last body’s burnt that the real money begins coming in—green growing from ash…in the end, it’s better to set up a spectacle, a landmark attraction, and all for the sake of peddling its image to fade, all for the purpose of licensing its horror, of merchandising its terror unto the umpteenth generation, trustfunded, that of the greatest inheritance, than to actually believe in the truth of an unchanging cause, a ceaseless crusade, the given and graven.

Understand, because there will always be change, please, there will always be cease, that’s important, and that the only ones who ever survive then survive their survival are those—schmucks, mamzers, up to no good—who are always, perpetually, reinterpreting themselves, reinventing themselves, remaking themselves along with the antipodal identities (theirs always, too) of victim and victor. Protean. Praying the mutable. If you don’t like my morals I’ll get new ones. If you don’t like those, I’ll just have what you’re having. If you’re not willing to share then I’ll take. Of course, future propositions aside, prophecies, predictions, plans however inspired tabled upon the deeprooted, belled as innumerably rung surfaces of cedartree stumps, postponed to bygones, exiled to the dark of the clock—of course, they’re put to death, here and now, we’ll spare you the details; that’ll all be prorated into the newest Tour leaving shortly: whatever screaming shouting praying promises and negotiations, whatever resistance there was, it’s merely a gesture, a measure of the mercy required; neither party would’ve wanted it any other way; quiet acceptance would’ve satisfied neither, docile fate (even if interpreted as token, as such gestural nonsense) would’ve gratified none. Though most are killed, the vast majority being accorded the privilege of massmurder, are put out of massmisery, many others, we’re sad to report, die just prior to the opportunity for such rarefied martyrdom: dying too early of fear, too soon how they just drop in their socks; though it’s less fear, some think, than it is inchoate anticipation, uncontrollable, they say, undue excitement at the possibility of being so chosen…some soil themselves, others feal, fall into a giggle, hyperventilating on their happiness at this prospect, this privilege, this right—at being condemned to suffer such an eternal condition, what should we call it, maybe by every name we’ve ever been called; a prospect so elementally sad, and a privilege so maddening, a fate so existentially gorgeous, and yet so bewildering, so gorgeously crazymaking, too…O to be ingathered into that most glorious State that is the eternalized promise of suffering, which is bordered by seas of jealousy, its shores zealously guarded by the most vocal, if gentle, of wolves. And yet again, for those still alive: history’s known, always has been, on record, and in every format your nostalgia might fetishize; once again, nothing’s ever denied an initial existence, never is or was, never will be. Surely, it’s terrible—it’s terrifying even to think, to test as Abraham once was tested, and once tested himself, if only metaphorically, or lamely angelically, your darkest convictions, your most vile capacities if ever reborn to an opposite side, remade into an oppressor, reinterpreted as victor, lord of the manner, king of the dunghill if only for now; a horror for one, then a horror for all, a horror once then a horror still and always forever. Never never again. Surely, once it’s known such tragedy can be forever forgotten—unless, that is, any of us might wish to avert its return.

They’d known if from the getgo and keep going, don’t run, that just calls attention—just walk, head down and fast, don’t look back…but the very fact that they’ve stayed on all this time, keepingup their participation through to the end, never once flagging or even thinking of flight—despite all how they’ve kept dumb on the safetyword, I forget, the very fact (less false than fiction, fictive) that they’ve in the end gone and turned in their vouchers, readying themselves for what they knew, what they have to know, was necessary and yet also knowing, they have to know, was never required (surely, probably, maybe—we each make our own Laws, carve into our eyes our own sets of commandments), that means history’s borne into the balance, hunks of dateflesh being judged in the scales of our eyes, yearmeat hung from the hand that tells the weight of our time. Means that this’d been Bereishit from the very beginning, preordained. Understand that lastminute, last moment Affiliation’s always an option—whether if you knew someone, possibly, or had a few friends somewhere or other, that’s the gossip, that such redepemtion’s on offer as unofficially as anything else: a rumor though who knows how wellpublicized. Perhaps such recourse’s kept whispersoft, it’s been suggested, never even mentioned at all, it’s been said, except, that is, in the loudest and most regular of announcements over the Polandland PA: offers to convert, openly voiced, if stridently exhorting, coming at all hours of the night, incentives offered then doubled to trip…join up now the gargle promises and you’ll receive what—your choice of home and a wife.

Still, despite any fanaticism for accuracy, for accountability, no one really knows how many of them opt to enlist; futz, the Record sure schrifts the wit out of me: numbers have been censused, then censured upon the request of the convert, expunged, slated for wipe, at least any documentation still extant’s been made inaccessible to better than us, classified best to forget it, topsecret of the bottomless drawer—offlimits to all even a rough estimate tamed gentle then leashed to an iron disclaimer as to how many of them are taking their keepers, their executioners, their saviors and trainers up on such a scandalous opportunity (with excellent benefits, good dental & health, twoweeks’ paid vacation’s the hope), such a horrendous occasion on which to become one of them, one with them. Most won’t talk about it, won’t darken their mouths. Unknown, then, not only what sum but also what kind—what why they go and shirk from death, to avail themselves of a falsified salvation; unknown who exactly birthwise, bloodwise, Judas themselves to exult in such debasement (yes, many have suggested, perhaps for their most secret souls it’s a matter of the Gnostic: sanctity as merited through sin, that old spiel), then up and leave their lines linedup to execution, two-by-two to gas and fire, there just outside the fray to untie the knot that was their rope, drop their pants, strip the rest, immediately exchange uniforms—new garb pressed and kept at the ready, personalized since before any of them ever were born—to reveal to all the makeshift of a new demeanor, to take on yet another development, on the wing, on the fly: shifts of wind, crossroadchoices, personalitychange. Then, to become as guards to their own, to their kin, colleagues of the armed menschs who now welcome the converted with gun, open arms—to become the executioners of their own families, whom they’d kill to survive, they have to, responsible for the others they’ve had to remove themselves from, to belong, the communities they’ve had to excommunicate from the lonely midst of their congregation of one, if only to become, mutatis mutandis, ultimately worthy of an incontrovertible shame: the humiliation of averting their own martyrdom, and so betraying belief for the infamy of a deeper, holier doubt. Of course, it’s been said, this is probably only a few of them, an embarrassed handful or so—or so we’re assured by a source no one’s entitled to extirpate or name. Most don’t need to be their own Jeremiah or Ezekiel, don’t need to dream the dreams of an Isaiah, or require the interpretations of a Joseph son of Israel to get the idea: how this is once-in-a-life, and yet though it means death, it’s a wonderful one, this martyrdom, and how you just can’t pass that up—how infrequently an opportunity like this would come around, goes the campsite, campfireside argument between husband and wife, how often they’re asking each other, themselves, did an opportunity like this really arise back when we had the numbers, the majoritycount? As for the kinder, they have their own say in the matter, are mandated their own, personalized, final solutions—having been assigned to an attachment of guidance counselors, a phalanx of baccalaureate advisors—irrespective of parental decision. Would all fundamentalists please report to the fundament? Thank you. Agnostics in agon, atheists placing faith in only themselves—putting egg after orphaned egg into one blackened basket, Miriam’s, reedwreathed, to be sent down that river that flows to a land called Posterity, located far in the west. In the end, it’s better to decry everything under the sun as older even than the foreskin of the unbelievable, born just the day before untenable, up all night crying colic without viability, than to harm even one single hair upon the Godhead; to pluck it as bald as the death of a chicken, and then to argue what came first—the Word become flesh, first scaly, then feathered, then molting in names—whether the yolk or the egg.

All who haven’t taken the Law upon themselves—as if a peddler’s burden, his wife’s pregnancy carrying high and to the right, indicative not of sex but of an enemy given quarter—they all die, and the Sandersons, too, who flame like fame in the stove, in the ovens, who pass like gas into air. And so now only the Affiliated are left. Finally, the realization of Rambam’s great prophecy, this the Messianic victory of the bornagain…enddays for those lately born upon the bow of Noah—conversion’s covenant arching above in living color, a rainbow a tainting of blood. All of them, that is, with just a few pitiable exceptions, leftovers, dross, we’ll deal with them shortly, the remnants, they know who they are—if you’ll just be patient, and you can be, I just know you can be, can behave, I know you pretty well by now, and I like you, you’re good people; if I had a sister, just wait and I’ll tell you…it’s over, wake up, our patience exhausted, finally, we’ve waited and wasted enough, it’s finished, over and done with, at last. There’ll be no more destruction that we don’t ourselves bring up, or create, no more Exile either—unless we get tired and decide to exurbiate out to Egypt again, redevelop the Valley of Kings, pave the dunes, stripmall the tombs; I hear the weather’s wonderful this time of year; we’ll raze Sweden, we’ll franchise Kamchatka, forget it, trademark Uganda, Africa, Asia, not a problem, I’ve got a brother on the board, the zoning committee. I ask you, when you own the whole planet, when all of it’s yours, and when there’s pretty much only you left and your family and those like you and likeminded, where the hell, exactly, are you supposed to exile from? where the gehenna are you supposed to exile to?

From the right side of the bed to the left.

Diasporate to the den, will you?

And leave me alone.

Exodus yourself to the corner market, pick me up a carton of milk. Whatever you do, though, keep your distance, stay away…don’t attract attention—but that’s antiquated thinking, because there’s no attention anymore, there’s no away and no distance, how we’re all on our own, that whole adrift in the universe thing, existentiallylike, atomic or I forget nuclear: we’re left at home all alone by the parents, the sitter, their God; we’re remanded to ourselves, with no one left to say No to us, to deny, deny and, thriceover, deny…left to our own most Edenic devices: we don’t need your Yeses no more, we don’t need no permission, to stay up real late, not shower, take in hours of mindless teevee; venturing outside only to loot the fruit from the tree on the lawn of our Garden. A scrutiny tears from laughter, oversight blinks—brothers’ keepers? What’s the schmuck still locked up for? He gets the keys to the castle; I get the keys to the car.

Abel, my brother, over here, come closer, don’t worry, I won’t hurt you no more…listen, I heard this voice just last night when I was out taking a piss on the lawn (I came home drunk again, I know, Kiddushshikkered, hahaha, right, couldn’t make it so I went all over the bush), anyway so listen, Abel, listen to me there’s this voice it slithers up my stream of piss, right up my putz and around my body, my chest and like all the way up to my head where it slips its tongue forked into each ear.

You listening, hymn?

S-strangling.

Cain, it says, lis-s-ten up bud, my name’s-s permiss-ss-ion—and I’m here to tell you a few things-s.

Good & Evil, nu, they’re jus-s-t what you make of them, the only absolutes-s are a whole lot more obvious-s than that.

Nudity’s-s okay, as-s long as-s s-she’s a real s-she (thes-s-e days-s, it’s saying, you never can tell).

Lis-s-ten, the snake hisses in one ear out the other, I heard (from a certain bird I s-shouldn’t name, the other night, I think Eve) that your putz of a father he’s-s throwing you out of the Garden, thinks-s it’s-s high time you two boys-s went out on your own. Here’s-s a tip. Head for America. There you’ll live as-s gaudy and as-s loud as-s you pleas-s-e. Des-s-troy s-stuff. Make mess-ss-es-s. No problem.

Open two shuls-s, never s-step a foot ins-s-ide one of them.

Futz, never find yours-s-elf ins-s-ide either.

Als-s-o, there’s-s no reas-s-on to live on top of one another anymore, you’ve got no excus-s-e.

A word to the wis-s-e? Go ghetto the des-s-ert. There’s-s a whole bunch of S-State outs-s-ide California.

Mos-s-t importantly, keep everything in pers-s-pective…then the snake slithers back down the way it’d arrived, though it disappears into a pucker, flicking up the hole in his tush—forty years-s wandering the wilderness-ss, a generation dead, and you think you’ve had it rough?

Try an eternity being me.

Hey Hierophanatics! History’s ready, willing, and parable, are you? parabolic, that eternal arc—perpetually relimned, always rainbowed realigned: surveillance aeroplanes ziz overhead, dive down; the zatzatzat of helicopters through cloudcover, their rotors hacking air through a smokebank. Postmortem reports conflict with the broadcasts, contradict our intelligence, which is preferred by nine out of ten, blow our hopes for a sustainable crisis all to futz, Kingdom Came. Contrary to information previously invented—there’s less rape, and even less torture; certainly lesser crimes than are reported, at least those perpetrated upon any humanity worthy of them—as for the rest of the beasts, no comment, next question. Suffice to say, there’s no mad Golgotha stand. No Hail Mary last ditch trenchmouthed teratological fight. Zoglandia rid of all the perfidifiers, it’s been easy and fast, too easy and too fast it’s simpler and quicker to state, which might imply to any dissent a specie of problem, a disconnect amid the chatter of wires, a true resistance still lying in wait, Underground. But rest assured, you—you in your new homes, tucked into your new beds, dreaming new dreams of even newer homes and even newer beds and ever newer kinder tucked within their own dreams, which are yours, too—that it doesn’t, that every once in a while we just get lucky, having barely begun just when victory’s ours, the world already ended on us. This is the first time in our history that we have had so much power, and yet there’s no one left to inflict it upon, which is strange. What hasn’t there been: none of those rumoredly huge hostile armies, welltrained and kept at the ready to outnumber even the most mystical permutations of hope; no ridges clouded with enemy stormtroops recruited from unworlds imagined or not, overcasting in their shadows the valleys we held; no strike force so elite that we can’t reveal even to you its designation, falling its heroes so deep up the river we’d have to deny their very existences, the rivers’, too—first response dead thousands on the uprooted fields outside Austerlitz only a myth, a legend merely useful, parabolic in the extreme, reinforced by a detachment from the 18th irregular regiment of the Very Idea, routed from Hell, the Middle Finger of the Hand of God—Whose lips presently wail the bugle call, sevenvalved echoes of Jericho off the tremulous walls, if any still stand, a sentinel if not for peace then for still.

Threestar General Ariel Support dips a schmeck tabak, an imported brand he plugs deep in his cheek; riding shotgun, he sneers spit to his underlings as they make their seventh and ultimate rotation around the perimeter. At Camp, action’s calming, becoming routine: the horizon’s a mass of hair, of blondhair, of yellowhair and goldilocked, flaxen, platinum, and towlike, ginger, and strawberry sunned, auburn and otherwise Caucasianally burnt: plaits of the stuff, reeds and weeds of it, tangles thicketed, brambles barbed wiry.

Fire from the sky and all that mishegas, the General’s yelling over the engine with the windows cranked down, then we’re hauled in to deal with the mess, that’s the infantry, son…he’s preaching to his driver, a recent enlistee just in from Monsey or Muncie (check his mailcall, a relation once shipped him a challah postmarked Walla-Walla)—you should’ve talked to a lawyer before you signed up. Visibility edging the rim of zero, the same nullity as that of the temp. General Support’s in field camos, his neck and ears warmed with the worn of a stolen chinchilla. Their vehicle’s a wonderful new feldgrau Mercedes, shanghaied just last week outside Marienbad and ingeniously refitted: a turretmounted machinegun, a handful of surface to airs. Support’s spitting orders for an end to what’s been a cursory search: interlocking circles of like Mercedes and caterpillaring tanks never to make butterfly rank, to converge treads and wingless tires at the apex of Zaol II, is what it’s known as—to ensure no one’s survived.

After this last and seventh panzerpass through, this Camp’s to be closed, Zaol officially decommissioned, demoted to the status of field. Then, to be reconstructed, though first, it has to be cleaned: that’s why this maternal embed’s been ordered, maids to be parachuted in later today. Millionthgeneration transplanted maybe they’re Romans pouring dead into northeastern morning, scorched in the freeze. After all, someone has to pick up after them, and their own mothers, they’re dead…someone has to tidy up, featherdust if fosterly at dawning’s remains: they’ll be dressed appropriately for the wetwork, babushkad in shifts, armed with brooms and mops, dustbusters and vacuums galore. Infantry’ll provide support from the ground, in contact with the cover Above. A winged formation suddenly swoops, everyone raises their heads and gasps deep. Call it the Last Crusade, Support’s saying, those used to be Abulafia bombers—Jerusalem fell in a day. This revamped Holocaust has forced them to reexamine their relationship to regression, technology as the way to best preserve the tradition—we got the best military in the world, Support’s saying, forget that it’s the only one now, all its hardware and more menschs than we know what to do with. Answer me, son—what’s the idea of a past when it’s not invoked against any hostile present? with only them making the history now, imposing the history, with only us left? That wasn’t a question—at ease. Have to rethink, rework, back to the modernly basics—rekindling advancement, the resurrection of progress in light of the exigencies of the pure. It’s inevitably fast, in the wink of an eye. We’ve radared Judea. Behold Samaria in all its missiled glory, which severs the earth from the heavens above. General Support straightens his yarmulke, which is fastened around his head on a leather thong tied with a bow under his chin. As for his driver whose name Support doesn’t remember, never knew—as they slow to a stop, he fingers his tzitzit for luck: they’ve been made to stop bullets; his tefillin are bandoliers, one boxed onto the arm he doesn’t shift with, the other piled atop his head, which is shaved and nodding along. All this is an assimilation. Don’t ask—it feels natural enough.

Goddamnit, General Support yells to himself, he yells everything, can you believe? Their dreck stunk in a week. We didn’t even have to fight over Shabbos…turns to his driver idling their Merc: you ever look deep into those eyes, son, I mean deep, cold and blue, unfeeling, stupid, I’m talking animaldumb? Nothing’s there, empty, knockknock, nobody’s home. He opens his door and jumps out to what’d been base camp HQ, his paunch wobbling crazily on impact, he’s put on twenty pounds since assuming command. He spits another thick wad, on a boot, then steadies himself amid the swirly dust and the skeletal sky, places that boot dripping on the tush of an old pair of uniform pants, issued by the renewed Levi-Strauss. He scans the goy’s number from the label—the name’s “Dowd, Peter Paul,” then radios into the SS, those Scrimpers & Savers, an unofficially cracked, ragbony platoon flown in from Upper Merion’s King of Prussia and Affiliate malls up and down the Siburban seaboard, northeast; the emes, a squad made up of the cheapest rattiest bastards ever raised by the most mental of mothers Rodentia: I’ve got clothes to cash, he says, I’ve got your pants here, your jeans, denim, real nice, say, tenthousand pair, decent condition, need a bit mending, shirts, too, size (checks a few collars from Dowd’s fellow grave) mostly XtraLarge, socks and shoes salvageable, Over, why not. Why’d we bother to clothe them, don’t ask me. Or bathe them and house them or what. I don’t give orders, I follow. Wallets and watches are mine, Over, but you better get here right quick for the organs—this Dowd’s passable young, liver and kidneys’ve got years.

At the further curve of their furthest circumambulation, way past the perimeter fence, into the spill of latterdays’ death—last nights ordered a rush, a mad frothing into morning’s calm bed, strawstrewn with dawn’s reddish strandlings, its braided rivers of blood…how they’d been directed to martyr quickfast, doubletime before that doubling month of Adar returned, and with it its moon ordaining that newest of holidays, the festival of Purim rededicated, with the Sanhedrin proclaiming it V-Day—the impassioned observance of our most recent miracle lately usurping an olden salvation, the random succor of lots (who gets to scavenge, who goes without); then beyond…Zaol I–VII, each encampment circumscribing the victory in an inset of rings, as if targets rippling out from camp to camps over fields that are field, plod after plot of this soaked, soaking earth, anything but plain—matted a rasp in barbarous curls, ringlets, snips, spikes, licks, and locks; a harvest wildly wilted this devastatingly untonsured spanse of wildform growth, this if not yet thinning, blondbrowning ground. A scatter of jaundice, scalps expressionlessly blank as picked clean of features…and then atop this all, red heifers, which are less prized nowadays considering they’ve been bred by the hundreds of heads, leaning to fat from their previous starve, they’ve been engineered to graze hereupon, to grave, teething up the crown of the crop: this yellowed to blond, this dark ginger darkening in its tear to dreck’s brown, exposed, with highlights of light henna, last dye grown out, still growing out even in death, lightest red streaked skylike with peroxide. Hair, coming up from the fields, as if grown by the very bald of the earth: there are heads buried down there, they’re up to their necks in it, mouthed nosedeep, at the eyes and then deeper toward the brittle crown, the pastured scalp; not screaming or shouting for help, not even blinking eyes or crinkling ears with wrinkly foreheads, no pain, and not much face left to time or interpret with: worms make their wriggly hurtles from nostril to nostril, socket to whistle of air between what teeth remain. Bodies planted, many suspect they’ve been purposefully planted: be patient, your certificate must be still in the mail…as a reminder to whatever fight might remnant a muster, a Resistance, Underground the underground, a.ny a.cronym that might never have had any name, whether boulder or bold, under which to wig or disguise (it was all, it’s been said, this sick Kapo’s idea, the work of the Austiner Rebbe, unofficially held to be one of the most vicious schmucks ordaining around).

Now, heifers don’t teethe—they tear by shaking their heads, No…denial, declination, as if they’re answering the only question they know: are you yet sated; meaning, hasn’t this been enough…they shake their own heads to shake the heads up and out of the ground, all recognizably mangled, a few still necking onto torso or limb, but most severed, decapitated, bulbously without body—corpses to be zipped up in unmarked shrouds then sold backcountry, to General Support’s old fratfriend, the Rebbe, who it’s been said brokers the deal with his brother, socalled, in truth that’s a rumor a ninetyyearold Palesteinian woman who keeps herself in a suite at the King David Hotel equipped for OR, vitals to be transplanted, alien blood contaminant, an impurity, spreading…as for the heifers, they don’t bite, son, they chew, I mean with their teeth, those dozens of them—they munch at the skull to swallow it all mealy and mushed, on down to the rumen, the reticulum, which is the ruminant’s primary stomach of many, too many; as many stomachs as there are heavens and more, there where these heads would further soften, loosening skin, bone and brain if only for all to be sent back up as cud, cycled, as if to return sustenance back to the earth, as if kvetching, not warm enough, overdone, a petty complaint, says General Support—it’s bitching, forgive them: then, they’d be chewed again, he goes on explaining to anyone he’s ordered to listen—how he’d raised cattle back home on the farm, remembering to his menschs a ranch out in Texas with a hundred head as he tells it, twice that on another occasion, down by the border I’m talking, a youth spent at Mexico’s edge…by the molars, he says, then swallowed back down to the reticulorumen, that’s its name, there past the papillæ, don’t ask, they resemble fingers, like tickling, you know, the acids, a giggling like, then the omasum, you with me, that’s where the water’s absorbed, the abomasum next, finally, the true stomach, the last in the ebb and flow of digestion until the intestine (right here—and he traces its snake down and around the stomach of a teenaged girl who’d died preggers), down that tract then muscled out the other end, he says, dreck and so forth, and then everything begins again, the cycle, sustenance and waste, the most intimate kind of return. Goddamnit, he says, ain’t it gorgeous? Nature, what nachas. This time of year daddy’d be preparing for spring. Insemination time, breeding the chattel. He was the first in the state to give up his pigs. We’re all very proud.

Heads litter the fields of the field as far as the wind. Aeroplanes, they’re no longer surveilling, they’re bombing again, friendlyfire, not quite: clearing the air to the east, destroying what evidence (of just one mensch’s interpretation of inhumanity, we’re talking the Rebbe’s, Protector of this particular quarter), along the way racking up not a few casualties civilian and service; besides the ostensibly humanitarian quorum of motherly maids, airdropped earlier and presently busy at their stations of triage, dusting at pants, removing pants, with their retractable rollers removing lint from garments deemed particularly valuable (at least with solid potential for resale: ostensibly unisex sweaters, sportsjackets, women’s wear, skirts and sundresses wrapped in unlabeled plastic, then hummered on out), nominally Affiliated peasants of almost every precarity’s allegiance are being exploded high from the earth that birthed them in what’ll have to be described as a regrettable instance of pilot error, or mechanical failure, whatever else the addressing of would help us improve what we do while at the same time justifying our taking the lives of these witnessing wretches—more work for the burntembered cows, whose own sacrifice, it’s argued, remains sacred only in how it might, through the absolution of their digestion, obliterate any ashed traces of this operation, our officialized sin the only merit of which has been the thoroughlessness of its execution: to breakdown, ferment then calm with muscles and water, this wasting away, to a soil, to soil—only to grow, which is to dissent, yet again…honorary menschs promoted poor of family, of language and nation, withered stalks impoverished by order and fear into ghastling groups, then assigned to their own dizzying but dwindling clocks of clearing and wood, equipped with pointed staves to pick up sharpfirst what inhuman trash’s been left behind from the camps and, offtime, as slaves, tolerated, to gather for their own any blown crust—what even the heifers won’t low to consume.

A headlong incendiary, no greater than the others except in its threat, only nearer. An aeroplane flying low flying wildly, as if almost out of gas its engines down stalled, heaving forward, convulsing, its womb opening slowly, to birth: a bomb on your house, a bomb on your heads, one for each ear. A lone, ribhuddled heifer, the most starved around, the weakest and slowestdriven, the gruntiest, runnysnouted runt, it’s tearing at this huge hulk, an enormous round of gleaming ordnance or mine netted underneath a knot of corpses, an alien body amongst bodies hard and strange, a pearly prickly fallen thing presently parturient from a tangle of fleshy kelp and weather: two keratinous juts coming out of its sides, curving up to the sharp taper of blades; twin chitinous growths, cutting the air to pierce at the sun—strongstalked, one’s a rock, the other’s a stone. Or else, they’re horns. Around these volutinous spans as white as bone, streaked with blood, a mass of lackluster, thinning more than ever but lately kinky hair, unremembered this shade the dark of underground night, such a saddening change from the previous blond, and lately infested, too, with every kind of louse known to mensch and mouse alike: a few lousy species no sage has yet managed to identify, other louses they don’t even know yet exist, though no one does, and the lice hardly know themselves: they’re just simple creatures; all they want is to steal life from the living, their existence an effortless halflung, to suck the blood of a host—which explains these stains trailing to blemish the crescenting moons that are icicles; that are horns. Up from the unbarbered forehead, which is peely and flaking and dandruffed with drift. About that head proper—amazingly, a miracle, we’re speechless, please, still, give me a moment, I’m being torn up…the horns, they’re grown from a head, and the head, it’s grown, is growing still, from a body, out from the earth, a wrigglingly living wracked sac of a soul: it’s B, me, over here, the Untermensch, unto the mensch under the Under-mensch, udderly menscheddown, demoted and dirtied, I’m full of filth and sick horny, having buried myself to hide, amid a copse of corpses, for safety, to think and rest up, to wait it out, eternity and all, just my luck.

My hide uncovered, and with what left of my hair stuck fast in the heifer’s hurl, about to be ground down into the cycle of putrescent swallow and putsch (it can only be hoped)…I raise my head then my body to elbow the earth, to toss from me the corpses that skeinstick my legs, go to poke at the dumb, animal eyes of the heifer with my not sure which they are whether of brilliantined bone or extrudingly calcified brain, newly grown out, you like them, what do you think: windsharpened, weatherfrozen, their weight, the cumbersome balance…goddamn it, they’re giving me a terrible headache. Attacked, wounded staggery and flabbily farmisht for a fodder on its slip-shoddy hooves, the heifer lets out a rounded vowel, a planetary low, which is swallowed into the echo of the explosioning around us; its mouth opens wider, more, as if to take my head in all the way as a cork to its call; it tears my hair to throw me up not into its gape but onto its back again, hairy if warming…I’ve been here before. I’m saddled in reverse, my face to face the heifer’s tush, my eyes, my nose, my mouthy ears, how to tell it to you so fetid with flies, with maggoted dreck…the entire field around us as if flesh itself suppurant with flesh reeking, putrid, a skin smutted with bodies bombed to fly high and land messy and the butchered carcasses of big innocent cows, turned the same bruisy colorlessness of the blasting around; with the cinerulent singe of such undone, letdown, blowncrazy hair filling the air with a gas of bright blond; how we’re wildly spooked through all this in a stampede of one and of me not guiding but turnedaround riding, more like holding on not for my life but by instinct, with one hand on the nape of the heifer’s neck as thin as a sinew of spine and the other why’s it gripping hard to one of my horns as if I’m riding, I’m guiding, myself—our lonely trek out toward the open, with our four horns slashing at the slash of the wind, how we separate the smoke from the flame.

The heifer, it’s a relation don’t ask me what or which to the heifer that’d led me back home to the cedars of Joysey—we’re two of kind, we are, me and her or it, beast and mensch, each of us becoming imbued’s what I’m saying with the soul of the other: with mine, it talks to itself, prays to be relieved of its burden, which is me, prays to be burdened with relief; and with its, what’s new, I’m humiliated, feeling such a bovine bloating inside, a new tonguing out from within, the snub of an animal silence; how in the beginning, we become exchanged, then merged, and eventually one, then ride on. On heiferback, and then with the heifer on my back and me hoofing us on with it horning me hard—I’m bucking, I’m buckling, getting tired, and so, changing again—we’re refugeeing deep into Polandland, toward the brute, campless edge and its Continentally, civilizationally middling fade into what once’d been Asia or so: to ride out the neglected quarters, unto fifths, the eighths, the eighteenths, and further into emptiness divided only by steps, a hoof-length, a cloveclop; to make our time to lose past huts woodthatched, past loose coops and cribs and pens and hutches, haybale bolus caravanical things left wheelrobbed by the roadside…mudward abandonments of corroded concrete lacking cement, and so falling all over themselves as if in clumsy apology for their very existence, alongside reactor collapses that irradiate green like, how to explain, leaky beehives of metal; through every forest and past every tree ever enchanting this Fleedom (like rooted corpses themselves—they’ll never leave, just lean and lave bare), we’re haunting the haunts, ghosting the geist, only keeping my self, and I mean my animalself, alive on the wet I might suck foul from the tail of my ride. As for it, why worry I think. Arrive at a village, a town, whatever its charter, its barren, sharding itself back together with any localized unguent recently prized: witchbrew of arsenic with honey, sap, and a pinch of spit, mortarsalves of bearfat, cowblood, gevalt, the blood of a blackcock and that of a strungcat, too, lime perfume/the linden bloom the spell, accompanied by a sprinkling of raw eggyolks and pulverized cloves…inspired, I claim I’m a rabbi, often a miracleworker, an itinerant preacher, sometimes, while at others I’m the heifer’s father, or sister, a heifer’s heifer myself—but all of these towns, these dorfs and khuters and shtetls of shtum they’re so over, so burnedup, clearedout, burnt and cleared in every direction depending on wind, that my claims the heifer hooves down into the snow in no language, in scarsymbols, piss sinks, and dungdrops, aren’t their lie for the effort, any favor obtained. Trampledover, then salted with rue to you, vulnerary vervain, and a drachm of oil of wormwood. A night in the poor-house, the almshome, a synagoguepew. I tie my ride up, or it ties up me—stay a while, won’t you; to exhaust its patience loopedround the end of my tether, then to take what I take, untie the ride or be untied by, to hitch its rein to my lower horn, which is my putz I mean and its manifold shed, I mount and we’re off again where, the heifer only allowing me to ride backward now, facing tush, wasteful past. If I try to face front I get thrown, my skin goes fored off, stripped away. And so when riding in hindsight, I pass—by enumerating the heifer’s droppings, for lengths untold, length, I’m telling you, long: three turds a day, hard little heads, eighteen turds, explosive shells they seem, six days’ the timers’ worth until, suddenly…we just stop.

The Market of Spinoza Street

At a river, a moat, which used to be, everything was, had been or did, I don’t know—and then, there’s a settlement further, a mere slip over the water, halffrozen.

It’s the water, though, or the freeze of it, its icelife, its slushy rush as the two of them can never again become separated: the water flowing from the water stilled…no matter its state, the water’s it: the model, in that it’s everyone’s and yet it’s no one’s, too, and how the heifer—it refuses to ford. We stand at the edge of the slick, as it leans us over to lick, slaking its thirst, a quick lapping melt. O to have a tongue, even if leatherette. At its first lick, however, the burden of its bend, it drops, flattens, luxuriously redrugged, shagged…I should’ve kept it to sell or trade: its limbs splayed out in every direction north, east, flat, dead. I dismount by standing up on its carcass, walk around my moribund ride. And the river. How you cross is you have to wait for the sign—there’s nothing mystical about it, however: the sign’s petrified driftwood, or metal. It floats through the moat, floats around and around the moat, on a slow slog with the current. I wait and it comes. It comes fluming past icefloes, its edges shearing off hunks, here it is swirling and knocking and turning around. When it finally nears, is directly across, I step down, it’s only one step to the slab: not tempting to test but a plunge, then to spring up from my fare, passing quickly…thinking, it’s impossible to know depth without falling—how I won’t make that mistake ever again (falling and falling and).

Interpretobold Symbolizetti Allegoriovitch Mystificinski, makes no sense…here’s strange! Estranging! By your leave, comrade citizen, with your consent:

On the other side, this village, this town, if it’s even anything of only one street. What’s it called? What’s its name? I forget, didn’t have the time to notice while stepping down on what’s said. That sign, floating around and around the moat, over and under its weak skinflint freeze—if you’ll just wait by the banks, for a moment, you’ll glimpse it…it’ll come around again and again, have patience, have faith. Everything occurs twice, to begin with, to bore: the first time as tragedy, the second as farce; the third time as the third time, then the hundredth as the hundredth, unlessoned, unlearned. A sign in that many languages, related and not: Spinoza Straße, Spinoza Prospekt, Spinoza Ulice, Spinoza Gatve, Str. Spinoza, Vul. Spinoza, , Spinoza Street…streeting around the town let’s call it entire of only one street, and so it’s no town at all, and yet neither a village, only a poor lick of rubble rimming the hoar of the moat—and so it’s an island, if an island singly streeted with a street that both borders it and is it, too, you with me, a street that in turn islands the island; enough that it’s another refuge of sorts, if more forlorn than any before. And less an island, it seems once you’re on it and of it, than a pock of the earth, more like a pox, the scar of a wound from within, from without, bandaged by a moat so small in hindsight, and so shallow especially when frozen and holding or not, that I could’ve stepped across its surface, its depth, in only one step, singly strided. Forgetting the sign, the bobbing slat of its bridge. Onto this street narrowingly small in width if endless in length, in its loop, apparently infinite in its hellaciously circling circle. A street laden with the miscellaneously malevolent detritus that comes with the keeping of openair files: with papers of leave and conscription, with torn passports, the shred of visas to countries no longer bordered, receipts for burials, the crumple of death certificates, and crinkled, inksoaked m.a.n.i.f.e.s.t.o.s., sectarian statements of divergent platforms and parties, their transcripts of speeches and personnel report files, cadre profiles intermixed with assorted briefs on party discipline, calendar reform, and name standardization, stacks of cash worth nothing of late, bribes to (codename) Eurous the easterly wind; tarnished badges and medals, commendations, citations and trophies, epaulets, lapels missing pins, ribbons ripped, and tattered robes of the law, discarded after having been used as wrappers, too, for food, for milk and cheese and as swaddling clothes, blown along with the refuse of drinks, plastic and tinned, cans of pilsen beer, wineskins, vodka flasks and jugs drained of who’s selling; raffletickets irredeemable, and snowwhite, pupilless eyeballs numbered in an approximation of lotto—a squareless street lined with unmarked, drearily festooned stalls, one impossible to differentiate from another, a uniform gray-wood or other cheap synthetic substance as a matter of coarse, lined down the street more like around the street, and then around the street again around the rivering ice of the moat, its submerged then surfacing sign, then around again and again forever and ever, a fixedly infinite eternal return of the now, its street its mode and its trashy stalls its attributes (if only in the founding philosophical system—which no longer prevails), all one and the same of its Substance, which is indivisible and, also, monstrously gray. All the stalls are made of this vagary, of this allied alloy…I’m just passing it on: that the stalls have been created of coin, of planchet, of flan, are themselves—eventually, with the weather—total coin and as such, apparently, totally changeless: this dull gunmetal nondenominational mix, a circulation without breed as unsunderable, indivisble…impossible for its elements to be molten separate ever again; that weather judging down all through the day and night to mint the stalls’ rooftops and reeded sides in the image of rain, of snow, and the composite between them, to a resounding clinking and clatter of no tender issue, overpowering of every imaginable thought, so destructive.

Strange, too, to notice that no matter the smallness of the street, by which I mean how narrow it is as such circle or cycles are as long as our lives, that I can never find the same stall on it twice, ever again and despite following such directions as I beg openmouthed, despite counting my fingers to numbers I’m deluded to mean: and maybe because there are no wares on display in the stalls (everything, and I do mean everything, is kept under the counter, and one should be hesitant to ask, I’ve been asked), how there’re no signs to the stalls, no numbers either except those imposed by memory in its imperfect ars mathematica…the higher geometry of borderless politics, the containment of illimitable will within mundane circumference, the daily and done—no coordinates save those supplied by the worst and, presently, only philosophy left us, which is that of hope…in that, I’m an expert. And then advice, too, which is the only thing in this market given for free, and in a quantity scarily excessive: actually advice, directions, counseling’s comfort, though all with the aim to a profit of any sort to be made down the line, the length of which is infinite, mortality depending. Along the way the long way around, only the forgotten are to be met—not as much met as to be unforgotten, in advice, in directions, in their comforting counsel: the windword, the snuff or guttering pass, offered to me as to all in hushes, shushes, incomprehensible whispers; such menschs or goys who knows who they are if and when they even don’t, who can care, they prole around, go ghostly a float down the street and so around the moated float of that one uninterpretable sign: Spinoza, who’s he, what’s he got to do with assimilation, with the secularism that’s only adaptation, an evolution toward any new reality, with our governance remade…the intersection of individual life with that of the State, the interstices of mensch and God, and the meaning of what that God is exactly, if not merely the subtotal of us: me, you, Refugee, A refugee, This refugee, viz. I recognize me-in-you, I recognize me-as-you, I recognize only us in proposition and lemma…starvedhollow in tears of scraprags, unshaven into these greatgut beards, this imperious hair atop, too, and those old philosopher eyes—empty, sockets: as if the wicks of candles blown out in their own industrygusts, only smoke; their mouths null islands themselves as they’re opened advising, they’re making their trades, their marking remarx…

This is the Market of Spinoza Street, I’m only guessing…and every day’s Market Day in this sewerside moneyslough, this guttersniping remnant of any vanity’s fair. Upon closer inspection—a breakingaway, a crack in the systems—the street below’s paved with gold, which as it’s abundant is worthless, no good here, take it elsewhere. No new business, no today’s concern (only the wind and its witching flies by what passes for night, which is the same as the day if you’re hungry and thirsty and selling), this is a market of ancient standing, still held to only the most paradisiacal of principles: it’s operated & owned by everybody, which is the same as by nobody, really, if more comforting why, and everyone has the opportunity to purchase everything here, to exchange for everything’s what, trading even each other, even themselves—that’s right, step right up: just decide on a price, whether a trade in kith or in kind, a bargainy cutrated, cut your throat deal, whatever you think of as honest, whatever you think of yourself, whoever you are; all’s fair in vanity, every price has its thing. All these refugees forgotten crawled out of the craterous void, clawed straight out of the jaws of cavernous incoherence, theirs, history’s, no one’s—the island apprehended as if a mouth disembodied: these losers, their names at least, their words, flocking here in a great herding of regret left behind (among their losses, bashful sheep, too sheepish to cross; they wait for their shepherds at the sheer edge of the moat—not desperate enough to dare passage, to enter you have to lose everything), here with the idea of redeeming themselves…realizing I’ve heard, actualizing, too, whatever the term, I’ve been told: in new work, new identity, in new family and so, newer hopes, to sell their souls at the going rate gone, dark-marketed to the loss of supply, the malicious gain of demand; though some prefer renting their souls before buying them outright, others lease out only those names theirs and others’, their dates or occupations, on a plan requiring installments lowly a talent or so less than usurious: you might be interested yourself, only if. Isn’t it time for a change? A revolt? This Market’s open all day every day, weekends and holidays and even the Sabbath included. Actually, it itself is every day and all holidays and all Shabboses, Shabbos—all days indeed and their nights, too, you get the idea: the substantive world centrifugalized to its barest essentials, boileddown in the vat of a centripetal hell frozenover. Might as well abandon abandonment, in with the rest: you have to go through to get out to get in…

Welcome, brother comrade, this I think a goy says as he shuffles toward me: thrush’s egg eyes, strawhair, straw coming also out from his shirtsleeves, bulging from the waist and legs of his pants—my name’s…today, I’m not sure; an escapee much like yourself.

He frowns when I don’t say what.

Here, give me a moment, and he goes to search through his pockets, their flax, to find finally a wipe of newsprint, a whimper of magazinestock.

He holds it up to his eyes, reads aloud.

Boris Borisovich Bourgeois, that’s the name…but you can call me Bobo if you have to.

And me, what can I say?

Or Bibi, B.B. or B., up to you…and then, silence, interrupted only by his perk at the wind: interesting that you should ask that question…if you’ll only follow me, and he leads on with confidence, that’s what he thinks I think but I follow—the conviction only to be found when dealing with the negligible, the middling, the though we’re all equal essentially unimportant…leads me as if to the one stall he knows how to find.

This Kapo, he says as we go, he asked me was I dead yet, and so don’t doubt I answer him sure, whatever you want.

I’m no, how do they say—putz.

I fled for moons, you with me—until I come to this moat.

I’d always known about this place, that’s how it feels…but myth’s what I thought, collusion or women’s gossip, impertinence, superstition, a nightmare in which I’m trying to dream. I know how it goes, it’s a merging like water, how all the systems or even, I dunno, dialectics opposed, they eventually flow themselves into one. And so I crossedover, no regrets. I’ve been here ever since, trying out this Bourgeois thing month to month. As far as identities go, it’s as good as any. Tells me how to live. What’s expected, what’s to expect. We pay with our lives for this life, so we’re told. I’m enlightened now, illuminated like you wouldn’t believe. I know what I’m worth. Exploitation of value as a generational thing, forget it. Inheritance has been gotten rid of, maybe for us, maybe by us; we’re remaking ourselves from the ground up, rib by rib, and all of them iron. I’ve lost my chains, my mind withered away with them—I’m crazy united.

By the way, love your horns.

Here’s what I’m thinking: get involved with the masses, go under—you’ll end up discovering yourself. Among others, as others, who not. You’ll be told who you are, who you want to be, all you need. If it doesn’t work out, refunds are refunds—they’re always for sale…as are sales. Call it a revolution, or not, call it whatever you want. We’re trying to figure out what works next. Think about it and get back to me. I’m changing my life, but I’m open.

The explanations seem simple enough, though classless and Forbiddingly capitalized…Spinoza Street’s an infinite street, not that it stretches forever, no, I’m pacing it and myself with these thoughts, stretching afternoons long on metaphysical wander that still call for feet and cold toes: simply, it’s a ring, a street that serpentinely swallows itself, without crossstreet or throughway, and a moat that keeps it an island with its safeguarding freeze. And, as it’s said, if you end up staying here long enough, schnorring what’s necessary to afford your identity, maybe you sell some things of your own to afford yourself others’, the ring ends up seeming so wide, though its width’s strangely as if honestly narrow, that the street seems almost totally straight. Easy, should be. How straight does it seem? Give it up. And of course, the only presence of Spinoza Street is its infamous Market, fairied and storied as the convergence of all cyclical systems: legendarily, how there are no homes here, no schools, neither synagogues, hospitals, cemeteries, nor God forbid churches, just shops, only, stores, really stalls, unremarkable, with the effect that everyone sleeps out in the open, out on the street, in the Market, as the Market, though even then, at night, through its gusts emptying of pocket and heart, and suffused with trashflight, with whirlwinded discard—with a sky entirely dark except for the rise of a lovelost, in the red moon—the Market surely stays open. Forever. But as for the bell hollowly rung time and again, who knows how it’s kept: it signals nothing, is only a bell, merely tolling. Just as advice is the only thing that’s free in this Bourse, the bell’s the only thing that’s not, if that makes any sense…not for sale, not for rental, no money down—though Whose it is, no one knows, even guesses.

People says it’s lawless, without governance, says this Boris Borisovich if that’s still his name the goy he’s still suspectedly talking, and it helps, of course, that I can’t talk back…but I say no, that it’s the culmination of all governance, of all society’s laws, every one—unified at last in a compromise, if you’re free, if your freedom’s amenable. Watereddown, I’m saying. Smelt into One. Either way, the individual doesn’t exist, whether as class or consumer; whether as a true believer impoverished in ideology, or as a cynic whose purpose to keep sane is to keep spending large. Take me for instance. I began as an amateur, a hobbyist, a weekend dabbler in a new doublelife. Traded in to be a professional, then traded up again to become an expert, an expert what, I forget, an expert nonetheless; I was regarded, you know, vetted, peerreviewed and respected, a mind—you don’t believe me? and he produces from his pockets again a forge of documents to prove (relevance, utility) their straw, then asks me to sign for something or other, don’t ask my ask, beseeches then begs me, with the promise of utmost respect for any identity I might manage to organize for myself, to deliver this sheaf of Xs he’s waving in my face to a woman who she’d find me, don’t worry.

Forget it, he’s gone.

And so, nu: old, gutyellow wart draped with a flag repurposed to kerchief what must be a skull, do you think, peeking inflamed and plumped pussy from a gray dress trimmed in arachnoids of widowed lace also gray; she takes the papers from me and tosses them, filing them in the air, a wind’s document, the contract of clouds, mottled white slabs to flit amid the Market stalls then fall, to wet themselves into pave: apparently, I’m hers now, thanks to my signing or having failed to sign a brief counter, not sure, with Bobo getting his percent, if Bourgeois’s his middle name or last, if Boris and regardless of true patronym, hymn, he’ll identify himself as the agent involved upon the unlikelihood of any return, wherever he went and as what, even if. She leads me to a stall (at the Market, any stall’s as appropriate for any transaction as another, as long as everything’s kept official, which is approved only by ignorance, amid the tacit flux of the shade), walking me a step behind her, then two, on allfours with a leash cut of her hem cinched tight to pain at my neck. No deal, however, can be sealed for all of unutterable perpetuity—eventually, every resolution dissolves…like the paint from the prices, the dye from the uniform flags, the official kerchiefs and scarves in every color of blood. Soon she tires, loses interest, turns me loose, with the reminder, though, that she still owns me until someone, if ever, might own another ante up. Gets a better idea or its backing. Keep near. Stick around. It’s that I don’t have the resources with which to redeem myself. It’s not that I’m totally insolvent, no—I still have my youth…it’s that I never seem to have enough of such assets to better her bid, and if you can’t compete it’s a shanda of sorts but you’re over, you’re done with, you’ll be bought and sold at the whim of any interest with anymore of nothing to lose: how anyone can just stuff you down into the deepest stuff of their hind and so hiddenmost pocket, there to snout around for lint, dust, keys, or sweets, to hunt and gather for an offer ever greater. One day, though, or so goes the local lashon hara, gossip sold from mouth to ring in the ear as true as a shekel is true, as true as a shekel is said to be true: one day, is how it goes, and lo may it be soon though he tarries, a mensch will arrive here with a few new ideas, a handful of new dreams, and, profanely important, the wherewithal to holy them real…the mind, the will, what not—how we won’t miser away moneyed time anymore on this or that investment shortterm, the opportunity to make good on turnarounds in shortorder, thinksmall, no; this mensch He’ll go all out, forever, redeem not only everyone here, but also, in so doing, the Market itself, the entire street and its stalls, repave, revamp, remake its take, reimage the whole: out of pocket, He’ll bet out of the box, then shove it all down into a suitcase, take us with Him to ever newer, evermore innocent worlds.

Waiting I turn my eyes to the sky, its pouch turned again, For everything is in it…airing its lining of air, our last and faulty containment; imperfect in that its blackness is holed through with stars.

Here, where they fall, there…the setting for all revolution, perpetually revolting against even itself: party of the first part I haven’t met in a moon; party of the second part’s never invited. We turn. Everything here’s exclusive to how abject anyone’s able to get, privileged to the extent of how pitiful anyone’s willing to afford. Turn again. We’re drinking too much, smoking whatever will flare. Debates rebut into night, which is morning. Utopian ideals getting yelled down into insult, namecalling, and accusation: you stole my spoonbone, We Hereby Resolve you slept with my wife…keep your clause off her, be still; arguments sobering over what mud we call coffee, the ersatz thaw of the river steeped tea in our dirt. Place your dues in a bag, place the bag in a cup, by the time we’re done meeting it’s melted. Religions are founded, abandoned. Degenerate into governments imposed, then elected, forsaken. Constitutions cried in the sand. I’m keeping silent, how not to, but they think I’m withholding. It feels like we’re all in a search, but for what…even after what we’ve survived, especially after what we’ve survived—we want to keep faith, need belief…

On one hand—there’s serious worth going around, changing minds changing hands, circulations up & down, side-to-side.

On the other hand—everything seems foolish if you think about it enough, practically speaking, and even in thought, too, it’s hurtful, every proposal an impasse, any pronouncement’s tongue a deadend.

We’re all living too real, not really at all.

Two hands, I can count them on one—never mine.

I’m thinking: the nerve of those who’d confuse purpose for self, chutzpah I’m saying, mixing ideology with mensch—those who’d confound us with anything that isn’t an Eden elective. How it’s only a Market if you buy into it; it’s only capital if you’re able to capitalize, it’s only communal if you’re willing to share—and I’m not, either or both.

I’ll live without system or governance, without authority or Law—even our own, whose only purpose has ever been to destroy me, to drain us of blood and wringout the necks of our pockets, leaving our corpse for the auction-block, the prisonblock, for the flames of the oven…I’ll live. I leave on my own, as my own, quitting this veinvend, the frenzied flowed lode of this arterial art, wandering out from the Street: not past the moneyedhalls and hagglestalls, not following the swallowing around and again and engorging, but leaving it altogether, making a right or left, refuting the straightly narrowed, the giving take of moat’s icy margin to water, shattering under my step down and dispersing, feet smashing through into nothing deeper than a shallowness underlying, disappointment, wet heels—to earth if not perfect then mutual, or equal…I’m thinking, nothing but free.

I’m on one hand.

As far as hands go, it’s humungous, haired around the knuckles each the size of a house, its wrist and forearm ascending up to the heavens, to Heaven, piercing the bulge of the clouds—then out the stratosphere, unto what.

Mind the shvitz of the palm…to keep from falling, have to hold on with my own.

A day’s wander from the Market and I’m here at the edge of the known undecided: making my way up and over boulders and elbowy, shouldery cliffs, stepping steeply this road rising high between two valleys below that are hands. Twins on both sides, just over this dusksloppy raphe, descending from the sky, or ascending from the earth, God knows which with the weather, the smoke. All valleyed is marl, a bleached, bony whiteness washedout with gray at the edges, what I’m saying is, vain…how to remember, how it blurs with the clouds as if they’re the joints of lightning limbs, their snapping and pop with the thunder. It’s been told, in rumors, in gossipings heard as historical fact, as geography, too, let’s talk topos: all about the shoe mountain, say, or the hair-pike, I’ve been there, climbed that, horsts up from any ultima graben…the Hill of Glasses, and the Suitcase Peak, I’ve been around, made the grade, scaled the heights—tectonic remnants, artifacts of destruction past, the war’s spoilings the heaped remains of sacrifices comprising the altared cliffs upon which a future has to be founded. A nest, an egg hatched, halfshelled…but this. I descend again a valley, go on to the other hand—it’s hard to believe, even now.

Questions, count them up by the fingers. Who knows where such hands have been? I don’t, just fall myself down into their cup.

This other hand’s huge itself, similarly haired around the knuckles each the heft of a house, its wrist flexed to forearm outstretching above.

I’m on this hand, then go from this hand to the other, that that’s previously this—what to do?

On one hand, I sit in the shade of a callus and think; on the other hand, I sleep tight among its fingers, between them.

On one hand, I lap at the wet of its palm; on the other hand, I gnaw its nails out of stress, and then mine.

On the one hand…I should turn myself in, and on the other, what good would that do?

Questions…I commute them a back and forth, crossing the fingers, fording my fortunes—Septentrio, Meridies, Oriens, and Occidens be their names, the orientations of their previous flows: lifelined, heartlined gullies and gulches, stonedry riverbeds, the graves of streams their own markers frozen to rock, their meandering wanders foretelling in script and in squiggle ways longer and harder than any would ever keep on. On one hand, what about my people! Questions, I’m asking the questions. On the other hand, what about my people? That’s what I want to know. How these fingers feel for each other, they feel one another…they’re elementally stiff, they’re ancient yet reminding themselves they’re still alive, maybe, how despite age, all their wear and the rheumatoid arthritic denial, they’re still living fingers and powerful, knuckled and full with flesh and toughened, so strong—perhaps those that’d made the world’s what I’m thinking, the original digits: they formed the head of the earth, poked the oceans, pressed into the softnessness of the depths, molding flesh…they’re giving a creaking, a cracking of wood or an earthquake, a skyshake this quivering shiver to fall—I’m knocked from my feet to the foot of the thenar, the Mound, that’s what it’s known as around here, the valley’s slow rise toward the thumb.

On one hand, the Garden took me in when no one else would.

To make itself into a fist, themselves into fists, with which to smash the tabling world.

On the other hand, they’re no longer in power, the Garden: Die—no thanks, I hardly knew him…this I’ve heard on one firsthand shaky, from a source as reliable and, too, as loud as the na zdorovyes I’d stood him, little flowery and watery vodkas flowing seaward from environs northeast: from a refugee he was who’d been saved by this mensch who he’d worked with a mensch, he’d said, tushdeep in the Solution, I’m talking two Tours’ worth of Unaffiliated Disposal (UND) behind him not that he’d liked to remember it much—but then again, on the other side of the other hand, its always unknowable face, that same mensch had also told me my parents were still alive, are, and happyhealthy, he’d said, Shanghai where, hic or sic, a slurred Shangri-La…that near the Mound as well, not sure, don’t know, up near which Zodiacal finger, got me, Pollex, Medicus, just past the Index girls keeping low in the line designated for love—you’re next, what’s your name, don’t be shy…Amularis orphans gathering ash and toxic particulate they’ll heat for a meal over the pulse of a wrist, since morning flush and flooded with life; keeping theirs from the Auricularis displaced, hiding their wretchedness amid pruning and hairs, the hump and hunch of the wrinkles—just point me in the right direction, I’m thinking, I’ll wrong myself from there, find me lost. None of these fellow wayfarers to give me the help of a hand, those or theirs: they ignore, though only after they’ve ascertained I’ve nothing left to steal, not even a pocket, a hole, the pocket of a hole—the depths of the valleys clawed out below us. None understand me’s what it is—all my palming myself off from thought to, indecision to, no one with whom to share my dissatisfaction, my unhappiness, this inability of mine to just nose my way out and pick, goddamnit, to fingerselect, to just settle down on one hand, or the other, and then just stay there, that’s that: stay deluded, and justifying your heart out; what everyone has to do, eventually, with the choices we’re handeddown from our birth. Pick a hand any hand then stick with it, shaken, choose your choice then die in the grip of its consequence, no.

I make night from one to the other—to live or die, to wander or stay with the sun, dawn to dusk, whichever at hand, its rising at one, its set at the other. Then, at fullest moon, a night seized with light, halfway between hand to hand to…mouthless, without speech: as both fists—they just clench, suddenly; their arms that had been other ridges and rims of other valleys, they outstretch the borders between…they lift themselves, become lifted, slowly, then up through the clouds, musclebound: how they weigh in the air, how they weigh the air, a moment amid the luminant sky, then eclipsing its moon…as if balances to weigh, too, the once sheltered now falling life they’d held tight with meaning, dim squalls and sobs tumbling through the mossy cracks between fingers opening, fingers spreading this widely, their crevices splayed—scaled high up as if in a benediction of fall, a blessing of crash, judiciously unto the Highest all then smacks, grubs grandly, and whipsup, is whippedup through the wisps into sky or Heaven, if that you prefer; these two hands disappearing, as if they’d never once been of our earth: without charity, without benevolence, grace or warning, their entire ascension in its cracked chap jointed point resembling nothing so much as a shrug…as if to say, sorry—I tried.

To find myself stranded with no thoughts, no needs nor wants, neither why, without hither, thither, or slither: snakey, how there’s no choice anymore, only chaos, a blood relation to night. I make my way up its mountain, a hill of mud, a hillock of bodied trash mounding bloodflecked—this mountain the middle ridge of the two valleys created whether by or as the cup of the hands, following their rise as unearthed height seeking between to clasp prayer for a peak. Tapering, wicked. A braiding of dirts by the weather. A limb’s wounded leg. An armway this straproad, this strop’s path, tabakfingered pointing the way between the marked lay of the hands and their arms outstretched, disappeared—and now, toward me comes this mensch, stooped as small as his bird is wings, is shabby and large.

I think, I can’t help it, is that who I think it is…come again.

Now, understanding that history means so much to us with its names and dates, and the way in which those things serve to make such history relatable, real—allow the Record a moment in which to record its ecstatic detachment, in which to renew its promise to serve the relations of future generations, future degenerations, with an unburdened account of the following…who could believe. Apparently, the rumors are true, that the gossip of the great has once again proved to be verity—the lashon for once having harangued the right mensch. Him, he’s the Pope, or once was, Pius Zeppelini da Foist, I’d recognize him anywhere, even like this: having exchanged almost everything of his save the yarmulke down to his now naked feet, robes for robes, his formerly supreme eccleisiatical power traded in for a powerlessness even greater, that of the nobody, the nothing ascetic, as if a king undercover, gone slumming, among: he has to live, goy’s got to eat, bird’s got to fly’s what they say, so I’ve heard—and so he’s converted, become as a schnorrer remade, Propheting Elijahstyled; I slacken my pace, hope my face won’t betray me. His riches ragged in three threats flat, he goes town-to-town, making the updated beatitudinal circuit urbi et orbi, his lapsed holiness bestowing blessings upon any head, in exchange for alms, psalms, straw, hay, mashke, noshke, and prutahs, anything else you might give how he’ll take; the once Holy Father and believe it, I can’t, behold it with your own allseeing thirdeye—he’s the nihilmensch secondcometh, thirdhanded bearing news of anything he can remember, invent on the wing, on the fly. Dethroned, how he couldn’t sit still anymore, began to walk, abandoning the pretense to any Dietrologia, it’s what you give that’s what he gets, and so one Shalom to the Vatican and another Shalom to the road; how he’s become likable, almost too, understandable, makes you think, makes you feel, real salt of the earth this mensch just wandering the earthly See, globetrodding Messiahways, the humblest thing you’ll ever stumble across, I have, it’s slowing me down, tripping me up—not even rocks can compare, not even thorns can compete—for leagues, for parasangs of stones silenced in any way of ice, of mud, body, and bone. My son, I’a thank you…goes his spiel: works most of the time, so it’s been said by lesser—may you be blessed with’a many masculine kinder…

Into a village, a town, any of which, his accomplice the stork leads him by a leash rendered from pallia. Once out of town again (and it’s so hard to know when you’re out given all the ruination, these days), Pinchas, that’s what he wants you to call him, Phinehas if you must, he again leads the stork, holds a crosiered stick to help image his pace, just a wither splintered from the crook of a bishop found dead, in his other hand the ecclesiastical sash tied tightly around the gullet of the stork soaring above him—tugged this way, then yadda. As a schnorrer, nu, nothing’s too good for him: when he can, he’ll demand the best, and when he can’t, he’ll kvetch there’s no better; his dream: to merit upon the strength of his soulwork alone maintainence by charity unto the custom of his lifestyle former. Of course, without that naggy I’m here for you shtick—just got in the way, cramped his kneel.

Why shouldn’t I live like’a dat? he’s always asking the molting, weatherworn stork, who’ll never answer him if they want to keep up the act, the showy front that’s keeping them both fed and warm.

Da highlife, don’t I deserve it?

Hymn, a goy’s got to dream—have patience, have hope: the last two coins begged from the eyes of a cardinal beggar, asleep by the side of a road: he’s taken his wine, too, a shard flint.

Denied Jerusalem’s asylum by the Abulafias, begrudged immunity in the Shade, condemned to vagabond on, how he attempts to schnorr all the spoils, all the trapping pelts of the Papacy—but without that pesky Title, without that puny responsibility rub that was both miraculous and, admit it, a bitch. A pain in the prostrate. Frontmensching with his pet stork, this savvy bird with, you’ll excuse me, just a bit of an ego, a bite or peck of a complex, though his only friend he’ll say as if right on cue, his best, how he loves it like the son it’d never deigned to deliver him (though offhours, he argues against its silent grudge, threatens clipping wings, cementing its feet—once again raising the topic of tricks, just a handful, wouldn’t hurt, a little tightrope, juggling herrings, all while riding a tricycle); together, they slum plotz to platz, vagadicht raggy from court to empty of belly, shack shedding its lean to strawpallet, strippeddown to plank to nail at his sandals whether stolen or lost, and so with feet bared to thorn the road again, bloody: following the muds, wherever they take him, you know, he goes with the floes, I’m impressed, God, we all are.

It’s begun snowing again, and the stork flies over him, to keep the freeze from his holy.

It’s the gesture that counts, though it won’t buy them supper.

I meet him on the fly, what do you know. Slowly but not too, make to pass him unknown. My face held down not to respect his fallen estate as much as it’s my begging not to be hassled. Just another fellow traveler, I’m trying for…yet another wayfaresharer, we’re all related somehow, somewhere, down the road a turn or so, one town overed. Only thinking, as I leave him what a shtarker with his stork, unkempt and I think also kronk, it’s unfortunate, always regrettable…what can I do, he’s my kind but not my type.

Wish I could, bless him.

Then thinking, as he’s gone disappeared, reborn into nothingness, into the dim that always accompanies and yet is itself nothingness, too: the night, as voided by night…and then, by the darkening of night with a storm, this windwhip, such a merciless fire and fall—was that a wink, maybe…how he might’ve winked, then again maybe not, a mote of muck in the eye, a mite of whirling weather. I heard no words from him, though, as if I could speak one in return…and there were no signs exchanged, neither secret handshakes, nor any hermetic knowledge passed; it’s wishful thinking—next time, we’ll prepare. In passing, I’ll say I felt only a chill, a clasp gusty…how to account, and yet how not to: I’m sorry, but I think he tried to pick my pocket. For what, for passing—all of nothing, nihilum.

To embolden, I lash my back with a final foreskin, trailing scrappily from behind me devilforked as if a tail: sheddingly shod with holes and pincer pricks and stinger rips and smudgy tears as if from ink or ash but holes…the serpentine sprig falls now, becomes furled into a cloud, eluding all grasps, dispersing toward a summit. I only go with it, then, north by east, meaning irrespectively up…in an ascension mundane, only another form of high left for luft, the irreparable air—then without grounds going still dazedly, dizzily, further. At the height of the mounding, if that, too, can be believed: shaky as it is, founded unsound, with the mudmix slinging around…sloppily fluming, a mess—there’s an opening. Here above the horizon, a hole—it’s a door I think, it’s a window; delineated skyspace, a demarcation skyscaping; an air escaped, set aside: an old provocation imposing anew, the idea that the window’s the hole in the sky, or that the sky’s the hole in the, you understand, exhausted. Is the window that that’s bound? or is the window that that is around the bind? just asking, just asking.

Here’s where the Pope’s coming from: this tickytacky woodenchair militantly straight of back, in which to rest a while amid the remains of its neighboring pissedupon fire (one leg of the chair, the northeastern, had been amputated, then snapped for the kindle), set atop this peak sheltered from the face of the wind, sheltered from the very faces of the wind’s northern face and the wind’s eastern face, by this lone wall white as it’s been so far faceless, save presently set with that window without glass I’m imaged both into and out of at once, my reflection in the rise of the sun through the morning—as the Law had been handeddown upon that lesser mountain, the least of them no more than a paunch or early pregnancy, a mere bump or stump’s crop, and there with each of its spattered tablets understandable to all right to left, why not, but left to right also, scribed to our scrutiny from the burst cheek of every wind that’s both weather and the breath of weather’s God, graven with fire by the foremost finger of That force mediating in a nailed incarnation, too, don’t you know? And the only way to pass is to pass through it, to the nothingness just…only a burl of cloud, parting. I arise and make the last step, from the chair wobbled to lean against this wall lifting myself onto the wall, creaky the chair’s giving beneath me—as I lunge, make a leap, to snake through the sill unglassed, to worm headfirst over the hunch, and then through it such hurt, slicing myself to flame on the sill, its knifely edge, a sacrifice of self here at gut…a humpwound, it’s like birthing; I’m bowed to pierce at myself, at the window and wall, with my horns. A glow from under the saggy flag of my—womanhood, blood burning to grease passage over, my arms now and legs now and balance, just balance, meet me halfway…to raise my horny head upon the Other Side, and then—to behold.

The Last Supper

A recipe for Baked Mother…rest assured, it serveths all of her son(s), whatsoever be the number.

Ingredients:

1 Mother, preferably yours

(others’ maketh for a poor substitute)

3 Onions, their size depending on size, weight, & structure of Mother

Olive oil, with which to anoint

Salt, kosher

(don’t her wounds deserve it?)

Instructions:

Purify

Shaveth

(everywhere)

Then slay:

Slaughtereth her with a knife, ritually only if the most mere overture to kashrut’s desired.

If not, then gaseth, bullet (to temple only), but let’s not be crude: we know, don’t we, that the methods are all out of bounds, which is to say…boundless—the outermost limits of resentment, the strain of our memory bordered by memory, it’s always memory, it’s always…

Imagination surely helpseth.

Be creative.

Though be sure to causeth as little damage as possible to the flesh. Be sure to causeth her not much pain.

Note: Drowning imparts a wetness that is undesirable, resulting in a toughness of the flesh (unless she is drownedeth in a brining, or curing, solution. See PICKLED MOTHER).

If you can’t bringeth yourself to kill your own mother, then have another do it, preferably her husband, if your father, or any other immediate relation to the woman (one’s siblings are suggested: remember, however, that money must not changeth hands).

Just prior to the onset of rigor mortis, deeply rubbeth her with salt, then anoint with the oil: anointment should taketh place twentyfour (24) hours prior to serving, during which time Mother should be kepteth at room temperature; then, placeth gently, do not force, the three onions, one each into her mouth, vagina, and the orifice that she calls her “tuchus.”

Placeth in a house of an oven, preheatedeth to 325° F.

Baketh until sunset, or golden.

There is no substitute.

There is nothing.

During baking, anointeth Mother often in her own juices with baster, mop, or favorite sweeping broom.

You might want to consult the maid (you might wanteth a maid).

Carveth, and enjoy (consulteth our chapter on Anatomy, if need be).

Useth teeth and shorn hair for garnish.

Eyes maketh for a most special delicacy.

Do not watch water.

Do not hope.

Note: An interesting flavor may be attained by bakingeth Mother alongside, or underneath—dependingeth on oven capacity—your father, her husband, or grandparents (his or her parents).

Also note, however, that the flavor of Mother will be significantly lessenedeth the further removed the relation.

Remember that blood must mixeth with its own.

Remember, zachor.

Though never under any circumstances of denial, anger, bargaining, anything whatsoever depressant, attempt this recipe on yourself.

Unless.

Leftovers keepeth well.

Mother is delicious upon the Sabbath, and within the week’s intermediary days—but will always become spoiled before the conclusion of the following Shabbos.

Upon Mondays freezeth, and upon Thursdays thaweth her out, then keep her refrigerated.

To avoideth spoilage, wrap Mother well in both her dresses of maternity, and of wedding.

Do not leaveth her uncovered.

Not ever.

Serveth with sacramental wine.

Let the bottle chilleth between your thighs overnight.

A moon lights full above them, and winter.

While the Kabbalists among us hold that everything in this world is as a mirror of the Other, the next and its everything, which is then not entirely everything—discuss…what’s perplexing (Perplexity being the only named universe, able to accommodate both the Kabbalists and Him) is which is the reflection and which the reflected. Or else, how both are of reflected and reflections beyond.

This, we’ve drunk before.

Our cosmology needs only to ripen a moment—then, all will be done. Finished, kaput.

All this time they’ve been waiting outside, just outside the door.

His house, yours, mine.

New guests, old late. It’s so deeply winter, so lately winter, and yet latening still, it might as well be spring, let’s agree. They’re waiting out in that freezing sheet of fall, sheets, fitted sleet and flattening hail, them the great Huddled, shivering sleepless in a week’s worth of tattered up against the fattily marbled frontsteps: some lean, others squat, leansquat fall lie amid the puddles of stock the weather’s inflicted, infected, cloudorgans, nimbusglands…their kinder, so wellbehaved, even courteous, all would you be so kind as tos and thankyous, can you please pass and I appreciate it in the past they’re fighting again, incorrigible gangs of meat kinder vs. milk kinder they’re rolling a tumble in tantrums of sauce, spatterings, tussle’s splatter, angryred, rage-gravy, sickly slick mixings unstrained, unholy dressings and impure preparations, small heads going uncapped gone uncorked in the chaos, brandnamed I forget, or whether generic, their spilled paste on the sidewalk, a waste, and them, too: they’ve been waiting, waiting, too long they’ve been waiting forever—their salttears, their breadcrumb whining, their pounding on and knockerkneading of doors that open to be only fudged shadows, toffeemocha delight, with their fists raw, their fingernails scratched down to sliced through if not merely nicked flesh upon panes of air whipped up in whirrs of sky’s mixer, air’s whisk…it’s a superflumina out there, and appetizingly enormous, they’re pushing and shoving, forking to knife, tumultuous; all having begun politely enough last Shabbos this’ll end, if ever, if any of them remember to set their timers, which are their tickytock hearts, in limbs pulled from sockets, noodlestretched, dismembered strewn in shallow stinging pools of lemonjuice and lime, citric stagnant at gratings clogged, a flow sewerseeking, the lowest ground amidst such layercaked, panbrowned waste, these remnants sprinkled atop heaps of stems, these spit pits, and seeds, the compost cholent, the sewage let sit. The hot spice of dessert tea scented with excrement, sugary urine. Ones nearest the door, the door the front one scratchedup, tore at desperately, its window fogged to strudelthin dough, were an eternity last week ago trampled to death, then buried under stuffings of humus, heaped far off at the edge of the lawn, at the neighbors’ fence of snakes, posts from whose mouths hang singleservings of signs, the spleening of liver…Keep Out. Private prop. Violators will be, and will always. Out that far at half-&-half, the halved again flow of laneless road—entire families dock at sidewalk to disembark meaty junks, pareved barges they’re hollowedout, scooped from steerage from huge ships of melon unripe and sweet, destined, themselves, for here’s lost Friday, this last Sabbath of Shabbos, all with their own recipes, all of their own recipes, their own ways of doing things by which everything and everyone else is heretically wrong—waiting to prepare, for only the preparation of waiting. Time. They approach, drag themselves dribbling froth along the marzipanly edged path of lawn laid with macaroon slates they arrive at the stoop, step as ingredients supererogatory if inedible, too, to the door. And then the porchlight, a bulbed berry, flicks on in its drupes, and they turn their plated faces Heavenward, awed.

Their appetite’s for in, though—a taste for in only.

A bundled bunch of menschs tight in their suits as if kishka, stuffed derma, threepiece intestinal, they drip the gravying fobs from their cavities, stir the clocks.

Mothers, washing faces of suet and grease, sit sucking the schnapps out of the ears of their kinder.

One innocent son aged much over the interminable last week, stands. Moon laid the egg hatched to darkness, the black of a starless burn.

Then, lightning flashes flank’s vein, illuminates the house: the standing invitation threefloored, forever ripening, its siding all peel and rind stuck together as if with the mortar of honey, too sweet…

Led by this son the perpetually Late muster one last squash altogether: this mass snapping, a thunderous husking, a shelling, the lamblike twisting of necks (there’s a fierce churn from the back, the sidewalk, from the edges of the lawn they fold themselves in, away from the serpented fence, its sticks hissing up at them in the stirring wind, writhing free of their plant to slither at them dumbly, snaking themselves deep into the fruit of fallen apples, getting themselves stuck there, snakes with apples for heads, apples where their heads should be, tongueless, harmless, without fang; without any senses save their slick green lengths, they hiss their slither over one another insensate, collide stupidly, crash their heads of apples up against one another until rodents assemble to rat away at the appled heads, nibble, gnaw, down to the cores, coring down to the dead and the slithering stops, the snakes stiffen again to sticks, to cinnamonbark, utensils without use)…piecemeal poultry, baked breaded chickens peck at one another, pluck each missing which quarter, a drumstick, a wing here, there a thigh—a flightless haunch, schnitzel; menschs chasing the boiled eggs they drop in tripping falls of pigeontoes (oy, so the squish of seasoned squabs); above, gefilte rolled together gefülte out of thousands of their forefishes since smoked out of existence, how they swim along on a stream of fleischig borscht (dairy gust blowing, too, uncleanly coming from the opposite quarter in cream both soured and sweet), slices of candied carrots over their eyes then one set atop each as if a yarmulke, parsley payos, in their wake wisped a fringe with dollops of horseradish cut through with the richness of beets. Gigantic beans droop from their stalks, dripping their sauté of garlic, oil, a pinch me now of overexcitement to overseason the already marinated earth, cooling below. Raisinrocks. Nuts of stone. Glaze of a soil never to shmita. Bound sheaves of noodle propped against the siding skin of the threecar garage. Orphaned opossums, widowed raccoons, lonely squirrels recently unbound from neighboring nutshells if only to face the indignity of lawn and illimitable rangespace, forage in the tenth of scraps set aside for them or mourning. Assembled hold to the windows as if they’re servingtrays silvered by lightning’s knife, then tilt them to reflect into heat what gleam might survive…the screens of summer ripping this spring, the thrum of their mesh in the wind the throating of thunder: bend them into bowls, to collect through their sieve the precipitate wine—the pitpat of sacred Manischewitz, mixed impure with a melt of snow milchig, saltwater teared; this dilute flows down the street, into the looparound, a curbbound reservoir of chilling blush rendered filthy with stirs of wrapper, packaging, shells and yolks, globbed atop with the anoint of oil both vegetable and unhealthily not; (dietetic) seltzer shpritzes up from the scandal of potholes, unpruned danish-pits, bagelvoids of pumpernickel, of everything and nothing, indistinguishable…gutters run with the blood of cows, overflowing the sidewalk, hunks of dark chocolate, tufts of licorice sprouting through cracks. Moustaches stain a sweep across, they baste, an attentive beardmopping: they’re kissing in as much as they’re able to swallow, it’s fine by us, we won’t tell, any combination, just needs something more, just a touch, a pinch butter or milk or another nonkashered…who’s going to whisper the recipe, the ingredient secret? Indulge, more like divulge. This is holy ground, holied. As much as anywhere, lately. And unburnable, too. Anything’s permissible here, if here—all under the strictest Development supervision, which is the mandate of gluttony usurping yesterday’s underdone glatt…

And the house—its stem pokes high above the Development, a flagpole without flag.

Their hunger is this, only to sleep tight within its peel.

This son, he wanders further, near: the door, it’s peeled open only to Him…only He can peel it, is how it can be said from the other side, from within—unlock the pericarp, up its windowshade…Him the taster, He who savors, Him to sample prospect for the rest; other hopefuls are stacked in failure at the stoop, exhausted atop the organ of the welcomemat, a lung, wheezes Shalom. Door peeled tightly behind Him with a last spurt of zest, as if a final whetting, a sharp cleansing taste of what’s to come that only hungers, humiliates more…He’s determined, to be squeezed into the ineffable core: hands modest in their pockets, mouthpocket shut tightly around His tongue, not wanting to partake, not yet, He’s not yet worthy, must merit the merit He’s already been given, has been born to, before…walks through the fruit of the house, the homefruct, its wedges separating under His feet, His steps raising nectar to seep through the hallways of His wander, to seep as the very hallway of His own worming, imperfecting, impure; His writhe to tail behind Him the threat of no exit, the trail of irreversible pour; this dragged juice almost to drown Him in sweet, in the rottenly sweet and, too, in His own secretions, the wordless but salival…the hallways that separate the sections, ending in peel; He’s slipping, regaining footing, exhausted with stick, the nectary cling of His panting, of breath heated as sweetened, steaming, then a slide into the fruit itself, its very sacs full and fouling, facefirst He’s entering slowly, emerging even slower and dripping, slowed in mold, its fuzz attendant upon bowed brow, at His own pits, His heavy sex then around the tiny stems of His nipples…Him subsisting on the wet of the air through His nose as His mouth’s still set shut, refusing to know the fruit for the sake of sustenance, its and His own—sustenance that’s refused as it’s not yet enough: to deny, to limit, must save Himself, not to eat us all out of house, out of home…no, it’s that there’s only one nourishment He’s thirsting, this single savor He’s after redemptive, and it’s not to be found inventoried on any presently pulped shelves, out of stock. After a time, He finally arrives: a clip of the coupon, a swipe, then a quick counting of change, day the seventh, Shabbat. In this—the inmost sanctum of fruited dwelling: the altar of the putamen, the stoneheart, rockempty, then grown from it, to hold it void for His presence and only His sought, Him alone…eventually, now: into this space hollowed out amid the kissing of pure fruit all around—to enter into its womby air; then, to dwell inside it, forever, as its only life…as its seed.

Introit then the last days, the latest hours of failing light…thrallthroes we’re talking, dying moment of this Snowdom, final flakes, get yours in: days ending earlier until it’s just late again and still night; darkness upon the face of the ocean’s faces, the land’s, the lands’, makes no difference, round or flat, gray or gone. Die’s face is that face, too, there’s only one of them now: the face of exhaustion, depletion, the victim’s, that of glorified powerlessness, is what we have in mind; having wasted his money and people, resources desourced, insiders made out…beyond all faces, in truth, and all face, genug, gone deep-far into the cold barren world before a mouth said ever a word. Daydayeinu, enough. What’s been has been upended. Houses have come to ruin. Developments have been splitup, homes sundered. Governments displaced, dissent gagged, bagged then thrown curbside, trashed with the other treyf, for export whether to the Third World or best offer.

Unknown, no one wants to know him, not in this House (Hanna, putting her foot down into the baldspot of the carpet, the loose tile, the mound of the pets’ grave, the hole for the hill of the ants)—I forget, what we say: not ever again. Die keeps himself tightfisted, lasthanded, holding onto what yesmenschen left (only his lifers, righthands), no more even odd admirers, weird hangerson: while still meeting payroll, he’s arrived under the escort of Mada, Hamm, and Gelt, four tickets flying quiet, bribed underclass with the last assets of empire; they’ve managed to evade the roundups, so far, the selections, knock wood, wrinklegrained head…greased their way through the iron lines, barbed borders, handing out what little keepsakes have kept—mandate souvenirs, not much, mementos of what might’ve been. How, they’ve managed to keep small, lowprofile, motives suspected unsuspected to even themselves, operating on opportunistic provision, provoked by deathsilence, tolerated amid a pity that Authority allows whether by divine luck, long chance, or short memory; they’re kept only by the merit of sloth, of past friendship, sentiment, nostalgia, allegiance, alliance, owed out of favors—you name it, you’re dead…though such lazy silence, contrary to any flattery they might still lavish upon their mere gettingby, meagerly whether bribed or on credit, it’s not theirs—not to allow them the identification of mission despite how their delusions might entertain…rather it’s for Reb Shade, for him to accomplish his own: don’t humiliate anyone, keep shtum, headlines backpaged, the news demoted to the old left atop a den’s couch whose pillows exhale only the whispers of shadow, indirection, misdirection, the hallways rearranged, the corridors of power redecorated in sophistic earth tones. The order’s made known: not given like Law, it’s revealed as if prophecy, if only in a nod, with a cold wink, or chironomy’s snap: a goahead, give them the rope—and with it let them dig a grave for their graves, six holes deep; let them be taken care of, is what it means, by all means, but privately, negligibly, ignoble this method, this assent understood: nothing to do with us, never happened; I don’t know from what you’re talking, I’ve never even been overseas. A ritual washing of hands, then a wringing to dry, but with what appropriate blessing, which benediction to cleanse. Blessed Art Thou, King of the Unversed, Who Commands Us to Cleanup After Ourselves. Who Minds Us Our Messes. Recalls Us to Tie Up Loose Ends. Blessed Art Thou, though You have commanded us but couldn’t care less, what we’re hoping as we sharpen the knots in our shovels…after all, how is that possible: to kill a goy already dead to them, as He’s been decreed, too. Amen to the end of such questions, though we’ve already forgotten to Whom we all answer. Rest assured, this has happened before.

Die lies pale and swollen, older then ever, years, a week or so unshaven, wrinkly Roman elephant gray.

He lies under the atmospherically canopied coffin that is his bed, under the giving mattress breathing slowly and even, trying to keep hidden, alive.

His toes are numb; his medals are stuffed down his pants.

Mada’s in the wardrobe, face slammed up against its doors, glassed in dust, its wood stabbed to death with figure heavy on the malign…Hamm’s behind the curtains, thick reddened drapery resembling the vomit of widows: he stands a shadow in its fall…lamp—greenglass; hatrack, the wardrobe, a desk—unlit; Gelt’s shut himself inside his luggage, a trunk.

The Hotel Under the Sign of the Hotel’s time has come: just about to descend to table, as it’s been told…they’d heard voices up the stairwell, drafty appetites, and growls, bellhop’s bell going ding dong ding, the church of the frontdesk, its keyspanned communion; then, feet in lockstep, locked boot and heel stepping up the wide spiral, one flight, take a breather. Others say the tip had come from an obliging bird, some say a dove, flown in the window; a note left on the pillow in lieu of sweet nothing, again that nod or wink, the handshake of a bellboychick, the blush of a maid, as arranged. No loudspeaker, no softspeaker, no rustle official, an important announcement misspoken, misheard, even unmissed. Management’s bought off the regime long enough (sheltering foreign journalists, quote unquote independent observers, diplomats, ambassadors, obstreperous officials of every state making last appeals for nationals lost), but now it’s all about omega, about settling accounts: one moon of stay, roomservice every morning each night, a laundrytab, a shoeshine, and don’t forget to tip generous the turndown. Will that be cashiered, or corpsed. Downstairs a mensch in a uniform as tightly bespoke as a spiderweb, preyedover with phosphorescent stars and stripes of a madness seemingly specific only to the highestranking, sighs as if in warning to himself, takes care of their bill with a thick wad of currencies: bills ripped apart then stuck together again piecemeal with the sperm of the stallion, without any thought as to provenance or denomination, old sidelocks ironsided portraits, frazzled beards—then gets a receipt for his superiors, we all have them, even the best of us. Upstairs is still, almost timeless, with most scholars emphasizing the almost, not quite: none to make a run, to head to any embassy’s pearlygated guardhouse drive, ring the bell and stay to amnesty, bring the flowers or wine; there are none left, autonomies, and with the Garden fallen to ashes…there’s nowhere outside the ghetto, nowhere that’s not the ghetto, nowhere open, all’s walled, nowhere new, not even Palestein’s elite: and so Shalom to our brother Arab hordes converted, what nachas we’re shepping the schlep of our baggage to come over and visit, O how you’ve grown! Jerusalem the genital, generational jewel, kvell in peace…the Roses of Sharon risen again, we flock to you now as to honey or eligible sisters, what discounts might you offer, what deals might you make for your kind!

Regarding the occupants of Room Number Six, it’s been related: how they aren’t processed, aren’t to be trained to a camp, and—gedenk gedenk, there’s no time for that: we have schedules for such things, please, playful though they are, timetables based on contingency alone, there are interpretations to respect, goddamnit, adherence to the earth’s spin, you know, deadlines dwindled two-by-two, to one then none and, anyway, it’s quicker without that fuss. Mishegaseous, foolishkeit. Ludicrous. Say what you will still the menschs ascend, they come up tall and slim, fairhaired and eyed, two-by-two in an endless doubled row bowing to double back down the stairs to the lobby; holding their uzis and assaultrifles, Palesteinianmade, like they know what they’re doing, they probably do. Topquality, highcaliber, I can get you a steal. As for the starstriped, pitystripped mensch leading them, let’s introduce: he’s the Austiner Rebbe, Rav Schmearson’s his name, son-inlaw of the Maggid of Rome, a cousin to the Butcher of Bakersfield, the Seer of Waco, the Gaon of South Central Texas. He holds a revolver in a glove said to be made from the hide of his parents, whom he’d sacrificed atop an extemporaneous altar, his sister, itself oblated upon the Polandland plains (which action had earned him his rep, such as it is): it swaddles so well that the hand beneath might as well be holy, Godguided. One of his own sons-inlaw, an iluy known as Tavarish, or the Light of Bukhara, follows to his side, a step behind. This squadron has its orders they’re just following’s the line they’re now leading (less directive than inspiration, makeshifty do: a line they’re butting and cutting, no respect for its delivery, no respect for its time), up up and winding up the stairs, death to mass on the landing, then wait. The Austiner Rebbe gloves a knock, that most ancient knock, wait for it, knock, knock, knock, a warning as presentation, appropriate, taken as given: this the oldest ritual of late middle night, that of respect tendered to death, the honor due anyone with a door so properly marked with mezuzah, be you prophet, profiteer, or innocent wretch. Inside the room, all seems suicided, spare of heart, stripped to rib…skeletonly tossed with what must follow flesh, a sullied strewing of plots: scuffed luggage, unlaundered clothes, stacks of cash; though humanly empty, it appears, and too much so: the emptiness of them alive more void than that of them in death, is the thought, with an ear hushed to the wood and a nose that’s fit for a key—the Rebbe’s, he’s patient, and stroked. A silence broken only by the treble of their tremble—too, it’s the clocktick, the rattle of the handle, it’s locked. To fit a finger, to try with the other hand, but it’s from the inside it’s locked, and no neysim are left us. The Rebbe takes a step back, gives his nod for the door’s slamming, to be rammed down a trample of Shalom and schlub manners: a not yet sacrificial Ovis aries is led up the stairs, its noisy leash of bare chain passing from mensch to mensch; it’s then muzzled in the right direction, thwacked on the tush with the butt of a gun…to scurry, to scamper: its testicles afling, its wool spattered in dreck then the glint of its horn and the door, it’s flattened down to the floor, hinges ripped from their frame in an explosion of air—they’ve been running the heatingbills way up, as if to prewarm what World’s to Come. A clouding, a balm. Their Rebbe dismisses the ram, kisses at the mezuzah remaining enjambed. He steps into the room, his boots trooping out over the wood, marking each step stiff with a whip of his crop to the thigh; making rigid starkdark paces across the worn planks, he then turns to hold up a hand to prevent his followers from doing what it is they do best, which is following: henchmenschs wait, as if ordered to disorder on the landing; they’re shuckling, jostling one another back and forth they’re whining what they think’s silent suggestion as their Rebbe heels out a chair, hardbacked, from the cedar desk unassuming, and sits down to face the bed barren, settling his crop across his chest as if in the burial of the Pharaoh he’s trying his damnedest here to impression.

Shalom, he says, finally, they’re meeting at last, hello Die, or should I say Keiner or Keyn Or, the Keeper, or whatever you want to be called…takes a schmeck tabak from a pocket’s pouch: it’s an honor to do this in person, I’ll tell you, hand to God, I have nothing but the utmost respect…he sneers deep from his drool, crosses his boots, then goes on: we didn’t want you to be a statistic, a number, a figure, not you, not like the good doctors Tweiss, Abuya, the Nachmachen, not like them. But one thing bothers me (and it’s not my rheumatism, though thank you for asking), if you’d be so kind as to enlighten me, I’d love to know how you people think. Why not accept destiny, that’s what I want to know, fate—why not Affiliate?

I know you’re there, you have to be, this is how it goes down…I had this dream, last night, or the night before last, what does it matter: there were seven beds for seven brothers, a hotel was burning and in the lobby there were cows servicing crows with the faces of inlaws, I think they were mine, that and a droughty famine in Sheboygan, or Oshkosh, or…I know how it all happens, don’t ask, I just don’t get why.

We admit, we had our suspicions…but we knew you weren’t yourself a firstborn once Passover passed. That proved it, sealed your goyishness with the New Year, and, as such, the gates. You’ve been trapped. Cornered. Put to bed. Nowhere left. He scratches at his breath of a beard, tugs payos, waits, takes his hat, all ten gallons of it from his head and leaves it on the desk to bare the yarmulke beneath, which is black and leather, expensive. I’ve been asked, nevermind by Whom, to attempt to save you one last time. You’ll have no further opportunities after this—are we understood…and he rubs the cap down over his skull, the kippah keppied between the eyes as a third eye, negativedark as if omniscient of everything wrong with the room: you’re here, you’re still alive, this I know…

He shpritzes tabakinate spit through his teeth to the floor, no matter, no one has to live here much longer…his mouth, a host of gold caps, dulled with black cud, whose essence is humming, Hatikvah—softly, it’s more for himself.

Enough already, there’s a voice from under the sag as if it’s the fisted talk of a last lost sock—and after all I did for that schmuck, that ingrate, B…

We don’t speak that name anymore, says the Rebbe, He’s not one of us. He’s the only.

I’ll be the first to admit it: we once were misled, a mistake, we relent and repent the required, the slichus and vidui by the minhag most recent, most true, but listen, it’s this…we realized it was our responsibility to further the nation, ours and none others’—not only to keep them, but to keep their memory, too, I mean burning…let’s speak honestly, though, the ninth commandment, I’m told: The millennium was upon us, the whole West was at stake, God was being debased, if not forgotten whether as He, She, It, or ideal, the entire world, you might remember, was going insane…and amid all this, you just can’t let a people like ours come to nothing, and only for power, only for profit—neither of you were to be trusted…

And now you want to destroy Him, the only inheritance left…Die rolls over to face his voice out into the room, hits his head on a spring unwound into nail, improvident, dull, gives a rusty gasp that knocks the frame’s knees, unsteadies the paws upon which everything rests, uneasily: God how He angers you, gets under your skin, on your nerves and not in your veins, no matter how much you suck, graft or grasp; anyway you slice it, I’m saying, He’s in the way, He’s too much the symbol, it pricks, how it hurts—the memory vex: His very existence, it reminds you of your own…

How could He have been an heir, He couldn’t be worthy—He was false, misleading, everything about Him was wrong…Him and not us. Fat glasses with a bad beard and uncultured, unculturable, I suspect, couldn’t get by, get along. Not great with people, do I have to remind?

Illegitimacy’s what I was saying, still is…He might’ve been what we made Him, though as that only half, a mixedmarriage.

What you made Him? bad blood—Shade backed you, then you went and abused privilege, public trust all for bubkiss.

What’s that we’re always told to say? I was only following orders? I was only following orders.

And so, what am I? Chopped liverish, chump?

What do you think I’m doing here, nu?

Hymn, I’ll tell you.

What I’m doing is waiting, patience now patient forever, we’re abiding while biding, call it a multitasked calling, dayeinu, genug. We await the Messiah, the true Moshiach the one and only, any day’s what I’m saying, soon, there’s been talk, soon enough, we’ve been assured, we’ve been blessed by assurance. Many believe His coming will be hastened by your, shall we say…

And if I Affiliate? and of all times he decides now to whisper.

The Rebbe rises, paces step step step over to sit down on the bed, gently, sagging onto the sprawl of his victim.

He asks, does it hurt?

The Rebbe tugs at the frayed fringe of the damask tester above—an overgrown treetop, a mourning mane grown by the dead.

Can I still? to ask a question of heels.

Convert? But you won’t—and neither will you Misters Mada, Gelt, and Hamm, I’ve told you already, I had a dream, all those angels bowing to a sunglassesed calf atop a neon ladder, with its tail a profusion of greenglitter sheaves…gevalt, you should know the procedure by now, how word gets around like a war: we accept only those whose intentions are pure; it’s a doxo-logical paradox: that I had to offer this salvation already nullifies its acceptance…you with me? Given the circumstances, how could I ever regard any atonement as sincere? I’ve got a reputation to protect. Mine, the religion’s, the race’s. Though God, Hashem, might prove better receptive; for your sake, I hope so; good luck, let me know.

As far as it’s been revealed to me (through these dreams, orders, protocol, the unappealable tie of the hands with a thread of red tape securing the strips of the Law, its mummifying parchment to gag, blindfold then Babel the ears), you’ve been found guilty of propagating a heresy, and your fate in this world, as we can only pray it’ll be in the next, is nothing—or hell, if we so believe in it; I haven’t had that dream yet…we’re still unsure.

What will you do to Him…that is, if you ever find Him—and I can be of help: I have contacts, I know people from Poles, am contractually owed, I’ll prove myself essential again, I promise, I swear, oath and affirm on my life…thrashing against the mattress above.

In light of the pain that will be His, yours will be as a pleasure…and the Rebbe rises to allow the goy his last wind, goes to the window, opens it to the alley below. He lips a wad of tabak out into sky, which is wetting with night, slicking cobbles: another day’s winter, dying like snow by the millions.

He’s only one mensch, you’ll never…

Never Schmever’s the tsk, it’ll be easier than you think: the idea’s to seek out anyone different—divine intervention, surrender, I mean…His face is known, as are His habits; it’s miraculous, a matter of fate; it’s mystical, you of all people should understand—if you intend to die peacefully, you’ll have to…

He’s why we’ve returned here to this abominable Witz. He led us here, lonely for destiny…resolution; please, it’s all too obvious not to have been preordained, prophesized already done…hesitation—we have our top menschs on it; it’s not my department.

You came here to save Him for life, and I came here to save you from Him. You have no claim, you have no blood—that is, not after I spill it…and the Austiner Rebbe points a silvery yad at a young, faired mensch who sallies a little too excitable one step over the threshold then into the room he’s already shooting, hitting Hamm through the drapes, staining two to the head, as Mada smashes out of the wardrobe and shouting, a pistol in his hand screaming its rounds, he’s shot dead a step before the Rebbe, to fall at the hem of his uniformed underworn kittel, floored with a thud to writhe, then stiffen; another mensch, this one a pure whitehead with pupils the stings of waylaid wasps, he’s filling in for his friend who he’s not hit mortally only knocked over with a great wind rung at his vest, which has been proofed as if to save him from even the collision of his soul with bad faith—he opens up on the steamertrunk, holes it and Gelt inside and all over, with such a force that the trunk falls over, and with it the lid wounded open with an overflow gush; two additional menschs (who are they, who are any of them, they all look the same, what I’m saying is—who can tell, make up the difference), they do a number of recommended stretching exercises, kneebends, deepdipping, and knucklecracks—consult the manual then your doctor your father before undertaking’s disclaimed—then hand and knee it down to the floor, to drag Die out by the armpits, pinch him up squirming to hold him a shiver at window, in blown snow, an ultimate beam of ultimate sunset, thunder lama lo and with lightning, too, this grossganze Apocalypse shtick…no tragedy this going all out, last rites with all the death-trappings, an honor (for once, the accounts agree, the weather’s never been so benevolent to circumstance—which means either that the divine might approve, or It mightn’t); ices pour in, mount in drafts, swirls, and sinuous whirls; blanking a pile of hotel stationary from atop the desk, as if to sop with its whiteness the bleeding below; have you ever felt such a kaltmachen draft? rattling the Rebbe’s vacated chair. Die restrained, he’s trussed with hands, hogtied with tongues, a snarl of languages ordering him in tones heated, and as angry as fast, to calm down, be a mensch about it, keep still: unable to even reach into his tush, and so disallowed the mercy of a mortuarial stache, knuckled out to pall away nerves with its schmear. The Rebbe unsheathes a chalaf from a scabbard hung on his gartel, approaches, with the blade held out, its crescent aloft. Long on sharp and without serration, an undisturbed stretch of steel, without blemish: he holds this knife to the face of his victim, reflects; lights dusk into their eyes, the burn of disbelieved skies.

Examine it for imperfections, and if we had all of eternity still you’d find none…

But, of course, many hold that the holiness of the sacrifice has nothing to do with its how or intention, technique—that it depends entirely upon the holiness, or the purity, oy, of the sacrificed soul: an inner kashrut, makes you think…though if you follow that interpretation, there’s nothing I can do—except slaughter you according to the Law, it’s a mitzvah: giving you at least one blessing on the curse that is your life, that has been, Shalom. It’s a beginning, think of it as, all over again: call it a circumcision of your head. One slice, just a slice, and it’ll be over—quick, and unangeled…the Rebbe’s son-inlaw approaches, holds Die’s head back by a stray tuft of gray greasily sprouted at the back of his neck from between the fats of his bald, a reverse turkey gullet, this warblingly negative jarble at nape, shakily fearful, imperfect as animalistically ugly—exposing the voice of the front…the core of the goy’s humanhalf, his Adam’s apple whose pluck would leave the rest of him bleak: a fruit that’s halved, too, from the sin of its knowledge offyellowed, straining to speak through its wrinkled, thin peel.

Holding the chalaf high, the Rebbe now, without hesitation, slits down, silently fast—and from blameless steel, the stream of a fountain, a gush of blood wandered with the tread of his boots toward the doorway then through it, life heeled, stepped into stain…a heavythick spurt of ice from outside, the latest sky shot through with stars, freezing on their ways down sodden, and smashing: the flow of the artery Most High severed upon the horizon’s own sharpness, it soaks through the air, its purity pouring to empty the other edge of the night: our vessel lacking a single shard and so leaking through such darkness, light…then, there’s a last clasp of thunder from lightning’s strike at the breast—the Rebbe turns on his heel as Die, limp, falls with the sun.

And the moon with Shabbos now rises.

Me, I’m still being me…I don’t have much of a choice, stuck out of the one window of the one remaining wall of a house destroyed atop a mountain, I am. Eheyeh. It’s been many hopes, this structure fallen, mostly ruined save its last windowed wall just last moon, had incarnated the dreams of untold—it’s as if their last dream’s this whitewall itself, with them willing it, from their furthest sleeps, to maintain a last stand against memory’s lapse, and so to maintain my sentinel: from most recently to its oldest origin, it’d been quartering for Affiliated Forces, then before that a warehouse, before that a stable, just prior a priory church, an orthodox chapel, then a synagogue, a shul, even earlier the home of a family of let’s say peasants, what to do: home of the husband’s parents, home of the parents’ parents, the parents’ parents’ parents’ home, I forget how far forever—their hallways dug out, leading deep into the watery past, twisted passages seeking hospitable wine and the dregs of firm rooting, the native soil of a creation story, an origin myth making much of a Garden’s two trees with their multanimous branchings of telling and told…giving way to the rooms of my others, passing into homes of their own: their own earthgraves, dwelt amidst wells only a little leap further—there at my echo’s other foot, this overlook’s opposite slope.

Enough to say, this had been the house of my ancestors, the ancestral home of my mother’s side, Ima’s, Hanna her name was; though essentially peasants, they were once the richest in this village below, or this town, from which they’d impoverished themselves enough to emigrate from, to immigrate to—and thank God for that…enough to say, this might’ve been my own home, too, think of that, only if.

Their home, it’d actually been a guardhouse, given to them in return for their work, which had been guarding, without fences or gate: these families, mine, had been Messiahkeeps, were kept always on the lookout for the Moshiach, imminent the Redeemer in Whom we believe though as we’re always so quick to say though He tarry—and so theirs was perpetual work, perpetualizing, and yet amply provided for, with a chicken every Friday and fresh milk twice a week, courtesy of those whose salvations they were ensuring, just a fall or shofar’s call down the slope: saviorseekers they were and that’s why, it’s thought, the dwell and its wall had been left atop the hill above the round valley and its settlement squared down below; maybe spared through displaced superstition, as if to destroy the thing would be to destroy future hope, and then again, perhaps it’s survived only out of a moment’s respect, or from symbol: never know when its vantage might come in handy again…O the handcup, the jubilant summons: they were supposed to wait there until the resurrection of the dead, then muster the living with primitive hoots and alarms. Disturb their mundane’s what, interrupt diaspora for an ingathering to where, they weren’t sure: how the people once here and now dead, they only engaged and supported such watchwards because the town, or the village, was located so far away from everywhere else that they were afraid the Messiah would miss them, or that they might miss Him in His coming, and so their stand and the conflict, again, as to where exactly to paradise to—whether the market city, or Jerusalem, if it’s the capital—once the day would dawn of their reckoning, if. And nu, how it was only my relatives among them who’d hoped that that light would never arise, what with the poultry, the butter churningup the holiday tips, free aliyahs and kavod galore—not the only people, though, for whom exile workedout, meant success…not the only people who’d hoped against Eden in their fortress defense of a livelihood, the health and happiness of their kinder—before relocating to America thinking they’d made it, done with all that custom and boredom, only to hope there anew and this time around with a longing that’s greater than ever: hymn, waiting on the corner for Mammon to show, streetside peddling their apples and patience.

As for me, I was hoping the window led out…mystically, hoping above the above, upstairs-upstairs-Upstairs, but no: it’s new town, old evil; new village, only the newest of ruins…eastern form razed razed razed to its very foundation; inhabitants unable to be raised despite the hurt of my howling, whether they’re in hiding or dead, hiding in death, who’s to ask. Skeletally stripped, rippedopen staircases spiraling turretwork, tower’s marrow…what’s a spire and what’s a smokestack, what’s a building or was and what’s grave or a tomb; from this vantage, resembles a cemetery. I lean, I’m leaning, to search, to find, to root amid roots, to moon amidst the maternal…deeply, too far. Finally—painfully, I birth myself from out of the window, tumbling to snow, then down the flank of the mountain, which flows into this plot’s main and only prospekt, when I have none to speak of, and that as no speech. Though even if talk I had in me how, there’d still be no words for where: bombedout, clearedout and out destroyed, then salted with ice so that nothing would grow again, ever. Fallow without jubilee. I fall from the summit of the hill behind me on down to egg the nest of its valley: as if a wedding’s lost band its circumferential containment, the ring of its bind, my mother’s and tarnished…toward its Square down its slope I’m hurtling steeply through the Square proper, which is unpaved, packed earth—only to land slammed against the pediment of a spire forlorn, a towering topple…its Plague Column, I think, what’s called a Pestsäule: a bestially marbleized swirl.

Not quite (which was Aba), have patience as Ima herself would’ve said and I’ll tell you: it’s a schlong…you know of what I’m talking, she’d say, it’s a putz, that’s what, the kind that crawls down below…without legs, to forever beg on its belly for affectionate time—it’s flaccid now and so distended from its plinth, hanging stubbily shrunken atop the dust as if lazily asleep, unaroused. A clotting of vein and frozen gray uncircumcised fleshiness, I’m looking it straight in its eye, without sense. I get myself up and stand a little, then long; entranced, waiting to expect what, I don’t know.

From sunrise on the next morning, which is the Shabbos, the holiest day of the cycle against which this dial’s intermediary shadow has been erected opposed, it begins to fill itself up, to pump stiffly with life as if sucked from below: taller and thicker it grows, its foreskin retracting, until an hour or so before the highest pitch of the day, and there as if dinged struck, stricken at the headhuge clap of the sun, ringing out the sky’s call to account, everyone rise—it’s up fully, and fat and hot, too, melting the weather from around the platform upon which it’s risen, a puddle, a pool…pulsing immaculately in the midst of the Square, and then above the village, the town—expanding hillhigh, extending mountainously and yet soon, as presently noon, casting no shade to speak of: pinkening then fully red and rashy as if alarmed angrily, made mad, and heftily hard, too, with the undiminished course of blood urged up from the earth—life spilled being absorbed again and again into time, and its telling.

At this twelve with its ring donging above from the bell of a church…it explodes into seed, in all pulpy seeds—which hit the rounding, impotent sun, in a great spot of stain…sticking only to drip off that orb as latterday fug—throughout the afternoon dropping away in failed viscous globs.

As nearing sunset again, what’s to expect…it’s gone flaccid again, snakes around itself as if to sleep away a next dark, fenced in and gated safe by its wild pubes sticky and hard at the foot: these wickety weeds I’m stepping on, these slatted stalks I’m stepping around…to smite one off and step on with a staff.

That evening, to ascend the mountain next into night, trailing behind me what still call me by motherly things, they give me no rest was what she’d always say…left dirtied pots and pans over my shoes, I’m stepping mixingbowls halved, dragging threadpulls, unravelings, broombristles and mop-heads and feathers from dusters, knipls and kvitls a tittle yidl zidl yi di di yi di di, clanging and tangling up to the summit one over, upon which I behold another valley below. Here, too, villaged with yet another town, the last of them this last Shabbos, I hope: my father’s town, Aba’s, I’m sure of it, from whence my father’s family had fled or once left, who knew…I do, only now. A town Unaffiliated, maybe, with my mother’s, though it’s been forever a neighbor; or, perhaps unaffiliated in any other, lesser, sense of that slur: that of its rare tidiness, its neatness it’s almost shocking; its relative order as compared to the waste of the barren maternalized just over the hill, down the mound. Never been sacked is what, or not much—at least not as retribution for the imageless worship of a God without son, or in retaliation for the grace of a minority ethic. Unlike by my mother’s, there have never been any pogroms here, nor ghettowide pillage—no prunestewed, beerbothered, sausagestumped rape. From here, my father’s it’s so clean, so beautifully perfect: everything in its proper place, at its proper time, yet abandoned…a clock stilled but still secure in the promise of tick, safe in its jewelcase, the glassy sky clearer, and bright (if only you knew how to wind, wheel its dial the horizon around)—a relic that is its own reliquary’s more like it, as it’s both the object holied and its holying set.

At the summit, I stumble…panting, I trip to fall over this well, halfopened, exposed—in my shock stubbing its lid off to scatter round down the scarp of the next prospekt promised, which is only the manicured furtherance of the previous mud. It flies wildly—skidding its way toward the purity of the village that once iced patrimony, home to the goyim who’d melt down to my father: a townspeople of immaculate surface, a townsfolk cold and of glaciate calm, whose regularity and slowness seem only quaint to me now—though if every once in a century they’d be mannered faster and louder toward strangers surrounding, and even angry, at times, furious and violent, abusive…still, the worst they could ever be accused of within their own world would be the reticent, the reserved, the brutally civil: pleasantries toward one another by which to service every occasion, fathering each other with specific forms of formal address. Du, tu, to you, too—I shouldn’t expect the same from myself, halved between valley and vowel. Abandoned alone to my shriek, an echo of the throb of my toe through the straw and a loafer. To curse out of spite that quiet sleepy town down below me—to curse its Church and its steeples, its cross high above as if the tongue of the sky’s bell stilled silent at compline—and that with a mouth lamed by that very Imagelessness all of us bless whether as Father, or God…the gummy gape of the Square, wideopen, welltended, soulless. As if a crumb to poison the churchmice, a collectionplate coined even smaller, or distant—the grating puckish and spun, as if a lid without eye, the knee’s patch of a skullcap, it hits, at long last, to a skittering stop against the westerly wall of this village Town Hall, denting a mark on that venerable frontage, which is as impassive as the ice is gray and yet, now imperfect.

I stand at the rim, the lip of the pit…what, you think I’d only recognize a well I fall into?

Inside, there’s a nipple…just deal, get used to it, will you: after all, this is the very end of the tip, hard up from the puffy. Down there it’s halfburied, not so deep I can’t reach. A giver of life this earthbound nipple, as if the whole world’s a tit and this, its summating jut—springing forth with gainful fluid. A pap that after I go to take hold, it grows, to poke high out from its setting. This, then, a sacred sucklingplace. I fall myself to the ice that surrounds. A nipple of nipples, The Nipple of, an impossibility made mythic, the mythical made possible, pasteurized or homogenized down, skim a percent then decide whether bile or curd…it’s handhard, fistswollen as it seeks at my mouth: all flesh and fiery areole that rises to rim, as a lip at my lips, its tip distended to glory my pucker. I’m thirsty, hungry for edge, even a lick, would settle for swiping…prostrate, initiatory of suckle. I swaddle my beard around its overcast red, Adam’s red, Edom’s red, the unnaturally bloodcoursed, applerashed…having a difficult time because I’m sucking, or trying, and nothing, I’m losing my breath. My mouth stabbed by a phantom. I stroke the whole length, then, attempting to milk the flabelliform thing with hands filthy and rough—in a satisfaction unwashed, and unblessed, this resurrection of the breast of every mothering woman: my sisters’, Ima’s and her mother’s, her mothers’ Imas’ yadda and blah bladdering forever around and around this hefty sphere, this sustenant orb…

What milk it gives is intermittent, initially, comes stuttering spurty, comes darkly soured, but with gum and gulp begins to flow whitish, then wholesome to nourish, what could be better—lo so it smacks to my tastelessness, though, going only on the quality of the swallow: at first flecked with pebbles, shot through with gritgravel, then lukewarm this nectar, an alb ambrosially smooth; I guess what I’m saying is, yum. I pinch the nipple, flick it and flex, lying flat on my stomach to flail my shoes down the hill. A crop of boulders surround, a ringing that might only be pimples as if this nipple’s goosed flesh, horripilation of sorts, but it’s not—they’re stray ordnance, gyres of shrapnel and frag weathered idolatrously into the forms of stray heads without feature: the senseless halo of my sink.

The milk begins to redden me rosy, it honeys, it makes me, remade. Remember your pity as the lowerlip of indulgence, from my mother I only knew of such suck for a week. I feast, dribble lust from my lips, smack and stump, suckling beyond my fill or any, to bulging, to bust…and so intently that I don’t register the slight welling, an intolerance flaringup in pricked, pinching swells, lactose, lactarded pains, not yet worrying me, though they should, so fitfully nervous soon shaking my tract. Warning of hurt, of bloating, and cramps, of gaseousness but it’s more, it’s larger than that and any ignominious lack of an enzyme. It’s that the symptoms themselves surge, egoistically huge. Limbs marbled. Until it’s milk and milk only that’s the flow through my veins, the stuff by which bones are made strong for the strain. Within this strange cradle I feel like the only babe upon earth, slurping at final immeasurable squirts until the nipple gives guzzle no longer. One last spurt, then a drizzle absorbed into the skin I’ve been warming—with beard, with handstroke, my face brought close to snuggle, to cuddle with breath…the last drop dripping to the rim of the ice, and freezing there, as a harder, barer, crueler whiteness—lavan, lavana. With the world entire beneath me, below, left deflated, a teat sucked wrinkled and dry, this mammary spent, crumpled thanks craven, hollowedout, as if for the discard.

Holding my gut I go down again, weighted to fall and enlarging with every knocked tumble, rotationally increased in this revolting around…until I smack, at the wall of the Town Hall of this nowhere that once birthed my Aba, or would have—brought to a stop, then further dispersion, as I gather myself out from a puff of lacteal snow. Each flake is a number, a tock’s mark, a dendrite’s tooth, the fang of a frozen petal. A weather of myself, of my own making, a sprinkling of cloud rounded above into the clock of the Hall, which holds as if prismimprisoned the face of a different sister of mine every hour—not on the hour but slipping, this slide sororal, a slow tinting change of their lights, of their darks, the bows of their eyes at the zeroes…and it’s then that I realize I’m lulled overheated, feverishly stuffed, not just that but perhaps even poisoned, shvitzing with a pain in the belly and I’m breathing too heavy like I’m snoring awake. Lightheaded, airy. With each flappy uvular heave, as if the attempted swallow of a little white grape refusing to make its way down…I’m growing, it feels, as if in the lunarly regulated shed and regrowth of the dial’s hand I’d kept swept and zipped tight within the skirts of my mother, but more so, all over. My stomach, my poor poor stomach as Ima would’ve said, heaves up a groan, as my breasts like hers, too, they’re stretching, like the striated hairs she might bleach as they stray toward a splotch, the purple and black how we’d match…I’m inflationary, pumping to pop, the ribroped, hipcinched robe of my body now rising, now risen, expanding, while encompassing air—O sweet vinestirred milk, seething to mother my blood…render me unto the care that was hers!

In the beginning I’m filling the Square, the dusky paths in, the pass out…the parts nighted unknown to the high other senses lost in my purge, in my paunching, me smeared wetgreased into doorways to mark them with my greed: fillingout this village’s loose waist of houses and pens, of barns and threshedover clearings, to fill the circling town then the valley it’s breasted within, and the next, down into the valley before that, a womb bearing beyond. Then atop this enormity, too, outerlimits it’s feeling like now, my head floating upward into the void stratospheric, the darkness invisible and so, indivisible there, with all the other nightly ordinance that might float obscured in the light of the moon, and then even the moon itself with all of its seasons and cycles to clock, to gather into orbit—around me; pushed, pulled, and then held, steadied, then moved around and around, spun by my force, the tidal grip and grope of my flesh. Attraction’s what I’m talking, a refusal to give up, let go. No, not a satellite or planetary, I’m bigger than that, I’m a star, for real this time as my sisters would’ve said and been jealously awed—finally, the firmament taking a shine; me holding worlds together, aloft, setting them to motion about the poles of my horns. A body, and what a body! celestial; its catasterism total, destructive—the Milky Way purged from my gut with the flick of a cometlike tail, the boilingpoint of my burning intestine…a Meaty Way horizoning at the other extremity, toward my tush a blackhole into which all time must fall, a God’s malpracticed, mistaken navel. Around my scars and around my marks and my wens, my sores and my pimples: this gathering of constellations, of galaxy, universe; it feels as if the whole cosmos, which is perfect in idea only, if only within me: wholeheaded, requiring no twohanded repair—as if it’s about to burst forth and bang, to explode in dim peals flaking my meat to the milkslippery, milkwhite stones both hewn and geologies found, formed below the steeples of the Church, beneath the spire of the Town Hall’s meridian, amid this Square’s void cleaving a valley past the womb and breast of my mother whose husband converted and so, my father was damned. And, as if in belated revenge or his belfry redemption, I’m borne above the throng of those he’d forsaken, these statues blinded, the deaf and mute rock, the crushed gut of this bridge, that vomitus river, itself a flow stormily swollen…God no better than them, still I’m bursting with greatness, milked as His highness so huge above all, so taken with myself—how I’m ascending unto the Uppermost, if you know it, you should…

Atop the Church of my father’s town—whose worship might have denominated his own had he stayed to be born unconverted, baptized in the worn lap of a spouting gargoyle idol—there’s a crucifix, a cross holy and sacred, and yet so much smaller than the halfmooned, bit crescent nail of my forefinger: a mere crux ordinaria as it’s called Latinwise, as if it’s a species of sentient life, and so cycled mundanely as both predatory and prey—one of the stilled and yet fearsome, toothy mutant dominion perched to threaten, and yet precariously, on its claws at a cornice; this figure promoted supernaturally through the ranks of the demons, risen to lord it above its more featured fellows invested with lesser symbol and wings to top the highest reach of this Cathedral, let’s say it is, there atop the tallest of the innominate, decardinaled steeples as if a rood rod installed to conduct any wrath that might call. Here I’m pregnant with milk in white air, with this cross burying itself into the eye of my navel, gouging spinedeep, its crossed arm barring me, nailing itself into me as if forbidding, in an intervention nothing short of superfluous, and divinely dismaying: refusing me a world I’ve already forsaken—a father’s domain to which I don’t dare tempt return, even prodigally, even if Heavenly proven, made then remade…I belch a brilliant millions of stars, and then—hisssssss…it’s my voice you’re hearing on the wind, of the wind, exploded to weather, to pieces of pieces, my immensity popped, scattering shards; usurpers to shove their ways through my tatters, remains, these patches, those righteous splinters of flesh and boneslivers, badges of me, and rainbows’bands, remnants never to be put back together, never to be revesseled, spitstuck, or tikkuned with whose love, tell me how on a gust—never to be assimilated again into any becoming anew, another In the beginning again, yet another arrival for seating whether at table, in pew…perfection’s hope lost to a lateness, a gap yawning lag, a void purely defiled, immaculate as immaculately unclean, and so, never to heal: the wound wound between clockhands—below, and clasped still—which distance maintained is all that sustains.

As shards of me fall from the sky as if shards of the sky—this weathering of me through the world.

All that remains of me are two horns, here in a Square, having lately grown from my head, then shed, scattered atop the earth, tipped and tumbled, and blown through by wind—Hear O Israelien, the hollowness of their howl…

Mere artifacts, for the museum we know as the future.

One day last, or so it’s been said, they’ll be found, on which end they’ll be sounded with lip and with lung: their blast to bloom up from the fundament, through a cadence toned to the heavens, reflectively pitched low to the grave…an opening, this cadence existing only between pitches, within them, this the moment of every conversion, the last—when air becomes sound, the assimilation of breath into call…a life, mouthforced into summons: a perfect interval, this high note rising ever further to kiss at the face of the void, resolving into a horizon on which the world will rest its revolutions, soon, in our time. And listen—this will be the death of both silence and Babel, of question and answer, all reborn as a freeing of air.

At the outskirts of my father’s dwellingplace, at the furthest limit of His encampment, there amid the ringing of haycocks where land gives way to earth, to pure planet—there’s an emptied barrack or prison thatch that once quartered killers of mine and of any other kind, too, murderers with governments and the sanction of uniform, weapon, and horse. It’s since become all board, nail, leak, and draft, its floor strewn with straw and that and its walls smeared with the sickening reek of wet hair, pelage, daily turd. Inside, inhabiting, there’s only a lone aged ram. It’s humiliated, made modest, as its burden’s considerable: how it’s dually imaged, as if once for each horn, for each half of the cadence responsible; this ram both existing of its kind, as the last of its species still grazing, and then existing for its kind, too, as their most imperfected survivor—most imperfected as their survivor, their last and their only; to be herded humbled, alone, as a herd of one and itself, up the ramp of an Ark, bound express for our covenant’s end: think the species’ lowliest, and most degenerate aspect, made ancient to wizened bellwether with raggedy coat, then hefted here to rume out its life once it’s downed its last golden door; it’s lost its horns, too…how they’d been stolen by night, by a boy and his father, and an angel that’d saved them both from a mountaintop altar. At the sound of my horns, my own shofars these shofarot twinned in the wind, one for each lip ended upon that lip of last day…how this ram despite wormy illness and old age will perk, turn itself dumbly, lean its head toward the gusting, an echo. Hoof mud. Now, charging its brutishly bared head, and with nothing to fear, forward and always, this ram will hurl itself against the furthest wall of the barrack, not east nor west but out, only out and with such fierce and wet woolen force—to knock everything down, to shatter it through, an escape, into unlimited space.

A new world.

One day, one night soon, in our time—we await.

The Museum of Museums

A lone long, thin reflecting pool as if a finger accusing in the image of which you only encounter yourself and your failings, though placid, usually—if not for the drizzle slowly descending; an eruptive fountain beyond, its hot, vitreous bubbling burbling the surface of the pool into which it flows sharded freeze, liquid glass smashed over, again, reflecting in sharp tawdry lights the limousines and taxicabs lately arriving, depositing, departing, dropoff; this melt of miniature ice floes, too, sounding like the joyous tears of attractive, in shape, wellinsured widows, loudly through the overprivileged, entitledly adolescent whine of the sirens: police escorts driving into skids, then straightening out again at the curb of the narrow redcarpet unfurled, soaked then shod dirtied halfway to black…at least the snow’s stopped, for now, heavy weather relented, RSVP’d regrets only, leaving us all with only the belated consolation of spring, its droolingly lazy rain not doing the least to distract Security’s athletic attention: strong menschs blondish and big, earpieced, vested and armed, crowded in a circle at the helipad up on the roof, readying the site for its arrivals due in from behind the clouds, any moment; snipers with scaleless eyes and snakeskin gloves hold down their rooftop positions; every available soldier’s either plainclothed on the ground or inside and dressuniformed, stationed Uptown east, to secure the Museum for tonight’s homecoming gala. A flow of fluttery dresses, the funereal austerity of blueblack tuxedos…who’s the corpse, he’s my husband, you have my condolences: notoriously bowtied bodies, they emerge from rare leathers to the fire of bulbs, a crowd mouthed mad for a glimpse or a grope. Menschs hold umbrellas for these guests, for the distance between door and carpet kept dry, then up the stairs, the landing, the stairs again and then in through the doors, into the specially decorated lobby: the thought that maybe they’ve got weather there, too, interiorly, those dim monstrous skies of galleries and halls leading to galleries further, with their own weather coming down from the ceilings, cathedrally vaulted, the swirling atmospheres of high domes.

A Museum, whisper insidevoices—a question, is there anything more indicative of the decline of the universe than a Museum, you think? too many reporters here tonight, watch your words, mind your mouth—though the universe, that’s a Museum itself, a Museum unto itself, isn’t it, wasn’t it? Questions, too many unanswered…is there anything more horrendously depressing, I’m asking? Who’s awake who would know? A Museum isn’t the end of the world, no, it’s the world itself ending, dying, happening as we speak, here and now—the as slow then only more terrifying murder of everything; the lightblind casechoke, display’s duststrangle, the peccant poison known as culture—which itself ’s only to be preserved, to sterility, never to engender again.

And then there’s nothing more repugnant than a fundraiser for a Museum, especially if it’s a formal night like tonight, a tails with a tie and an evening-dress everything down to the pearls affair, out with the jewelrybox, out of the safedeposit box, then the bowtie you tie by hand not the clipon, God forbid, how there’s nothing optional, never is. Mothballs roll their ways down the slick marble stairs, bouncy chuckles, they tripup the salaried slaves in attendance. Take pity, this is the first night they’ve dressed up in a while, have permitted themselves the luxury of…to become the lover of their own sin, an embrace black and cuffed, its enjoyment—how to explain it? please, provide us their thinking. How lately, they’ve reached this permanent stasis, nunc stans and all that, the fat reunited with his brother happy again, in the middle of the metropolitan desert—the goy showing up bearing gifts in the form of simple household solutions, such as variously blinking and beeping organizational helpers, it’s said. Call it another Enlightenment, call it a selfemancipation, a realization, an actualization—call it what you will, you’re already late.

Aleph is for the Alist unfurling up the stairs, each entried step a dark scrawl of angular socialites and their squat, loopy machers being checked off by the door…reformed representations of oldtime Division Street fabricants here with their brotherly cousins, a host of warehouse winners grew up in Midwood now officed in the Army Terminal, Brooklyn, sitting on a pile of home furnishings both used and likenew, the repentant scion of Bowery pushcart poets and their whorish, redheaded Pomeranian landladies I’m talking sixfloor walkup ugly, with socialist leanings escorted by their daughters become correctly cold Yorkville obgyns, explain that—their own daughters, married into the Battery’s recharged investment bankers, corporate moguls in from a Siburbia beyond Connecticut and with kinder of their own lately heiresses doing the dos, jetting the charity circuit, balancing balls—selfmade menschs in every racket and trade that can be legally listed, so far I’ve written over five grand in new business and I don’t even read, can’t even spell; them and the women who made them, they slowly slacken their pace to meet the press just assembled in a row on both sides up the stairs, always upward, Uppermost and then what, you expect a brass ring, take your coat…journalists pent behind cordons like pedigreed livestock who talk, who ask too many questions, too many of the wrong ones, at least, squawky without answer: who are you, who do you think you aren’t…they’ve come in hordes, to barren the buffet, to drink the fountains dry and then the mooned pool, skinnydip, eclipsing in their spectacle what’s hung high from lunettes—entering under a raft of tautblown, entablatured banners proclaiming an exhibition, an eternal exhibition, it’s said, of the way it was, sentiment, nostalgia, Ostalgie if you must from that language itself an exhibit (besides which, we’re kitsched in the East after all—82nd & Fifth), a Museum of an Extinct Race, of a not quite Unconditional Surrender…gevalt, it’s okay, only richtig, go ahead and admit it, of their old lives just skinshed in this very pilgrimage Uptown, up from the overhauled system, the redone 6 Train if they’ll take it, anything green…or trekked on over from the West Side across the darkling Park upon the wings of the crosstown bus, M86 be its name blessed forever and ever—pulled up in their commissions and liveries, not as guests anymore but as hosts, not as visitors of late but at home, masters of ceremony and the attention attendant, making their last adjustments after stepping to sidewalk’s sopping carpet, a remnant of a God’s tongue gotten for a good price right off the floor, off the rack (one woman mortified at how her husband’s schlock satin pants they have too many pleats and break only down by the heel, that and his shirt it’s pleated, too, or maybe just wrinkled, showing a full two inches of cuff, is how crazy, how far we’ve come), them tugging, pinching pulling, a flush wind, hair askew, blown big and unstyled, these gusts of dress exposing scandal, toupees with their yarmulkes still pinned go flying like demons through air. A sweep of light stains the night, swirling carbon arc searches…all turn their heads to the judgment descending, a buzz, a whirr, the noise of skykashering knives: Shade lands on the roof ’s helipad; nothing can begin without him, he’s a sponsor of the evening, the guest of honor and the honored host both, as reelected Head of the Sanhedrin, turned out for the occasion in a slimmingly fitted white tux, frilly lapels baby blue, a matching blue & white kippah atop, alternating colors seamed to its quadrants; it’s trimmed so heavily in platitudinal platinum, it’s amazing he can still keep his head high.

Are we expected to justify—tell me, to whom? They’re here because B’s tongue’s finally finished licking its rounds, has only just returned to the city, to be unveiled tonight and enshrined, on permanent exhibition and in its original, restored reliquary of I promise, it’s gold, housed under a lone spotlight, in a furthest gallery yet to be opened…beyond the doors, which are huge, castiron monstrosities, like mouths, as if the breasts to a giant’s coat, Gog, Magog, Goliath, the noted developer Barry Silberfels depicted towering over his wife nèe Phyllis Stein and their twin kinder Stephen and Steven—the doors, stylized with carvings, imaged commandments, their symbolism obscure only to the blind or the braindead, don’t do this, do do this, Thou shalts and not and please, just don’t ask: in a wild wind they’re flung open to the street, the collection aired to the darkness, the stairs that lead up then into the marbling heart, to the flight of guests arriving at yet another destination never their final—ascension, verticality, that’s called mobility, babe; past the staircase’s landing, halving the flights, guarded by two templar lions chained tightly to rails, their paws splayed without claw, they’re rolling twinned globes, being ridden by agents, barebacked undercover as angels twirling swords on temporary fire…past them, fleeing from the flash and the ask, they’re still pouring in: curators and docents and amateur experts, the critics with their papers and pens in their defamation suits, slurry ties, arm-in-arm money-lenders with their lent, philanthropists two-by-two, alongside their beneficiaries even betterdressed, beaming, these schemers and scammers charitably deducting their rentals tonight; more guests billed as either surprise or special or both, personalities you might know from, remember or recognize, roast and toastmasters extraordinaire—this place, it must be making a fortune; they’ll museum the world three times over with what they’re taking in: fivethousand shekels per plate’s being charged, endowments gathering interest forever, sponsorship’s accumulative assurance ad æterna, the Paradise that is the Curator’s Circle, the Purgatory of Sustaining Membership slander, whatever you want to be, we’ll go ahead and give it a name; amazing, tomorrow they’ll be turning donors away. Menschs flood the lobby, make coatcheck, strip rubbers, lose umbrellas then locust the cashbar, ordering vodka with Jaffa OJ for their wives headed straight to the restrooms to face fresheningup: primp and preen with powder the puffs of their noses, redlabel mashke with Coke (O/U, by now even K’s good enough) for themselves. Free Palestein! with every large cup of coffee! A Mazel Tov orgy, boutonnières poking bosoms, the glint and stick of starredflag lapelpins, handshakes, onehanded, twohanded, hugs turning to kiss one for each cheek, two for them both then the lips; let me admire you twirls, looking the new wife or girlfriend onceover, up and down, check the gums, turn around now, bend at the waist; some are talking standing talking then moving to mingle, sidestep network, drop and hint, while others’ve already taken their placecarded seats at tables placed around the periphery then further in toward the stumbleworn inner stairs; their hands in their laps they’re waiting for what, some sort of honorable mention, another award, a keynote unlocking, the idea, justification, the reason, excuse: save it for later; first’s the gala, then the appeal; they riffle their programs—and only then, the unveiling…the Tongue.

A moment, please. In this whole huge horrible marble world in which love might be lost but its clay still remains—are there any exhibits, any objects, anything at all I’m talking save the Tongue…in this entire terrible world of stone, upon this lonesome rock thirdsunned, are there, where are they then, the artifacts, I mean, the pictures hung on the wall…statues to walk around and around again and around, following their flaws: a horror, monstrous it’s a profile all the way around; there’s no substance, it’s terrible, there’s no real…all those vast empty spanses expected and then, meaning: Rape of the Deserving by Apollo, of Europa, taken for granted by Dionysus, among others, Der Blaue Reiter heading east over Die Brücke, anything else for the chiaroscurious, maybe Selfportraits of Madonna & Child, one by him one by her how they’re hung as a diptych, side by pierced side…sacra conversazione set in shepherd’s green pasture against mountainside alla prima, what about The Circumcision of Christ, Three Kings veiled impasto, lives of the saints in infinitriptych, altarpieces in which each panel of three folds into three, those three then folding into threes of their own and then, tripling infinitely within a frozen forever, Last Supper Last Judgment natura morta, a likeness of St. Olympias done in the school of Rembrandt’s sfumato, a saint orphaned, too, who she died rich in exile in Nicodemia, and whose Roman feast day’s the day of the night of His birth, that of St. John of Martha, then, or of St. Florian, whoever how it doesn’t much matter, they’re all dead anyway and yet remembered, too, with that same gild hanging over their heads, framed with holiness, touch them, you’ll wither—any graven images is what I’m asking? No, only the Tongue…how everything else’s in private collections: the profanities had been confiscated earlier, way back in the chaos, were then snatched up illegally or—hanging frontside toward the wall for the crying, the indulgence of anonymous bids—for nothing at auction and are presently on show in the grandiose homes and offices of those who’d afforded them and their risk…

Only hours to Opening, the exceedingly fey he’s probably a fayg partyplanner (hired here in return for his silence regarding the ongoingly if slowly investigated arson of the Island, it’s said, that old Xmas Eve), he camps around, this way then that, the chicken they’re serving tonight with its head cut off, and, God, the caterers, they’re too late. More like gliding on the floors, which have just been polished, in slippered feet then his socks: he’s limp wrists, sighs, and eye rolls, in a symbolic blue bekishe (Zaiden, velvetpiped, a twelvebutton customjob, with superadded pink triangle satin appliqué just for fun) fixed with a white gartel—blue & white, the color scheme of the evening, their lives—flapping in the wake of his hustle; he’s lisping a shriek loudly, hurling lallations, his lambdacist orders; desperate pleas without please at his staff of lackeys, assistant and attendant, who relay all demands to their own assistants and attendants, who in turn pass along the frustrated rage, down the hierarchy then onto whom, the last repository of their nerves and their angst—the interning unacceptable, here just to get a little experience as the party responsible, he’s not even getting paid, whoever’s son he is or the friend of a friend. Tonight, it’s an Eden motif, paradise is the theme, Pardes, that’s why it’s so much, too much, all this work, you think the prelapsarian comes easy, come again, broaden your mind with the budget: the idea being to transform the lobby interior of the Museum into as much of an oasis as possible, as paradisiacal as resources allow; fourrivered, duly labeled the Tigris and the Euphrates, the Pishon and Gihon, surrounded by palms, real trees then fake ones allocated, too, when an emergency Miami shipment went delayed and then lost. A Garden…at least the appletrees have arrived no problem, down from Upstate then potted packed into the fray, the forbidden Tree the tallest and widest, under which the fayg meets with his waitstaff, foreigners gathered around its trunk for instruction and pep: to encourage guests to gather from this orchard at will, take their pick; the branches will be restocked with produce throughout the proceedings. An hour before doors he’s going totally manic, in a fit, an outright conniption: they’re ready for any creation, prepared for any fall, as expected, as has been amply budgeted and contracted for, but something’s missing, someone’s late, not quite right…boss, ¿qué pasa? what’s wrong? an attendant asks the scream echoed amid the lobby’s vast vault; a moment later he’s in tears on the phone dialing frantically, like where the hell’s our goddamned snake, where the gehenna’s the handler at, listen, is this the Bronx Zoo—I’m hanging up if I’m not hearing hiss…

Not that anyone’ll notice…why, there’s just too much going on, are too many people, person pressing pushing up against personality, straining to keep their manners good, their faces fixed pleasant: dressed impressed and to, their dresses swishing up against the pleat and flat of their pants, folds to tails, striped, starred, ringed, then bound with necklaces chained of bracelets. Necks low, hems high. Anything but ashamed of their naked. Here, they’re poised to point, their lips pursed to whisper within the tomblike calm of the Museum’s dark cool, amid the wellventilated, recirculated air, this spring garden, a milder jungle—to live landscaped amid such drastic swoops almost demanding of awe, the ornamentation sinuous atop the hard lines, the austere, lean geometry, the public weight scaled of fruitbasket and bird…everyone focused, on point, kept on topic: on the preservation, on memory, anticipatory of what, a holy vessel to be expertly processed, labeled for ease of digestibility (though no one’ll eat it—how could they even begin to pronounce its manyclaused bracha?); but the manners, they can’t last forever, pleasantries live only halflives, remember, these are the Affiliated we’re talking about, you know the type and so soon, talk in its most or maybe least stupefying varieties breaks out, comes echoing loudly from whisper to shout; there’s fartalk, neartalk, eyetalk, nosetalk, sidetalk in all of its multiloquent geographic manifestations: Upper Eastsidetalk, Upper Westsidetalk, Westchestertalk, Joyseytalk, the murmurings bebabbled of Greenwich on down to Red Bank…smalltalk, largetalk, tabletalk, thattalk, thistalk, overtalk, under-talk, nthtalk, xtalk—a gossip apocalypse, a pack of lips…a salivary fleck-flock, a herding of mouths—this mass kibitzing, this metakvetch, orbits of noise gathering around the assemblage, to ring, planetary gas, puffing the drapery, wilting the appletrees despite the fayg’s fervid shpritzing; guests (they’ll never forget they once had been guests) discussing weighty matters, doing deals of Creationary proportions, spying steals of Biblical scope: Numbers, Numbers 2, Numbers 3, names dropped then picked up, dusted off, returned to Sender again whether Mr. or Mrs., this is our second & final attempt…linnerplans preempted by only a sneeze, a mere cough, matches handshaked on and off and then on again as offhandedly as possible as empires plot themselves then disintegrate to dust all around them; seismographs altared upon the floor register the insistent stomping of feet, the whole mess standing, shuffling, rising, sitting, squeezing hearts’ tight on loveseats, the spinechill wombcold of low tallowtoned marble benches, blue & white slipcovered sofas rented out for a mint down, hauled in for the occasion only to wear and then, stain, they’re pressed against walls, pushed up against doors…standing high up on chairs and on tables, how they’re speechifying, offering jeremiads, ezekielisms, and isaiahtirades, exhorting from chairs stacked one on the other or set atop tables or stacked and set thereupon both, how they’re leaning up against the balcony’s railing draped blue & white, too, in the standard of the U.S. of Affiliation, show your respect.

And above it all, the klezmiros, the music: there’s a piano quintet installed on the marble loggia presently givingout a specially orchestrated version of the Kol Nidre, Opus number does it really matter, from the Yom Kipper liturgy, this string quartet loaned out from the concertmastered ranks of the New York Philharmonic following their shockhaired pianist conducting con moto with thrusts directed seatward and brutal, the rise and fall of his tush: a lilt carried upon the cellist’s vibrato, the lefthand tremolos of the piano…the music comes tenuous, energetic but nervous, shaky, as if a touch off, a mite stressed, stuffily muffled, gagged to a sour still in the throat; then, in lowing fortes and high sforzando wails, how they’re shaking, they’re rattling the bartender’s bottles at the temporary bar, just for the night, draped in the same scheme of things…waitresses drop troughs left, right through the feverish shvitz, the competing blur of talk, ganze gossip, kopdreyenish, a lashon hara from mouths round in hora; lightly moustachioed waiters, their yarmulkes must be tapeddown, glued on, ladling out cupfuls runnething over, flutes and splits of champagne, and mensching, too, the vorspeizen trays, making sure, as ordained by Shade, to give everyone the option of saying the appropriate blessing before their indulgence (placards are made available printed with the prayers in the small scribblings of two different tongues): they nibble away at their benedictions, then partake of the healthily blessed…nu, the Tongue? a fat lady shrieks, what about the Tongue, the preview, the relic, that’s what we paid for; Tongue Schmongue, says her gin-rummy partner (or that’s just what she’s been drinking), you look like sooo gorgeous, will you just look at yourself, I just can’t believe it, hiccough…a woman whose dress she’s stepping on asking then if she’s heard the one about the, is drowned out when she’s elbowed into the fountain, the one to which the it’s labeled Tigris again flows, shouldered in headfirst and so the joke that’ll distance it All, just lost, stompedupon dress ripped off in her fall, shreds of exposed flesh, scandalous to love it, that and her humiliation, too, and they do; nudged to a laugh by a middleaged urologist-to-the-stars, or that’s just his type, you’d be lucky to get an appointment while still active…lost his wife to the turmoil, she’s here somewhere, he’s sure, though if not, there’s always another, he’s just tired of looking for Her (the vest of his threepiece being buttoned up by the fast fat fingers of a wife never his and hymn, there’ve been three of them now); the woman founders, her highheels fall from her to float, her fingers to linger at fountain’s bottom for shekels loosed, which she fists to the carpet that leads beyond, and then higher…fastened down by brass over the marble to make for footfalls so unconscionably soft, in their wary and panicky stalking of hard culture and symbol—all the way up the stairs to the loggia and its overture, now beginning again without warning: who’s that cellist, anyone know? a woman making breasty headway through the muck, jostling, stepping feet with stilettos without apologizing as if she’d ever, to this waiter she knocks who’s holding a tray of drinks up over his head, how he drops it, missing her must be blessed but splintering everywhere, glistening slivers of glass, chandeliershards catching the last of the light through the windows arched overhead, sloshing slivovitz whether plum, pear, or peach schnapps, frothing remains, bubbly champagne over the carpet, out into the wide grouts between the blocks matched for vein, the marble tombslabs, the gray gravevaults, the still living scattering themselves out of the way of the jeroboams unto nebuchadnezzers’worth, this foaming lacteal puddle forming around him a frown, a reprimand that’s maternal yet firm, the waiter just standing there silent, immobilized, awaiting his punishment, the retribution we’ve paid so dearly to exact: they surround him tighter and tighter, hurl imprecations, taunts and threats, but just as quickly as that begins, everyone’s distracted again, diverted, turns, is turned all around—toward this ruach, doorward, this strangling wind, divine breath on the fresh haircut backs of their necks…and now on their faces turned, too, madeup and puffy with blemish, tannedblack or clearing though surgically cut: with the silence of speed, a swift glide, without creak, crack, or groan, we’re talking greased, maintainence oiled; the doors sweep the halves of a clockface across the mingledulled floor; the cogs to an eternal timepiece, shadows, twohanded, now one, shadow the hour, across the newly finished mosaic that rings the lobby in widening suns (though a mosaic that no one knows, in full, what it is—no one can tell, they’re standing on it, they’re of it—perhaps it’s a rendering of our incomplete Creation). This is the shutting of the doors, the Closing of the Books, the locking of the gates in the offseason, the offhoured latenight to this winter of judgment: the hinges relent, a last shaft of light gives out from the unified draft, a spotlit escape of air and dust, the wind of the weather outside staining across them…swept narrow, thinned to a kiss; and then darkness, total and only: the doors settle, the strait gate presently shuts—and yet, with them left inside.

Where they become the exhibits…and how no one knows, no one understands: they just proceed with their mingling, they talk themselves on, jaw and thrust tongues, as bottles pour out into glasses that clink; ladies in the powder room, which is a lavishly appointed facility, staffed with dour, whispery immigrant attendants hired away from area hotels especially for this evening and now everafter, they offer hot and moist towelettes, perfumes and mints…they the women all pause their ministrations a moment at the sudden silence—then resume, din, mingling mingle, while their husbands they wait outside, glance at their watches, wait, talk talk, get dragged away, by associates, by acquaintances, business partners, brothers-inlaw, and by strangers, there’s a mensch I’d like you to meet…into discussions, discursions, digressions importuned upon deviant involutions of tangents. Eden’s gates have shut, have locked, keeping them here, fallen within, frozen in time, frozen as time. To live here, to become exhibits themselves, as they’re already exhibits of themselves, and then for themselves, too, exhibited exhibitionists, say: mulling the mulledover forever, ruminating until the food and drink run dry, they’re examining, framing, and posing, appraising the pagelike walls with thumb and with tongue…scratching with questionmarked fingers their heads, then at others’ detailoriented they’re scrutinizing to ever, patronizing patrons, both viewers, the viewed, the subject and its object all talked, compared, contrasted, parsed a rolled tongue into one, and then swallowed: eventually finding their ways out into the far halls, Tonguesearching at first, Tongueforgetting too soon, deep into the shadowy spaces, the attic’s dim ducts and then the underground stairwells of emergency access…the furthest recesses of memory’s muse; the evening running forever late, the world, too, damned, without exit.

And as everything is nested in everything, and That, too, in everything, unto when or wherever you just get tired, decide to call it a day and it was and it was good…or, maybe Gnosticwise, that heresy older than heresy, older even than the One True God against which or Whom one would rail—holding that the ruler of this world is only the ruled of a greater world, then that the ruler of that world is in turn only the ruled of an even greater world, and then yaddaing blah imploding on down through the core of the cosmos, if you’re interested, threehundred and sixtyfive times, which, FYI, was how many days they’d had in their old years, way back when: O to have lived before the Sixthousands…a dayschool group yawning, fidgeting amid a handful of misanthropic sketchers in ash, in ashes and uniformed sackcloth themselves (as thinly sketched as they are here, it’s nothing compared to how blank their own pages), annoyed and trying to appear as such, mourning recess, feeling sorry—then, there’s also a Museum of Museums, the mensch says, gasping for air, and here there’s all of one exhibit, one piece…this spindly docent he folds himself up in his map of the premises, distractedly forces it around himself, over his eyes, around his ears, nose, and mouth until the urge obligingly rips a hole for his voice, high and yet groucho, at the southernmost tongue of the southernmost state, which is this one.

It’s named where it is, he says, what it is, holding the torn shreds in his old, unsure hands—it’s the world!

Unimpressed, the group from the dayschool leans up against the walls, futzes with the peel of the plaster.

But you’ve come for the Inhibition, no?

Follow me, he says with a tremor, singlefile, this way…

This here is PopPop’s unit towered down where the sun don’t shine, and this particular docent (an ancient stoop of a Miami native, a retiree, slippered, rippedarmchair historian who wouldn’t be made assistant to the least curator despite his appeals and the expertise of his simper), he guided on Mondays & Thursdays, then mensched the Information Desk on Fridays until sundown, at which position he’d give out only information about the desk: this is wood, he’d say, rap his knuckles atop, about two centuries old by the best guesstimate, mine…the tree, it was sawed down, wood planed, legs nailed into place, then all of it varnished; it was owned by a resident of this tower who died with the Rest, shipped Over Here from the Old World, Over There roundabout last millennium, midcentury or so before, though who knows for sure…one can’t accurately tell the extent of its use due to frequent restaining: a light red, I’d say, at least it once was or should be, a pity that now all colors come hard to me; it’s the old eyes, and the weather—but seriously (refers to his notes): handbrushed cherry almost oxblood’s its name with a nice fluted edge, two drawers and two leaves for extension, seats eight, I’m telling you, you couldn’t do better…

Here at PopPop’s, he shoes polish, a volunteer when no one else would, he’d often joke around to groups that he lived here, as if underwater, down in the foyer’s fountain, with a ram’s horn for a snorkel how he’d subsist on spare shekels, drinking his dwell, accepting donations and wishes in kind…

Restored some time ago thanks to funding Federal matched by the State from the taxdeductible Other, various recently reprivatized sectors guilted into writing it all off on the wind, this tower’s lately sealprotected, signedover as landmark, thing even has a plaque on its face that they earmarked for it to be polished by hand once a moon; and lately, its penthouse condo unit’s become a place of pilgrimage for dayschools, and for yeshivas, too, when their kinder do the work, put in the hours, seem to merit six goldstarred and four quarters straightA’d a vacation from the Law, their studies thereof—a firsthand field-trip to sacrilege: Isaac Israelien, is what the plaque says, Zeyde (Grandfather) To Benjamin Israelien, Inhabited The Top Floor Unit Of This Condominium Tower, 5735–5760, Hosting His Grandson Here Between 17–23 Tevet Of That Last Tragic Year, The Latter Date Also The Day Of Isaac Israelien’s Death.

This would be Arschstrong’s room, the mensch relates to the group, who remembers their history? Come on, don’t be shy, Arschstrong was the special poo poo friend of whom, anyone, anyone?

Nothing.

Of PopPop Israelien, right!

Wow, you boychicks sure do know your history!

Pity him, he never gives up.

And whose PopPop was PopPop Israelien? zeyde to whom? do you know? It just happens to be a young boy named Benjamin Israelien!

Not much younger than you are.

Isn’t that wild?

But there’s no response, nothing registering, payos twirled around pale fingers, poked into sockets staring, vacant: who wants to rent them, get in on the groundfloor?

Benjamin Israelien, anyone know who that was?

That familiar to anyone?

Anyone?

How he always stops visitors as they leave, detains them (only a moment) to show them a photograph, found in Polandland or thereabouts, ca. 5761 it’s been dated, asking them to identify the subject—and surely, it’s Him.

Inquisitioned, they’re given the following options.

Is it, he asks—

A.) Baruch Spinoza, you know him?

B.) Your Zeyde you never knew, so sad how he died before you were born?

C.) Your Onkel, I mean, but when he was young and with his beard black as night?

D.) All of the above, as we’re all of us just manifestations of let’s say infinite Substance?

E.) None of the above.

F.) No one special.

Thus far they still must be thinking, still weighing their choice though already chosen—the scale of their eyes & ears tipping the scales of the heart…the choice already chosen for them by their own ignorance, or by curiosity’s failure; if you think you know so much then just tell me, the docent’s waiting to hear, don’t keep us in the dark, it’s a sin…as no one’s yet identified Him, Him as He was or is still (though to be fair, the horns B’s usually depicted with, when He’s depicted, throw most off), in this passport photograph represented as one Jacobson, Esq., ripped, creased, corners bent, found down the well of a village sunk so far to the east, the Ost it was called that it might be all the way around the world west again, lost.

Nu, undeterred, so what about this one…and he goes and retrieves another snapshot out from under his snapbrimmed cap, passes it around, this photograph nearly identical to that previous save the black that’s now blond and blue and more of it up top, too, that and the weightgain and that innocence in the smile and the hope at the seat of the nose: hymn…is this Israel? he asks their shadows down the emptied sidewalk, the group returning to school and then home upon buses short and fat and chartered, and so no, he answers himself, he has to, but it was taken by him, Israel, upon a Friday and at the very last eighteenminuted moment before the Sabbath’s set, mil plag hamincha the night of the 24th of old December it’d been dated on the back, the eighth and last of their mingling existences soaked amid the developing solution of night, before the bris the next morning never to be—a moment posed Him alone and already standing on two legs and in a diapered once white Oxford buttondown of Israel’s, leaning against the stove he said oven she said in the kitchen and smile, Say Dairy! a moment before meat, before candlelighting, the savrei Kiddush, all that Blessed art Thou King of the Universe Who brings forth bread from the ShopRite conveniently located at the corner of Route 9 & W. Kennedy Blvd., then dinner, their last Shabbos’ last dinner in the company of last guests lately cometh, and then—their fill later, His eyes still dazzingly flashed—time for bed, and for a bedtime story, too, the eighth and last of the seven that Israel had delivered unto Him as if dreams…meaning, how He’d always fall asleep during the telling: not even a lip laid empty on His mattress where His father might sit and spiel, and so the story’s again delivered standing, In the beginning leaning up against the door’s wall then settling his he thinks old bones senior spine down in one of the two new matching chairs they’d just bought hospitality sidechairs solid hardwood you wouldn’t believe what they’d paid—one for her and one for Israel stained a blue and a whitish pink they’re standing again to end one week ago tonight, he says, and you Benjamin my boychick how you came into this world, Creation’s over already and I promise that tomorrow night, promise that every night I’ll have a story to tell you, you’re loved; wait, just you wait, I’m going to be gone a little while, I’m going to go to sleep, just a little (too, exhausted, but think of the wife), but then I’ll be back at your side, you’ll open your eyes he says and like poof! I’ll be there, I’ll never leave you, and ready again with a story another story always another they say the Shema now O Israel the Adonai our Elohaynu is One both Adonai and Elohaynu and Israel, how he pulls up the covers, comforting up to His nose, which is already haired, sneezing gesund, it’s a reaction to feathers, the goosedown, His asthmatic allergic rhinitis, sinusitis, whatever they’re not doctors we can’t all be His parents hadn’t yet figured that out, give them a break, cut them the slack of their jaws up past His ears to His eyes hiding beneath, fear, suspicion, paranoia this how do I know, that tomorrow, it might—it’s only been a week after all…Israel to kiss Him through the comforting covers, the sheets that’d been Rubina’s spare pair, to then go off to His mother, his wife, their masterly bed with its dimmed lights amid kindled candles, unscented paraffin jars, sensual yahrezeits in memoriam the first sparks, what initially attracted, romanticizing the plushed vault of their room (its purple throwpillows thrown to the vacuum’s threespeeded winds, Wanda’s gusts), to lie down on his side, the Side that’s always been his ordained since ever before time, to shoulder-sniff, kiss at the flush of her neck, Hanna’s, him to molelick, wenlap, rim with his tongue the bones of her collar, with meat teeth to nibble at her if singly pierced lobes…to knead her dimpled thighs for rising in the stove he said oven she said of dream, and then—to enter her there, even only a week after His birth how she submits to him, still, to pass himself through her gates, and there, inside, in the midst of that lowflowing river, snaking through the winter season of her garden to spend himself there, how he can’t help himself, that’s why he needs her, to seed yet another, wants only one more again, expected to enter the world around the month of the true New Year nine months from the turn of the false…one who’d end up revealing herself, her because the boy just to look at Him He’s justifiably a freak, just my luck, nothing more, only around the ten days that follow in mourning the Rosh falling Hashana failing itself already upon that night dawning next the Day of Atonement, gefailing, gefalling, gevalt—her to be birthed into the center aisle of the synagogue, between the pews, to be swaddled in the mechitza, separated from father and brother in the very cradle of curtain divisive, and there to daven for forgiveness, for what, for what else, upon her very first day, in her very first hour and still without name, to proclaim in the midst of her people her sin, her one and her only unnamed…to repent for her very own birth. Having had no choice in the matter, if matter ever she was or would be, unlike this one, here, this Redeemerette, His Savioress out of pity anointed in responsibility, arrayed in salary and spoils, pinched pennies and the rewards that come from getting reimbursed now without a receipt: Hava, in this room freshly wallpapered, “Spring Flowers” in bloom, who knows what kind flowers grown in this house just paid off.

This is Wanda the maid now Wanda the maydel: in one side out the other, poof, as they say, and that’s that. Wanda Hanna’s One how she’s now Wanda-Hava, Hava as in Adam’s wife Eve in the new language olden again, as in that song they’d sung at their wedding high on babka and chairs: Hava negilah, won’t you, as in…you Wanda a little something, and don’t you deny yourself in my house, then why don’t you Hava little something—and he did, have her, still has: seven circumlocutions cracked out of Instruction, a host of prayerful songs shired after she’d learned what there was to learn, studied after she’d shaved what there was to shave, as per tradition, and so much, too, eighteen blessings after morning’s blessed the ceremony at the chintzy hall off the Turnpike, ink dripping from their ketubah witnessed by the caterer and bandleader, the wet of their names mingling and, with ten hours then at the sprawl of motel across the asphalt that gave you the deal if you went with what package spent in delicious Godentwining, in delectable Unification, he drove her in his tenyearold Taurus home, ensconced her in the kitchen: new sconces, three dishwashers, three fridges and three ranges, meat, milk, and pareve, from parents, his now made hers, who knew from machatunim’s the term, and there set her to work, stirring up the pot, preparing.

I Hava Wanda, I Hava Wanda, I Hava such a lucky mensch, a mucky match save passport and his bank balance, whispers as he palms her, shvitz upon her swell…witness the happiness of this new Affiliatedess with her appropriately Affiliated husband, who’d made a respectable woman out of her, a maid and more, a wife and a mother primigravida; in this world, there aren’t any irreligious naturalization problems: she is that she is now that the papers have gone through, a book’s worth of them, and nobody’s asking any questions, us sons we just don’t know how…hymn, maybe some aspersions thrown to glass-houses (perhaps their greenhouse just going up outside, alongside the tennis-court and the inground swimmingpool, subcontracted through his brother to a friend of his brother who’s been going through some tough times, his brother, too, their own many brethren, our sons and who isn’t, we’ll vouch), but nu—who are They to make judgments?

And still she launders and presses and folds clothes, now for herself and for her husband, too, and soon soon enough please stop shushkeh shushkeleh we’ve shtupped all genug for the baby inside her she’ll name whatever her husband wants, but whom she’ll secretly call Benjamin: oy, it’s a boy, to be a boy, congratulations…may he kill you in kinderbirth, may you die at kinderbed, upon it what death could be better, a hearty Mazel Tov all around.

Spit spit spit.

O Adela, she thinks as she irons the skirts she’s inherited, each of her blouses, too…O Adela back home, Over There back dead with her relations, their blood.

And Spit.

And so now in the quietly massive hours of Shtum, with her husband sleeping on the side he picked out as his long ago, long before he ever had a wife, it’s the side he clung to even in the belly of his mother olev hashalom toward the left kidneyward as if a worrying growth, while he sleeps undisturbed, exhausted, womanspent and that for the first time in his life he would remember if ever he were in the habit of memory, knowing nothing either of her Wanda’s past besides her foreign ancestry, her vague though desirable eastness, which is what had attracted him to begin with, she says to herself in her own language though she thinks it, too, in our own (she can’t help it, that’s why she has him, why she’s having him—to have someone to speak with, someone to correct her mistakes), then hides herself down in her mouth and down to her gut, to rummage for Instinct long fallow: still troubling, that she still can’t place that odd ancient whoever he was who’d attended dinner at her house, theirs, the old theirs that night, The Night, or had he, stolen in, could he have and how, and how Hanna’d seemed to think that Israel knew him and how Israel of course had seemed to think that Hanna knew him had known him maybe and how the two of them they seemed to think that if not them then perhaps the Tannenbaums they’d invited him, had they, and why, maybe he was poor, or that his wife she passed on, he didn’t have a meal that night that Sabbath when Shabboses still were temporal; pants, something about pants, maybe, or other, sockshoes…and Hava she knows she didn’t know him and doesn’t, did she or remember him leaving, and maybe it wasn’t dinner at all, after all perhaps it was after, nuzzling her head into the pink give of the pillow, the downy maw, the wishniak’s hairily soft and softening mouth whose stem feels topped with a feather: he didn’t give a name she placed or could or ever and he laughed when appropriate but too loudly, insistently didn’t say anything else, and ate almost nothing, like a bird, like a boyd (her husband), didn’t eat anything at all or even drink; had he forgotten or what, who he himself was, God, who was he and how did he get there, did he, and what part did he play in this spiel, which, if any at all? Then, she sleeps, snores an ocean of skin out of her mouth to soak along the round of her form…where’d you get that idea, going geist into her mind she’s woken again in a screamed shvitz hers or his by her husband (the mensch, he’d just been promoted at the slaughterhouse to Head Knife Inspector, which is a position equal in rank to the Inspector of the Finenesses of Sandgrains Used in Hourglasses, he’d joke, I’ve certainly put in the time—how much he’s proud he usually sleeps without calm, a drippy and dreamless neurotic), who shakes her and holds her and holds and shakes her at once to tell her it’s all a dream, reassure, just a dream he’s shouting and what to invoke to ameliorate, to go downstairs and nextdoor to grab the three friends husband or wife and kinder required for the prayer, what’s their names: I have seen a good dream, you have seen a good dream, it is good and may it become good, may the Merciful One transform it to the good, may it be decreed upon it seven times from heaven that it become good and always be good, it is good and may it become good blah blah…sleepinghand grabbing for the manifold amulets that hang from the scald of a knob at the door to their room, the Master Suite’s something anything to ward off: maybe that string of wolves’teeth, the cask of oil luggaged home from Safed, a missed enunciation of the O so many Names…

But a dream: every tradition old enough to regard a dream, any dream, all, as both prophetic and meaningless knows the spiel—gehenna, they invented it: our tradition’s a longtime wanderer of the worn road Nezach to Hod. And so the meaning, if any? Who knows from meaning anymore?

The prophecy, though, in her mind, and I’m talking retrospective, prophecy of the past, to linger its moment, becoming moist between the legs, a smell seeping up from under the lawn, and she…though it’s impossible, isn’t it, she was downstairs, she was downstairs-downstairs, no, she was Underground, doing unspeakable things for money in those days; he, her husband, should never uncover that nakedness: Israel, a passionate lover, though oftentimes a premature ejaculator, these thoughts! had kissed his son after finishing his story, and the old whoever, whitebearded, did he, peeked a chin in from the flue of the fireplace for show; she wraps herself tightly amid the tender errant down of her arms, the sheets of her mother-inlaw, her shviger’s her name warm to the tongue unlike her, struggles with the angel if it even is an angel and not Moloch Him or Itself, never quite figured that out either, Who kisses this into her mind, lips to impress rivulets, riverine valleys of wighair down her neck how she sleeps with it on so as not to forget, lapse the Eden then default on the mortgage…he’d a beard white like a billygoat’s, an old mensch she thinks, no goy, God forbid in whose house and foundationally ancient, maybe from the synagogue as old as all menschs are or once were, his beard she remembers, though, the color, or lacking color, of snow, of Nitor it’s said, a whiteness shining, a purity, a moon just like a shekel unsparing above. Had he come down through the chimney? Leave me alone! I’m a newlywed wife and a mama-to-be, not a prophet or soothsayer of secondhandom! Be gone and cast thee out yadda yadda psht.

He seemed if not at least tired then overly so, swung his watch, hanging his stockings o’er the ledge of the fireplace stuffed with varicose evidences of worry and work.

O thou shalt tread upon the lion and adder, the young lioncub and the dragonviper shalt thou trample under feet!

Is’d kissed B, Hanna’d always used words like smooch, smackeroo, how’d she expect me to learn her language like that…had to almost reach up on the tips of his toes to kiss Him and where, on the hot head, some say, upon the fevered forehead, others, lips spreading their pursy unsmiling mark to stretch love’s skin across the head of His loins…a pressure, a taut tingling in the prostate—then left to attend to his wife, their Hanna resting up from her exertions and cooking, the cookingbirth, the usual that she’d say the ush upon that Shabbat almost day, how that strange old liverish mensch, a skinned fatty garbed in warning red and pure white sashed how he’d later found Him left-overstuffed, then talked his way upstairs, upstairs-upstairs and to His room, nudged close, sat on a chair closer, B still diapered in a new white shirt fastened snugly around Him even on the second button of its adjustable cuffs, a pinpoint Oxford of His father’s, which were all of them too small for Him, too tight, bursting the buttons, rips in His torn, everything hanging out O the shame the embarrassment, Talmud says it’s worse than death: mortality, mortification is, and so why’m I raving like this, she asks herself (but she shouldn’t be too alarmed—you know how hard it is to get a Get these days, you wouldn’t believe how expensive, too), the mensch he shuckled a duchen maybe there in his chair, Israel’s up in the room how he muttered a few words more he had to shut his eyes to remember, then got himself up.

How do I know this?

As if to ask, what’s red and white and bearded all over…it couldn’t have been him, no, you know, she didn’t even believe in him back when she believed, when she was supposed to—and how what you don’t believe in, it doesn’t exist…back home it’d been Jesus who’d brought them the presents, that infant martyred and not this sorry schlump.

Yes! she shrieks, forgive her, and finally sits up in bed next to her husband who’s up on his elbow suggesting remedies even more recondite between dictating nistering lists of anagrams, abbreviations, and other obscurities of formal propition, she’s telling him just yes, yes, that’s where I, no, I’m sure of it: he’d walked downstairs…

Havaleh my mamele, are you alright, say something, sh, don’t talk, don’t strain yourself, relax—you want I should fetch you a glass water, warm you some milk? Don’t tell me, speak up…

Blood, was it blood?

I’m not a mindreader, you know…

But she silences him with a thrown arm and a throwpillow, says to him God to anyone that the mensch, listen, how he crept himself his way downstairs down the stairs a little I think after midnight.

Hear me out.

I’d come upstairs to get a drink when the Underground went dry, which believe me that didn’t happen too often.

Underground where, Halvamind Hava…what are you talking, what’re you talking, you’re talking, still, are you possessed, has a dybbuk swallowed down your throat and’s speaking your tongue?

No, we met in the kitchen, that’s where we always, it was dark, always it was dark…the only light for memory this the dark of the kitchen where, and listen, that stain in the grout, guilt about my teeth, selfconscious the nick, the nook, the kitchen where Hanna she’s sitting and listen, it’s important, this is earlier, you understand, this was before, and she, how with her yogurtmouth, she’s pouring to me like another one, she said, with her dairymouth, she’d say, another one…like I don’t know whether I can go through with this with another, whether I can survive it, Wanda, him or her, whether I can you know or not handle it, manage, whether or not I can like deal.

But he wants a son, and maybe baby this one, this’ll be the One—really, like what, if any, am I supposed to offer her in return?

Israel, he really wants it, but I feel like…some sort of consolation, something Wanda’d thought, like maybe don’t worry, no, sh, not to fret—you’re no enabler, not a milkfactory, no churnerouter of babies…talking like she’s in this fancy schmancy mysticalized trance; the cheap pink curtains, minor defects in workmanship, a steal from the relative of a friend’s relative as always who knows not to ask, weeped around the opened window over the twocar garage and the driveway they swell out into stormclouds—and how I get myself to the cabinet first, she says she goes and opens it wide, that’s where they kept the liquor, high cabinet, you understand after Rubina she once, the highest left one of the two above the bedecked refrigerator, lists, magnets, photos, photomagnets, polarized lists all that dreck and, nevermind, just you listen…

If it’s liquor you want, a little l’chaim, alright so I’ll go down and kook what we have, Hava, but…

No, but I open the cabinet, and I don’t know why I don’t become a crazy person and just go shout my kopf off but no, how I don’t, I just open it, go to open it up and my hand how it’s on the handle thingie to the thing and his hand, God, this plumpery witheredly thing, icky with shvitz, and as quick as any random indignity—hear how it just swoops in, scoops up the little flask of schnapps, the only thing in there, the only thing left…

Schnapps, I don’t believe we have any schnapps, Hava.

Israel was never a shikker, you understand.

Israel? How’s your health, you’re feeling well or no, should I go get the doctor or rabbi?

Yes.

You want I should disturb them on a night like this?

No.

God, tell me what you want, Wanda-Hava Rosenkrantz, anything, anything within limits; it’s only a dream, only a dream, a dream only it’s…

And then how I let go the handle, she says she grabs onto the tiny bottle, surplus from a cousin’s barmitzvah, and how we struggle for it me and him, we pull back and forth me and him we push, which cousin I don’t know, never did, him tugging this thing, this flask of schnapps we’re wrestling for it with four hands now and he’s strong but he’s old and I’m strong and young then not anymore I pull it hard once and it comes loose from his hands, but I don’t have a hold on it lose my grip and it falls to the floor, shatters all over the place, the kitchenfloors, the tile little shards of glass stuck in a pool inground ocean of thickened red is it schnapps, everywhere just everywhere I stand there just staring at it, though I really should have been mopping it up I just, that’s what I did, my job what happened he just…

You just, Hava, I’m finished listening.

And then…

You know, some people have to work tomorrow.

You know, for a living.

I forget…it’s all over now, so long ago, how it’s ancient history getting older by the day that is night what with its stars three rolled hoch horch like eyes, falls into her pillow, her mother-inlaw’s, is soon sleeping so deeply she doesn’t even remember to snore, then next morning wakes up and her husband he regards her strangely but forgets by mincha home for linner and she herself, she has no memory whatsoever and yet come the coming of dusk that night she finds herself, why, preparing him a dunch the likes of which will destroy all hope for thought both rational and not.

The mensch leaves her there lamed, passedout on the floor, unconscious, unconscionable with her head knocked on the edge of an opened knifedrawer, mamash, believe it or not it’s the emes, rushes back up to B’s room, he’d just wanted a l’chaim, was expecting warmedgoodies, Ima’s milk, too, had been disappointed, decided then to keep his own self warm with blankets and covers, shuts the door, props the other chair up against it, Hanna’s, and B He’s awake now again, already sitting up in His bed He stares dumbly.

While downdownstairs of eternity, moons prior to moons, halves of moons, quarters, crescented slivers these falcate whatever miserly dieting wanes, Hanna pats at her swell, offers Wanda one more drink of this one doesn’t count, shot without label, nervously peeled, crumpled, and balled, she doesn’t know from liquor, anyway, neither of them do except Wanda who she wouldn’t admit, a celebration for the sake of observance, while she herself, Hanna, shouldn’t, must abstain, upon the advice of the life bottled within her.

This mensch pets with mitten His forehead thrice, then mutters again with shut eyes, holds a heart the left one as he shuckles a bissele more as he murmurs, strokes his beard, absentmindedly gripes from it all the dark hairs, curls his toes in his boots (schmuck he never took them off, left them to dry in the fireplace, he’s dirtying the house terribly inconsiderate who ever heard, how was he raised and by whom, let’s go to their house and burn the barn down, its stable for the reindeer and sleighs) then asks B, what, something, if He wants to see some pictures of his grandkinder maybe and B, iffy, was this His father, is this the mensch who’s been here seven now and one night previous, and if not, then what, if any, was the difference, and his right to sit in the Presence of, anyway nods an assent, how not to and the pictures they’re shownoff in the light of the mensch, his white, the beardhalo, balltopped cap’s gloriole, aureole, icebowed hairy halo illuminating the names of those depicted filledin-the-blanks, in red feltpen looped feminine along their snowywhite backs, where everyone was and, too, what they were doing or up to, who was married to whom and who was the whom and who else had who with whomever, what they all did to do well for themselves for a living and how they made or make out at it and the like, and how they’re all evilly elfin, small rodentlike things who don’t appear to have been made in the image of their Patriarch, if that’s what he is, but more in the opposite image, He’s thinking his under-developed, their undeveloped, the true deepest negative…until ‘Twas this knock at the door and the rednosed redeyed mensch he doesn’t rise, mouse a stir at all or even rattily twitch, merely gathers in his sack, cinches its strings tight. Hanna’s chair up against the door bolted, he’d leaned it there when he entered, came back up, it’d been purchased just last week with its twin at a discount and sugarplum soft in their vinyl upholstery, for both parents to witness their miracle they’ve never been sat in, remain unmoved, the room entire, decorated in baby’s blue for luck or hope, Mazel and filled full with stuffedanimals, pillows God everything else stuffed stomachs and heads and dinosaurs in their aeroplanes that’d seem ridiculous in a room belonging to a grown mensch, and He was grown, already, is, of B’s size by now, how the whole room is stilled: then, a softer knock pause knock knock knock at a door down the hall, the Master Bedroom maybe and the mensch stiffens, slowly rises from Israel’s chair, hesitant to go up to the door and feel a jambjammed and bleeding mitten at its fiery handle; as he rises—his chair tilts to collapse, legs knuckle, kneel, bow, Israel’s not replaced though it’s still under warranty but instead to become reassembled, weldnailed or glued perfectly together again by the Garden, in the Garden, in His own house again this one here once atop the Island atop the bay whose waters suicide themselves upon the coast of this world, as it’s known…only, then, to be burnt, to become ashed into perfection again only in the World to Come, if you’re familiar, if undead and hopeful—the covers go up again, go up over His nose, up over His eyes, blanket His forehead and hair.

Hanna resigned, sighing her soul out.

B under His blanket His covers, shivering how He shvitzes, wet He looses Himself, a slow slowing trickle shed all down His thighs, limbs writhing in warmth soon to leave Him, and then—and then nu it’s nothing, until Wanda: she who’s the mother now of a boy, the son her husband always wanted to name him Jacob Rosenkrantz his father’s Isaac Rosenkrantz, father of another Israel himself to father, time enough, how you know him…Isaac, I mean, yet another who, the one with the, and who, again, with the son who’ll be redeemed soonish enough from a Cohen it’s called, a Priest, the class who but, forget it, for a sum not to be sneezed at, gesundheit Wanda she remembers now, now rocking Benjamin, no Isaac, no Jacob, Israel in her arms he’s Yisroel, remembers only around midday and with the wash still to do and the, that night how she woke Him up up there in His room, in which He was alone and how she fought, how she struggled to get Him, all of Him to get it all proppedup and how, He didn’t recognize, how could He’ve been expected to know her, how’d she then waded through His parent’s room, dead, a storm outside His siblings’, His sisters’ dead all twelve of them together in their room alone in their rooms and how at last she’d come to His, and, hymn, and the rest…

And now her here, alone, too, if alive and with her son about midday with the drying and the washing of the dishes still to do and the cooking she has, too, with Hanna’s landrover one of three of their cars the other two you wouldn’t believe what they cost, always it’s leaking oil in the driveway below there’s a stain and as she looks out the window it looks like what else, who else’s face stained—and a hungry an always hung thirsty Rosenkrantz with a honeyed tongue gilding away raw at a nipple.

And yet somewhere outside this Ghetto, tonight, we live, somehow we’ve survived.

Our kinder have been born into a reduxed Golden Age, haven’t they, a new, quietleafed looparound added onto the Development’s annex: into a veritable Pax Americanus, in which Affiliation let’s say’s not only acceptable, OK (a world leftover from the War, the World one I mean, the Second), but also maybe admirable, in fashion, trendy…minorities overcoming obstacles, and good media coverage on that from inmost city to outmost Nowhere, this State truly Godforefutzed; pride in Them, in Us, succeeding, majority at large aiding its minority in rediscovering roots, and in reviving old practices…alienation as entrance, and so why not taking pride in that in an enriching, pluralistic, aren’t-we-so-damned-Demoncratic sense, with us and I mean Us attempting to barrierbreak, to cross borders until the only barriers we’ll ever break again, the only borders we’ll ever hope to cross, will just be those of our own creative erection—and who to apologize to after that? But what’s the alternative? Storms trooping death? That’s not what we want, is it? But that’s how we shine, how we thrive, how we’ve stayed alive all these sufferings—and perhaps even asking for it all the while, Who forbid, inviting It into our houses, our homes: ask and thou shalt receive, ask for the worse and thou shalt receive the worst, and the line for complaints, it forms to the Links.

Every year on the month on the day on the hour, the kinder—ours—begin the slow massing rebellion, the perpetual revolution of every generation since…we all remember, are O so diligent about doing so, never forget our remembering—here in our Development, here in our planned settlement, our subdivided encampment, at the edge, the furthest division most sub, and at night, they meet one another (weather permitting), amid the huddled park woods, in caves of their own dream, of their own industry, each others’ invention: tented bedsheets, clothespiled closets not yet redone for spring, and there discuss, question themselves deep into the programmed, inwired anarchy of their Religion, if religion it is, their ratty Race an anarchy that is its only true lifeforce, its only true meaning, and forceful—as natured nature from naturing nature as it’s said, they refuse to inherit ideas, they deny them, the traditions and the idealistically sacred the yadda and blah, how much they’re hesitant to revive them, to graft them on…what; to impose them upon even a quiet time, on lives that ring evermore empty, founding Paradise in the air.

But no, most won’t. Wishful thinking. Anything but.

Most will just be born into professions and marriages already vetted by their Parents, your Parent’s Friends, our Stockbrokers, and God, becoming Fathers & Mothers they’ll never kill because that would mean above all their own destruction, ours, yours, mine—and then, we’ll be mourned in the midst of the Congregation, donations to be offered in our memory: denominations of $18, 36, 54, 72 to be accepted to whichever fund best describes the limitations of your grief—like how much is your loss worth?

And our sons and our daughters will say Kaddish. But who’s to judge?

And Joseph said unto his brethren, I am Joseph; doth my father yet live? And his brethren could not answer him; for they were troubled at his presence.

Parshat Vayigash, “And then he went up…” (Genesis 45:3)

from the Torah portion read on the Shabbat of the birth of Benjamin Israelien

Punchlines

IS HERE JOSEPH.

And this is where it all ends America with me Joseph ben you don’t know him numbered much like God I don’t need a last name with everyone now ignoring enough of these no more of these recreations no more redactions reinterpretations reinventions revisions these stories resorted then shuffled restored and then footnoted endnoted gorged upon gore how I’m tired London so tired I’m Amsterdamned Avenue dead soon enough tired it’s funny like ha ha funny is here enough genug of these no more lives how I’m Big in Yisgadal Ben vyiskadah and the shemay of the gables rabah the East River canals like Venice the Ghettolocked Venezia I imagined shy but cold in an irongray windyday Italian overcoat my father had lent me for death a size too small I’d starve into it by the time we’d left the station finally Köln–Deutz 1941 I remember it as if it were they came for us with the trains the Gaugauge waiting late at the station at you say Cologne where I was born 1918 into Poland lost in the Ostlast time I kissed my eyes at the girls from Merl and the family Frank and the families Frankel and my own Mutter and father in his serge suit as dark as this Harlempark this stark Washington the Heights of yo mommamuthermutta they’re dealing what on the corner crack crank what’s the diff the girls ask the chola bodega glow O the malts and the sewer-waft smokestink gunfire knifefire the Dolchstoss the Dolchfuss the Dolfmess all this tummler noise and the roil of the Carnival Trade Fair Grounds in our muster to the A train with its circular blue and the triangular yellow Q the gelbgelded star above you can’t what with the flood of this neon up from Fort Washington the whitewash of that other winter November 19and the civilization of Broadway Brotvey breadway lined two hundred oy so streets Uptown and on into night so untested untried I’m tired of dusk the sunsetting sunsquat I’m sure the Indians once had a word for it better I should mean the feathery kind Habla se hablamos on the Hudson the river the Heights and the low sirenlights of the police the SASSSSSS at the Deutz trainstation at the George Washingtonian busterminal headed across the GWB to Colonia New Jersey from it’s called Quisqueya en el home of the footlong the two for three for a dollar wampum bead bleeding my head Madhattoe a world away from Downtown with its Bialystokers and bagels rung high a moon above the Midtown eau de Cologne from which Poland Amsterdam London I arrived how I’ve arrived George Washington Heights New York City New York State You S A can you see or hear what I’m New World America 1003that’s me you’re dialing my number (212) I forget what I’m trying to answer the phone the television born into reruns in Köln it’d been primetime Cologne eau to you 1918 Amsterdam 1946 London it was the October after November eat your dates hungry your whole grainy black & white bread to leaven the mouth thirsty those pills I can barely live to breathe to speak of the mauscheln the emes mamash flowing through my thermometer arm mercury traintrack veins no more fever this blood no more claim no stories more tattooed on my lips kissing away at the girls from the Lyzeum Esther immer besser the emes the mamash gevalt it’s the Wahrheit I’m after the Wende turned truth as they say it was ultimately Auschwitz if you know it so heaven’s assured if there’s hell I’ve been through it that morning already with the whole family mother and father and me my sister and brother assembled cold in the station the Abfahrtsbanhof Deutz keinen Deut besser als my father proud my mother proud of my father and me in my cabaret coat with my whistles and kisses the signatures we’d never Xd on all those papers the typewriters’ 5’s runic SS key after the percent sign and before the sixth open parenthesis (those Beschlagnahmeverfugung breadlined souplined lists we formed ranks filled columns long and wide how I should take out an advertisement in every major metropolitan daily half page below the fold and in full color the New York Times on your dime but the corner store the tabak sells only the Post or the Daily News El Diario so I can answer my critics café friends students and women advertise Checks Cashed for Gold publicize my asking my tsking tasking in headline Fraktur font the Gothic why datelined rapelined flatlined killed it was murder and history both it was my life what did I know of the religion the race I was just born into it was there that’s that what can I do about it but die I’m dying I’m getting ahead of myself dying I tried all these stories oy those fivestoriedwalkups and drashes makemups shtum poems about gassings and ovens an oeuvre of mass grave lieder and the silence of the weantrained Spanish goats their electrically whistling Mützen ab aria the literature that could be heard even then as far away as Canada Harmenz the FKL and its fictions novels and stories both short long and blackmilk poems by sexless and skirted the issue with the tissues on the desk shredded in the pocket the apple cored black dyedhair glassedin women teaching the inhumanities to shvartzes and Spanish at City College the Hunter crowd the testimonygatherers the witnesscollectors and the Blubo bank with its lawyer-accountantaxes postdue undone never known more pain than a Jesus Christ papercut from all these books upon books one page the Theory & Practice the same as the others six million of them paging pure snow around Auschwitz the Deutz Volksnonsense deustchteutsch the Leute Meute Heute Beute my fedora “Romazova” that matched my schlechtes French the mon ami amour cries of six months before a kiss a hug XOXXOOO for my father’s partners immigrating émigrés as the Russians say their revolution just nextdoor to the Palisades Fort Inwood the Cloistered unicorns with their shofarhorns their tekiah mourn the fluted frolic the trampledtrommel girl’s face of God the woman in the flushed rush to settle in the train the car the box beaten undercrushed footwomen with her Gaugouged girlribs jutting from skin as if fingers with no skin with no nails no more of this graven this craven imagine these by the book violations of the Second Commandment the synagogue’s Decalogue after the first but before the portico third I can’t get any sleep don’t want any sleep don’t have anything left to do or else live renegotiate preferential rents the lead poisoning warnings the beep bleep bleat of the battery for the smokedetector cremating the monoxidebox gassed too with the electricity dead the locks disposed here in my room in a Cross the central length my mattress the arms two nighttables endtables endofnightables whatever no names since my last super quit on my arms no superintendent strength in my legs left table moldy with medication Elderpryl Lacrescriptions extending to eighteen years nine days to the day I never refilled never moved thrownout on my righthand table rightable in its deep winter static the fanatisch fuzz of November December heating not working a light dusting of ice the bunny clumps the clods with a will a newspaper’s page all of dust all the fuss I’m revising it hourly in my head hands don’t work frontpage the headline says Dies at age of blank with the Beobachterback side of a leaflet advertising a sale on patio furniture my Last Will & Testament I leave that’s as far as I’ve gotten I leave

When they were born, he was born, and when they came for the born, he went.

my will a legacy my very last given over leave it all to Agnesz from Mexico I married her after Liberation January 1945 back in Cologne Paris Amsterdam London but she died on the boat over in the middle of the Atlantic without middle in the East Ending middle of HERE is London the BBC Home Service capital of Hungary or was it then Czechoslovakia where she was born you don’t know from places the graces of dates all the same to you on the ship over she died of a fever which was the war maybe Hungary or then it was Romanian thrush she said Sárospatak Potok am Bodroch she’d tell me it meant the Muddy Stream the Athens of the Bodrog she’d whisper sub rosa about the mapping of maps but now you access interfacile you mouse over whole surfaces screened as if no one down there mattered existed only for the idea the world exists larger than you and is greater than too the collective concerns of whatever your poor Body & Soul the first film I sat through in America Washington Historyless Heights where I’ll die and no one will know just go over the documentaries mockumentaries the old story here in Washington George the First Heights after every revolution went through knowing every joke and every camp there were as many camps as there were jokes every witz there ever was and we were the punchlines the cast crew editors and authors my Onkel out of work dictating his feuilletons to the floors and the roofs the streets silent no more radios either the junkfunk you couldn’t own a telephonegun no radiovisuals not the Grynszpan I knew who’d worked at my father’s factory where they manufactured no more bicycles either I had a Waffenrad until curfew or 1939 no more out late party cabaret café and cigarette nights into morning liqueur only November and Wahrheit und Truth dayeinu said out of season that Purimask last we dressedup we disguised ourselves as soldiers SA SS who took over the Aryan factory on whose floor we made our last Pesach Passover Passah with the windows closed to the candles and the machinery snuffed the Elijah haNavi who stole our best hidden silver that night of shellshattered eggs O my Kristallarms and my nachtlegs the windows lashed with boiling rocks stoneshuddered the wedding of a hammer groom to the glass at the synagogue though we’d say the Bethaus on the Roonstrasse the Runegasse Temple not a shul the Portuguese esnoga or snoge with its black chandeliers huddledstarved pews I slept in through Amsterdam smashed into shuttered London shipwrecked boatgloating London-town Fagintown bombedout blitzedout Amsterdam’s Waterlooplein the disappeared Houtgracht all of 1946 the year of resurrection I shipped over the Hudson’s Atlantic from Luftkrieged London Big Ben fallen dark the clockfaced Canadians who liberated Amsterdam under the command of General Walter Cronkite (ret.) the king of the city of Spinoza but three hundred years too late for him in a century eternally late for any moustachioed ethica anything ordine geometrico demonstrata that was the structure of Auschwitz too the system the ordering Seder a concentration camp you might’ve heard of it from camps from camp after camp after every witz there ever was crossing the border with Canada burning to Rotterdamsterdamned Antwerp the Scheveningen dunes the Netherlandish moon the seachannel changechannel the lines at the JCC headquartered at 18 Johannes Vermeerstraat the Rembrandt eyes of that hollowed rabbi that Hungarian Hasid who’d married us it was Purgatorio I memorized at the Realgymnasium one canto but a generation short of the numerus clausus e canterò di quel secondo regno dove l’umano spirito si purga e di salire al ciel diventa degno lived down a job editing the personal ads in the Aufbau was how my cousin Eva had met my searching for friends for the nuclear core the De Wallen whore who’d hailed from under the last wall in Ukraine who’d witnessed our nuptials performed by that Satmar or Munkács ben Surly Yisroel the coupling the centralization the Reichsvertretung to the Reichsvereinigung was how it began with the chuppah cloudpelts of the Polaklaan pelicans of summer November Agnesz’s niece with the Rosse Buurt on her cheeks the Jodenbreestraat red of van Rijn that had run in the streets she rubbed in for rouge to cross herself over the border canals are just fancy gutters the ash of London the wet smoke of the Dickensian chimneys the artful dodging duikers the Sobibor arrivals waiting to bathe clean with Heraclitus in the Amstel my legacy to be an orphan and step twice to question getting into a whispering argument with a neighbor asked how was he a convert this mensch you were under the impression that he was your brother to loan him the money or keep it with him how he knows how to deal and with whom to talk to these people the Alliance Quelle des Heils Hitler you walked not in the street but tight up against the buildings the walls the falling Gesetze the landlord his name was the Arisator was the term the murm rein arisches Geschäft that the NSBO Nun sind die Bonzen oben DAFka we survived in this yellow house Haarlem we had thirtysix rooms enough for my family or half the Gestapo they said I couldn’t come back to school even to return my books the Heine monograph I’d borrowed from Professor Springer im Rhein im schönen Strome da spiegelt sich in den Well’n mit seinem grossen Dome das grosse heilige Köln they call it a brownstone but its windows are black all ten windows or one blacked with nine others smashed shuttered and one door everyone mistakes for a window boardedup condemned no one knocks anymore their Aufmachen they only throw pebbles the treeplanter fishbowling gravel their asphalt and shatter shatter shatter like Ecclesiastes said in the name of Kohelet that’s all these people know how to shudder the tzedakah kids from the United Way for the Save the Chicago Bears Foundation don’t come by neither does Klemperer or the rabbi from the Roonstrasse the Goongasse shul with its three portico gables burning one for me for my father burnt and muttering Rotterdamnit even the Asian post and that Dummkopf at Piccadilly with too many names Herr Krankenbehandler no longer a doctor Herr Rechtskonsulenten no longer a lawyer though he made a fortune dealing in visas berths and aufnorden births certifying for any country not Poland he’d deliver the papers in brownshirtpaper packages and cluck with tongue at his teeth as if terrorist ticking cousin Eva bombedout blastedaway into a Wanda on the passport raft a boatperson a shipped prowperson displaced she’d been Leviathaned out early from Cologne to Colonia am New Jersey must be dead by now long buried down by the side of the Parkway alongside the Indians or Canada the goldmine quarry coal coffee and cocoa shortages Mondays home idle with the French tutor’s Polish breasts and her clitoris I thought resembled Pope Rassenschande I would’ve studied hygienic phrenology at the Law Faculty sigillum facultatum utriusque juris studii coloniensis if not for Nuremberg Nürnberg barely passed the skullshaping nosesloping eyeslanting test for Gymnasium the artfremd Abitur abattoir I had slaughtered alien friends of my own with whom I’d play tennis and girlfriend one of them her family knew the Oppenheims had a cottage at Cuxhaven the Prisengracht at Westermarkt where we’d kissed her father had a moustache as if to spite the fleck of another dictator it was such a Franz-Josef you wanted to shove a school’s ruler up his Zwaneburgwal then wipe the floor with him but they had a maid for that friends with ours was Dorota who spoke Polish parle vous how far would she let me get today the Sonder peddling his who knew if they were his sons those jewels dug from anuses you could still smell and taste the dreck the shit of the Visserplein fleas taking an afternoon nap in the Church of Moses and Aron Aharon my second name the first of my neighbor nextdoor they’d put on a Kindertransport for Leeds leaving his sister behind twisted by polio my medicine spoon my candle burntup because they’ve turned the electricity off and refused utilities assistance HUD to sell out to them 203(k) and so better to havdalah the spices the kiddush bramble burnt larger and melting length onto its end forever until the wax it’s one great huge yellow white consumptive catarrh a canker this eyesore this lipsore lifesore this house as blackbrownyellow as a tooth I own the paper’s stuffed into this pillow I stole Kissenklau Zissenklau didn’t realize I stole it from the Presbyterians Columbia Medical Center but to return it means to explain myself to the old doctors ever yarmulked Pakistani Indian younger and that won’t do must repent the week in London with Agnesz fighting the Buckingham Fuckingham tourism hordes the whore the whorewife rebbetzin those Mexican Hungarian refugees speaking a Yiddish IIc I didn’t without any messages no letters or rent only welfare notices slipped under my door my windows smashattered evicted the radio off the air unplugged the telephone dead too the kilos of copper and brass to remit save your breath saving wire hold the line Operator I can’t hear I’m as deaf as a lung from the sirens the air raids the Ets Chaim Kapo I recognized on the Rapenburgerstraat at parachute dawn but there’s none anymore droppingin no photo sessions or latenite appearances with the television over too many bill summaries no credit left no more fêtes roasts of tributes might I propose a toast a savrei this prosit l’chaim to Ed McMann if he’s still alive and if so where’s my big check the gemoney the jewelgelt not here not yet will it clear drawn on today’s pants yesterday’s pants every day’s the hallway’s leg maybe the buzzer’s dead too no more innerview interview requests nothing to turn down like this bed I don’t anymore no one knew no one remembered there’s nothing at all to deny

When they were young, he was young, and when they came for the young, he went.

Liberation was the midnight middlestair hush of January 1945 it was JanI remember it better than the birth of no children my all of no kinder it’s said how the Soviets were teenagers the Red Army’s Ukrainian front their 322nd Infantry it was Agnesz couldn’t believe they had so many of them you joked what’s wrong you asked with maybe the 321st the rifles of Kursk and the Carnival birthday parade pomp Weimarhuge and grander Whymore the many happy returns of the Bug Army the 6th Corps when my cousin Franz came back from the War the first World One with medals made of laundrysoap coffee cocoa and tea a hero with the reserve divisions the Conta Corps Beskides Corps echt Germans under the command of Marshal Koniev though by then I was already summering far away from you on a march out to Loslau Agnesz if you know it outside the fence beyond the electricless chainlink they put up around the backyard lot blown through with fastfood cartons and bags will that be paper or plastic Gristedes the God of the Greeks of Homer and Pseudo-trismegistus Marx the burgerboxes and Kennedy tubs of friedchicken my brittle skin my Torahskin the parchment flaking the house the burnt corpse-brick and the hoofdrum hymn I’ll have the supersized Spanish goatloin the dogs Prinz the cheap Presbytesized meat barking the Paris radio from which we first heard wind of the Faust of Gounod with the strings and the winds and the news from the west of Berlin the static and crackle of Chancellortalk the boycott of vom Rath the secretary my father’s für Elise he had to let go with the books she kept for her son those ledgers illustrated with pictures of dragons and Ostmark dragoons atop the horses of Karl May and in the spaceships of Kurd Laßwitz those giant pigs octopi and the gigantic lesbian Teppichfresser Kraken Kranken Seuchengefahr because nu as they say assistedliving isn’t living anymore just press the button and the Russians come in on horseback with sirens the exhaustflagged ambulette driven by illegal Ukrainians and inhome help they call it is a stranger’s home you pay rent on to die in crematoria blasts through the night not torching flesh but the structures themselves lungs kidneys and liver I bought outright this building the paper’s right here the blatt the leafy daf stuffed into this pillow I stole from Columbus Marrano Medical the last time I was sick was decades ago has their postmark stamp their tattoo on its case I had croup cough pneumonia Durchfall too the stain of how the hospital saved me Blocks 20 21 28 blocked again lately but all they gave me was aspirin charcoal tablets and scabies the women who died for the gynecologist Clauberg in Block 10 20 21 shrieking the same to the ear as the boom of the tanks in bloom and the infantry howitzer mortars it’s too schädling schande embarrassing to return it to which clinic blocks away too weak to walk not enough shellstrong exoroach for the mamzer Presbyterians their doctors always Mengele younger and younger their faces Asian Indian Pakistandoffish my face falling to puddle its age on the floor on the winter earth you wanted to just kneeldown and kiss it you needed to hug them the soldiers then rip their medal hearts from their chests dripping to the floor that’s her ceiling to stain the Virgin Marryme Puerto Dominican girl’s sheets her boyfriend’s a dealer on the Appellplatz the dellplatz the hellplatz a plotzing horseflag hung over the horizon the Blutbanner burn of Oma’s Walter Scott the son of Hermann und Dorothea we traded German quotations with the officers’ moustaches red and black and laughing so much younger than me who was even younger than them more starved too diseased marching due west through the Russian Ukrainians the 322nd hour that at last was our address our heightweightnumber no more of these recreations redactions reinterpretations reinventions revisions revised and revisionary all of these storied stories untold and yet told wasted breath bombedaway tired Köln Deutz-tired traintired shiptired the haunt and stalk of the 1st Ukrainian front was tired Major General his name was Brooklyn Yashechkin Grishaev with the wineskin stomach the water we drank too fast to swell the last gram of bread drambread bloodcolored like jam the last leaven Liberationthirsty Liberation-hungry liberté égalité fratricide mounted bareback on Stalinback saddled with night if it’s night and how would Birkenau know Brzezinka Ostland lost-land cost to benefit ratio the racinate poliofairies and the gypsyrades with their reincarnated cutraterapethethroat FKL survivoresses the blokowa kurva cures wandering around offering their syphilis up to the horses the whorses the worst of them the versteppung vershtupping Ukrainians no better than the Poles save they’re saviors the Musclemen the Musclessmen the boneless chickenfingered men the Moslemen the only good Muslims that’s how bad Iran without blood without claim we brought with us our suitcases thirty fifty kilos I weighed what fifteen twenty skinwrapped skintrunked shrunken and marked chalked pulverized bone no more images imaginings no more stories tattooed on my lips in a milk that was ink the winter spent at the foot of Mont Blanc while my father did business I sat in Dorota’s lap fireside sucking the nib of a fountainpen after supper I wandered Chamonix the blank ice fields and the snowedover tenniscourts the hotel’s library with its foreign words taking their ink on my tongue like my father’s ashes the cold blue of a suckling kid the Shema O Izrael the Satmar said Hear how my son’s dead alvás in Hungarian in the arms of the Russian Ukrainians they said the Kaddish the emes mamash gevaltalk the whinnying neighs of the horses arrived they wouldn’t even approach that’s how disgusting we stank the saltlick the sugarlumps of our pimples and pocks and bubonic breasts our cysts and our boils the Tableaux Vivants set in Egypt and Palestine among the Caucuses or Carpathians that were so faraway and pretty onstage at the theater the hillhumps of the horsecamels arrived and arriving the droms flying their earflags their tailflags and the manes of the Russians whom we called The Russians but were actually Coney Island Brooklyn Ukrainians just born into the culture the Wissenschaft of it all the tums and the glooms glom the dead gathering up like a widow the sheaves of my women Dorota and Agnesz Doris the Kultur and Bildung of lading the massing my father installed on the executive board of the Rhenish-Westphalia Verband the Reichsverband onboard the trains the boats the executive planes you forget the strength of the horse the hoofhod power the gallop and trot the barrowbacked Spanish get my goat what a language I had none of that Babel the mauscheln the rabble ratalk the Yiddish Yissish the Hebrew Ivrit the High Slavimaic despite being Auschwitz and Uptown I’m a city person a Yecca a Piefke as they said in Dachau our Sabbath was Sunday with organ and Rindfleisch a German a Goyman like Berlin as much as Vienna a man of the auto not the ass or the Russian I’ve had frankfurters in Hamburg and hamburgers in Frankfurt Français and Yiddish I had to learn Hebrew here in a night class CUNY studying the desertalk also sprach the Urlock after I learned this language say Shakespeare in Kraus’ translation Queens College tutored by a kruller a Kraut with a cup of coffee served atop Chaucer then over lunch would do Talmud a bissele Wissele tick on my own later with a greenhorn in greenjeans a Pollack I bought pastrami for corned-beef with a side of pickle you get it mthafcka you understand that I knew nothing of this Appellwaiting dizzy without roll or furl of schedule the Ordnung the vertiginous Seder this grubby grubber gribnes schmaltz only refinement luxury Jesus we owned a Rubens or was it a Rembrandt a Vermerely it was natural I played the violin on the roof of the piano and took Latin to Greece Kaffeeklatsches mit Kuchen a Bechstein with original bench an imitation Duiffopruggar we owned a first edition of Goethe’s Die Wahlverwandtschaften kept under glass a snoglobe alongside the traintracks laced under and around the trunk of our Weihnukkabaum we had one of those tinseled too the spring day Fascism began to be spelled with an sch and our Führer won his election even among the voters of the camps as vast as the house six floors high we had dying in here locked in here I can’t don’t remember won’t whoever locked me in maybe myself serves me right Links the instructions the onlyfollowingorders the ordure only the ordersfollowingorders appeals with the lawyers young everyone’s yarmulked younger they don’t know from old workmanship Louis Quatorze was what we had over there L’État c’est moi it’s said the Empire desk a door up on new condo construction sawhorses the kit shelves and the bed just a barracks mattress a kippah on wheels hauled to my room that rents as a studio the brownstone’s black dead middle freezing no windows open only shattered hung with shutters in shards in triangles and stars over Manhattan forgotten on high I’m going going soon to be gone the ball outta the park like they do in the Bronx Uptown the B Train to 145th Street a few Blocks 7away from where I fled to get back to the ghetto never born into London Amsterdam Cologne Coloniabandoned no more of that muddyweed muster the Appell’s core barren eve of Christ’s night into morning this morning Christ’s birthday mine too Shabbos the Sabbath with the ecumenical presents the roaches and rats bowed and candled eight of them so refined so natürlich gemütlicker mein Arsch a bicycle marionette an edition of the Fables of Lessing one year then the next a little book of letters on Arab numismatics by this Reiske whose birthday I shared a luxurious exchange a pursuit of ideas of ideals the always omnilingual chatter of cultured bankers brokers the booms and blasts of their battleship wives the only men among us Mustermenn Clustermen the tumultuous crowd rankling rankless and rowless unnamed and unnumbered the fencefaced barbtoothed and bowlmouthed we owned a flush toilet all two of them one for each kissing cheek the burble of the Rhine the bubbling Rhein Vorder and Hinter the Rijn the Lake Constance summers at Basel I mean the Loregoddamnedlei I survived was in theater and the theater of politics who was the cousin who knew Brecht to survive to the end to mourn Heideggerian I knew a Marion Heidegger once for a hopeful for the Paris Opera mezzo soprano this fall into trapdoor nothingness the void through a blackhole a blankhole checked a crack in the square the Appell unmoved on Onkel D’s chessboard scattered with orangerinds the citrusblind hallways stalked a mustardseed horseradishthirst my sheetskin fittedskinflat shroudskin the moustacheguns and a tip of the cap to salute the redstar the gelb the goldbars and teethdisease the pure evil’s the word Jenseits von Gut und Böse I knew from my father’s incomplete set of the Gesammelte Werke the death of more than me you don’t have to be a prophet to know this coming Christmass mistmass perhaps a week away we hoped a Hungarian Shabbos a Szombat from New Year’s or more was the report the forecast Rotfront the eastweather the eastworn eastworm drab beastweather the uniformed horses like camels in caravan their heads as if the busts of Isaiah and Jeremiah and Tucholsky All soldiers are murderers of course save those who saved me the only thing only person left lined behind for the listing as Exhibit A on an attachment numbered numinous rollcalled the etroghand shaking St. Vitus dance the Simchat Hora on it to contract anyone’s future have D’Amato & Leib give it the onceover the twiceshy cousins their names the same as their cats Tutankhamun papyri the Oppenheim Familienleben paintings the Bilder the Bibles not the Torah or Tanach the law of the Rechtswissenschaftliche Fakultät I would’ve had for insurance to ingather the fees postdue rent violations lying on this feather Gesundheit this weather my father’s barometer a gift of the Baron van or von Wahrheit tarnight trutheight the treepitch waiting the wasting expectation of birthday morning with Christ the thricewise firmament of presents not for the Hasid’s dead son’s bris or circumcision but a Hollekreisch kindled anew lamp desk a bathingsuitcamera pomegranate my wishes Purimoney and books the Halt and the Inhalt of the illuminated Haggadah from which we sang the Bund or Chalutzim tunes to the music of municipal sculpture the riders of the Red Army parting the frozen Reed Sea of the Vistula painted red with our blood to scatter to pass through the fires what tribes of us left

When they were, he was, and when they came, he went.

not the Rukrainians thankless their saving us up for the gulag forget the forest from the trees the Americans either for all their chaw and Wriggley chicle chewing gum their deciding slow vodka tongues waiting around talking too much to the scopes over the tracks kill me now it’s the irony the sarcastic laughter through it all that’s kept me alive even if to laugh means jaw hinge hurt the mind explodes like a deskbomb a chairbomb an Attentat assassinating Bonhöffing Molotovgong the divedrop of old jokes returning in images in words these scraps of ragging witzs not setups no that what’s killing me isn’t example Auschwitz Auswitz einwitz the gang’s all that dopdoppdoppel hardlabor slavery the ovens gas gun to temple stumblingBlocks 10 and 11 trigger tripped on licemines the typhus tuberculosis malnutrition starvation the camp Himmler’s willing golems the Musselmänner the only good kind of Muslims we pitied them as hopelessly as Iran does its dogs in their throatlung gutplunge think she’s dead she must have been Eichmann said die the SS-WVHA said work will set you protected the whole suzerain claim the blame the nonsense began with the shylock stock the Bishop’s coin the imperial fief liege and the lives of the Dom’s incarnations the Privilege and pogroms of Rupert of Deutz the Abbot Caesar of Heisterbach and the rabbinic disputations of cardinals and Innocent III not beholden to the servus of services due to the charter of Birkenau of Auschwitz II the Arbeiter sequel it was a year there an everlasting Purgatorio translation because once I spoke every language ever spoken the German the fauxGerman the nearGerman the campGerman the diggingDeutsch the quarrysprache we organized the pebbles into gravel into gravelly details the piles of hair and pounds of heads from Birkenau to Buna and so were allowed to travel between camps to tourist vacation summering in Auschwitz I the winter of Brzezinka Oświęcim Osphitzin and Monowitz Duowitz what have you initials the acronyms and their who knew anonymous sins the IG Farben SWirtschafts–Verwaltungshauptamt between lesser and greater embodiments of supreme evil though not in the sense of beverage and burger sizes the Mc-Donald’s that’s just opened on the crack corner at the crank of the elbow the shoulder joint the haunch lunch but in the loss of sense the Guldenstarred arches eclipsing the moon one hundred ninetytwo million teeth placed under the tongue of St. James the hated sicut and the Notita de Precariis the abyss of the Abbesses their abscesses sunken ponds the pitted puddles of ritual weather Messe the Trade Fair Grounds turned Appellplatz mound the roundedup of Cologne to you we’d been there since ever before the goyim the German barbarian tribes they’re called Nemesis we’d come with the Romans not my family my people and yet there we were punctually at five in the morning stripped shaved striped and unfed the drought purged by the bloodflood of Plague salved Regina with a rash of denarii and solidi placed atop the eyes of St. Martin soothsayed of St. Gereon martyred in Cologne split in two cleaved we were butchered sundered in quartered half like the Apostles’ Church Anno II the relics of money being cigarettes shoes and political food the Hamshamed Shemname of Hashem and the Marx brotherly in Apollo God of the Great Shavuot 1096 despite gifting five hundred marks of silver mercury poison to Godfrey of chicken Bouillon king of the Judas Crusades and Jerusalem’s towers the watchtower guardhouse dogpowered wires like electrical eels rays the octopus strangle of Worms the Masada of Neuss and the taking of Xanten Would that my head were water and Bitterly they weep Babylon by the sides of the nightgraves of the knightslaves buried in black chainmail made of the spirochetes of an infinite hundred infections what I’ve known from not imagined or sawheardsmelledtasted I touched its dissemination of ideaknowledge the roadmud streetflume leading east of Exile’s Eden galutways to peasantry and slaughter little puff maggots wound around the spine rumors of Doris my first wife I called her but we never married in Polish my girlfriend ladyfriend woman the tightfisted wave the futile hurl of messages thrownup from the stomach over the perimeter fence the fourteenth century fifteenth expulsion of ticks from the forearm hairs diggingin under the pastry the noodelskin strudelskin worms through the joints through the temples like apples parasitic destruction death from within the Würfel Gate for the accommodation of every Walram indulgence the concives a citizenless boundaryworld bridge-state sealed with a promise made anew each year every year and wrought in gold marble upon the face of the Dom from age from outliving my years allotted that year outdistancing deathmarching the Carnival Crusade route the trommeltrample todesfooted in ragged step a faltering woundown step behind the freezing sun the lopped off head of the Polish step world the yellow gelbglory the jaundiced eyes shut or opened the same ding hüpfen rollen laufen drehen which should I do first or secondguess the Kommandos keep away from the sex clefts of the peaches the plums I organized apples tangledup in the barbs the rosebushes hedging the lawn of Villa Höß we called the flagged thorn wilting between my legs lying without sons or daughters but with Klein it was Kline who’d bunked next to me who’d had his eyelids sliced from his pupils for a lesser offense red and white he shrieked that he saw like the flag the same sun setting over risen Japan the Nippon gramweight of bread and the souplessness lame without bowl the cup of the palm gypsyread gypsydead with a smile wink and a violin played in sympathy upon a hair of the head of the Lagerapportführer the arm shank stroh the leg fear of God the Kapo afraid of me whom a later Kapo preferred Meister Bruningus the Bishop Hochmeister to scheme royally that entire autonomy scam the massgrave of the Greve buried with its gold bullion unter Goldschmied the ghetto Anno who knows if they even had keys to the locks for solitary confinement Emancipation came with the Morgensprache the owed ad æternam hereditary tax the protection and tolls the pledge hedged the dictus the dicta usurious and all of that dissembling Latin I knew all Greek to me its assimilation by fire the Jerusalemgässchen’s smoke the stove forever unlit in the barracks brickBlocks their tricklocks when you had to shit or rape or kill alone to warm the shoulder spine the barrack bed the spindle of the body’s Torah armspindle arm-needle harmthread the finial swindle swung with a rope to hang the thief from the rafters stolen away after lineup and linedown and right left and Recht Links to the wall with hats off to the elect of Westphalia may all of Mitteleuropa’s good writers and painters and sculptors and musicians and poets say rape all of your daughters eternally in fiery heaven the furthest Nebenlager of the Final Solution the Endlösung endlessly sung the nusach wind-whistle trop of the rollcall the rollstall the count recounted discounted then counted again separate the consonants from the vowels separate the oes from the cnsnnts then the ooas from the vwls loading the unloading then loading again the Krankemann Krankyman the kook krook what’s your name take one what’s your number soundoffandon the screech of the genital nails the forged mails we received Ich bin gesund and what’s worse it’s the silence you get to the end the sum of the days and there’s this survival this instinct inculcated cult of us to have come back resurrected incarnated alive if this you call living or soup or herb this turnip radish bearfat catfat with water lukewarm buttonsoup collarsoup goop and a sliver salami the marble of mud the endless slats the bunkmatewake kapowake the alarms the Schadenfraids only to return to this building owned outright this plot of one room but no wife Doris I met in PoŁódź Karl von Litzmannstadt in the ghetto the Goethe meadow I’d recite to Agnesz from Mexico whose father died either in the Stehzelle Hungary or from flogging the disease that was Grabner when she died on the boat her corpse was kept cold in an overboard lifeboat so as not to infect fellow passengers or the captain’s decision to lower her tossed to the waves for the Leviafinned sharks that circle the bedroom livingroom familyroom den of all rooms in the middle of this house the pitted Pharaoh’s tomb brownstoned blackrocked walls an Uptown pyramid Corfu’s deportation that goaded load took a month the Hungarian moon over Reich and raum and when the Egyptians finally arrived at Auschwitz everybody was already Tod dead to the Zugang the chaingang the gained slain world the love of my Birkenau Mutter whom last I saw would’ve whispered into my father’s ear slicedoff severed and served to a dog or a God what a waste of a perfectly good train she was funny the marksmoney the Marxmoney the Trostky-Braunstein brownstone money the rent I’m owed the partydues paid in news and cigarettes only butts how much they must have saved in Zyklon Before the rest of the house is rented out to whomever Esq. collects the Vorgänger foreganger planked across the pit Moll and I dug a hole for ourselves then filled then dug again shovelfaced and spadehanded soon enough there’ll be none of us left to mean or machine the tithe the testimonial urge to make statement to Macht after me who’s next no one’s blessed the Gypsy’s empty palm the strong outstretched firsthand only heresy hearsay this pun language this funlanaguage loopholed and nooseheld in the mouth just ask D’Amato & Leib and their John Kestenbaum Esq. that polite young associate they have working for them gave me that businesscard of his with on the back his homenumber his cell who remembered me he never forgot it’s an honor and horror forgetting this failure the terrible gravesump stumpump the corpses watery slack the Body Tax the fined levied on breathing too freely the face dripped leaky faucet moan Puerto Dominican Doris who couldn’t have children then died into smoke on the Jerusalemgässchen had lived down the street around the Block10 of the corner Berlin from a friend of a friend of my father’s but not until Poland did we try sowing piglets I fed in the pen the watered zoo Höß kept fenced behind the Vartegau the Varterslaughter for deprivation experiments the phenol sensorial with the veins and syringe the dripdrop of noma and soma normal and healthy it was inquiry it was science how little to sleep how little to eat what work and medicine might be withstood without arms without legs feetand-hand shrunken tribal head on a wick of a neck reduced again rereduced useless inutile no estate leave the world nothing that won’t go to the grave just as I came into it a month too late for the bullets except for this blackened brown spoon of a house as large as Höß’s I leave for the lawyers larger even than the rats the roaches their Plagued Napoleon’s defeat and the Infamous Decree called to convene the Landtag to the credit of all Consistory the free years the Friday Freitag years we had no clocks we had no calendars we were turned into calendars and turned into clocks the workdetail I met my cousin’s brother which one of the ten also cousins who fought my Onkel in the First War and was a hero though he’d converted by then and had married an Engels no relation the rollcall the callroll and hatsonoffhats the caps we had to wear the Weltsch who said famously Tragt ihn mit Stolz den gelben Fleck the beard-fleck the badgefleck he took with him with sumptuary pride to London where he survived Jerusalem under the sign of the uniform star the sky robed with fighterplane stripes but why we still had to wear the fuckfleck in Auschwitz I didn’t understand they would know me ununiformed they’d know me naked with race and underwear purity laws the rainbow of gates their Arbeit Macht you mad insane metal of allowanced indulgences we paid indigent for through the noses they hated for not hooking a word out of our mouths save ja wohl no relatives ja not smoke and wohl air paying the wind for the safe conduct of ash a passage communal no one to care cousin Eva dead and Ruth and Nathan of Gaza the warhero too though perhaps he wasn’t even a cousin managed to make it to Israel to Palestine the Altneuland Aliyah survived my Onkel only to make instead of the New York trade the Exodus for a length of rope a moment of grope with a razor and tub nightly rollcalled the uncalled for again from the beginning to die properly back in which decade’s war for a nation a people and not for let’s say pneumonia the Titus of typhus favus Fritzsch and Feist you don’t know the difference between America’s America they say as dead as St. Severin this weakness like Samson or Samuelson I have for confusion confounding naysaying it straight from the bowels of Babel the politruk polka in bloodwatercolor just ask Schmauser or Kramer who replaced Hartjenstein in exchange for the suicide tempt as it’s said the assimilationist tendencies from ash into air into academics and stories inventions the deconstructivist dated that’s what we do we reinvent we redact every story each and every storied second season bedded down in the ground in the air in the pale of the Himmelhow sky there’s nowhere else to die nohow to sleep and yet why

When they were old, he was old, and when they came for the old, he went.

the August Assumption the feasted festive arrival with the Peterite dogs the preterite lights up from the heartvoid the hearthvoid and the famine drought and disease the dizzying vertigo’s luck the guttersuck the Selektion Doris one way the other from Łódź then Lodsch loading unŁódźing years ago one hundred eight I am Harlemwide Mourningside bedbound chained to the pillow-cuffs the boxcar bedcar trackbed trundlepassover Poland the protectorate rectorate the rectum of the world the anus mundi the hot heinous hundmund I’m freezing alone here exposed by ignorance inattention the names are the first things you notice besides the noise the glareblare the clash the orchestral swillswirl the clarinet twirl and the trumpet presenting its bell to the same sun over Cologne Köln-Deutz Łódź our evacuation they called it Verlagerung after rung an angel’s ladder the traintracks to Auschwitz from which as they say in America’s America no one returned with their eyes or their lives from the unpent doors of Poland’s partition halfnaked in half an overcoat and shivering warm we were overflowed into the Appell with the chimneys of Birkenau high in the distance burbling brown schnapps and black tea for two lines the Sonder triangulating the yellow and pinkred the milites Christi their dogs with their guntongues barking gums at the sunset stilled in the spotlight the klieg and the clarinet waft and the cello’s low chords sforzando the music of painting a Boschmess the Boschbabel of rabbis rebbeim aged with their beards shorn curling the curves of the old Via Egnatia routed on another train yet another same freight rollingstock from Auschwitz and before Auschwitz in from Łódź going west to go east going east to go west by south sacking weddings brises barmitzvahs shivas along the route the rootway the day storming nights the leaps from the tower burning the Crusader pillage the Calvary charge the poisoned wells quelle the bells of who knows which canonical hour the coming of compline in claps beaten to sacks for the heads of hanged children impaled upon the Holy Lance of Peter Bartholomew the death of the Charlemagnetrain at the Antioch stop the third city of the world the penultimate station of our borne cross bent to wriggle worm the snakecharming trance harm at Xanten and Meer north of Neuss and the saving grace of Abbot Bernard the succor of Joel ben Isaac haLevi the Rabbi of Mainz the anonymous Kalonymos Would that my head toll the trainrang the hydraulick and huffapuff the triangle clang and the cymbals the tongue’s crowded clutter Mutter pushed to one side pulled with my father out to the other split sundered the distance between cleaves Wevelinghoven and Geldern the Cleves border between Kerpen and Kempen the Ninth of Av it wasn’t but there was blood enough in the Rhinerein amidst the Rhinefine Zeitime air the silver river flow of Constantine’s sword Damocles’ be damned by the goring of pregnant women the coring of babies never had any myself because Eva by Agnesz I couldn’t have been married for only a month of a morning with rings only locks of new hair hers or mine packedtight pricked to shiver in that heat already halfway to death in that roil my glasses shattered losing them saved my life could see clear to the gates of iron and gold wasn’t blind to the retrogression the regressionre Doris stroking my hair and the hair of my face before it was shaved I was blond an echt Aryan though grayed white bald the train-plain the floodlain the rippedopen windowless slatlife the boardview and the cupped seek bowed to the wood the rot the piled high of Gypsies dead in the corner we killed who killed us and Edelmann Adelmann Tadel the chugalughorseshodslug the canvas crate the palm balm of bathing in piss green mound of corpses rotting quickfast in the heat the bodies of pregnant feti fallen to deaths from castle walls tossed hurled tower vomit at dawn dashed the conquering of the land promised to the Holy Romans beyond the moatmouth the turrets’ teethwire barbed we told jokesongs jokestories sextalk fucktalk and fucked and sexed and recited the alphabet in every language we knew quietly silent my sister dead a month my brother dead a month he was sick and had a cough a pestilent mark my Muttering mother had another fortyeight hours but that’s life I’ve been told at the postoffice grocerystore no tougher than Doris never not by my side in that carspiralswirl the boxwhorl our own world in the corner to squat or die heatstricken from record reciting to each other libretti and the birthdates of painters the Bull the ode and the code the directions to the ring’s diamond my Muttery mother’s stone we whispered and buried like a close cousin in the cemetery in the Mittelalterlicher Friedhof we unburied reburied unreburied under a rock in a park named renamed then sold by Agnesz and I to the American in the green hat for the price of leaving Amsterdam London New York New York amid the sun of a deathdawn Rhineland Reinrind the skinpeel wealrope and the tug of the Muslims on the road to Byzantium after Tiberias fell and Count Emicho of Leiningen came up the Main toward Mexico the country bordering Hungary had counted his dead at Speyer and Worms and Mainz and Cologne summating in Dachau the apotheosis Treblinka or what passed for a pogrom at Kielce our commute the chugmute dare fareless wayed south through Poland the huts and fences and houses the horses and cows and the cowlike horselike lumpenprolesouls the Bauern that bowed to live scarce along the road to Nicæa from Lower Lorraine Volkmar taking the Bohemian road to Hungary the capital of Mexico Gottschalk up the Rhine through Bavarian peasants to me being a Kölnik a Kölsch I should have gone to Israel Palestine promised an Eretz it was the true gem of Westphalia to die like a human in the Crusades with the blood baked into matzah at the gates on the roofs even the libeled gables Coral of Florida Boca Raton would’ve been nice down there near Ponce de Leon’s Fountain of Youth you’d get dysentery from if you can still get the runs in this country this rushhour spewed bloodred bloodbed pisstain shitsheets I can’t contain myself get a Pole over here now that the visas are legion have them clean broom and mop diaper my room for slave wages they loaded us living they unloaded us dead handandlegging our corpses out the halfdead the neardead the cleardead bodies piled by the Jaffa Gate the Dung and that of the Messiah Moshiach Moshiach Moshiach the cemetery to be resurrected becoming defiled desecrated in advance of my father’s arrival one cattlecar cowcar behind roiling box of hot shit and piss and sementov mazeltov shake the hands you have left you’ve survived the ghetto the foursquare boxbare oxspare slaughterhouse shechtloused Holy Shit Sepulchre it’d been an enormous dark blackstone mouthrone with surprises my tongue sucked into every slumped cheek corner drawer piled deep into wardrobed Biedermeier tin toy soldiers their rations the rusty lime rinds lemon orange and pineapple the palms of Antioch at the Gate of the Dog after the sojourn in Armenia under whose fronds Christians first became Christians became goyim expert at the shield and the sword the stab in the backside of tapestries bunched ripped and torn to smile their mess at the wall the Mona Lisa reversed the retrograde sheetmusic piano reduction of Dvořák’s American symphony From the New World its horse-hump traindump rhythms tracking past the Hungarian frontier on into Mexico the domain of King Coloman and the Danube defeat of the threefold incursion after the forcible baptism of the Ratisbon massacre consecrating corpses for Clermont ten days in November Pope Urban II hanged Odo in piñata effigy packed him with nails to swing as a warning from an overpass trestle the Hohenzollernbrücke exploded over the Bosporus to the Dom’s Magi Gottschalk Volkmar the trainyard workhard and whoever’s the taxistani shvartze Robert d’Arbrissel or Picardy Peterthehermit that fisheating loafer and fishy winedrinker with the face of the talking donkey rode arebackedandfoot Hugh and Henry and what’shisname Walter and the trinity of sons of the Count of Zimmern following the goldstar through flood and pestilence drought famine and a meteorshower in from Deutz Land of the Barbarians the beerhall pigs the sows of the Sau at the Chorgestühl of the wine cellar the Weinbar whose owner’s lover knew my cousin Felix or Franz a friend of Rumkowski’s Bumbowski’s Slumhauski’s if anyone was who didn’t survive but wouldn’t charge it to his tab at that café you say coffeeshop Angela’s Diner back on the Humboldtstraße the monk’s reflection in the face of the faience the Turkish waitress I didn’t want to bring home on the tram I’d always lived with my parents until Auschwitz my Stammtisch Begrüssung for your supper the Shalom whispered into my ear by a Kapo at the entrance to Block 26 for the cutting of hair the bathing of skin flayed the brand the tattoo tracks scarred over the quarantine that is the horizon Hannoversche with the SA just going Deus vult that highvoltage Dios mio conquista crazed with their pikes and stakes burning whipped taskmasterace triangles redlettered with country the crosses lashed on their surcoats and swords their lancetrance maces the haste with which they banged out the brains of the Reichsbahn employees with their dawnflickering lanterns like third eyes allseeing noseeing the corner of Jaffa Road and King George where a cousin of mine thrice removed the Afikomen hid the cousins Godfrey Godfrei and Gott im Baldwin shaved me as bald as Fritzfranz king of the Klingelpütz going off to play Passover or a Purim spiel in the park visiting cousins for breakfast a Volksgarten picnic hiding to huddle like rabbits with the tails of foxes gabbais with the eyes of spies the Birkenau chimneyfar chimneylong Saracen fall from the top of the Temple of Solomon Titusdestroyed Hadrian’s Aelia and the Tower of David the citadel-hell with their jihad enough jumps the plummeting tumult weighed down with luggage the steamers and trunks Azazelattached redtrianglethreaded bound and tied with a goatgag the tines sharps the cutlery butlery whatever you need whatever marks you’ve saved up for the stealing the mealing of bone skullbone and brainmush in quo congregati dederunt nostris maximum bellum per totum diem ita ut sanguis illorum per totum templum flueret tandem superatis paganis apprehenderunt nostri masculos et feminas sat in templo et occiderunt quos uoluerunt et quos uoluerunt retinuerunt uiuos is what I remember from the tutor with her breasts the two of them one Latin one Greek and her licorice clitoris Pope Dorota the tense of her thighs her lap fat squatting at the edge of my bed in a room of my own with floors flaming red slat-planks ganged to fall into the passing dark fields and farm and the house on the Appellhofplatz as grand as the synagogues the Temple on the Glockengasse the Offenbachplatz she’d operetta to me with eau de amour Slavic fou on the tip of her tongue about Zakopane Žilina Sillein her Poletales her Slavgoyishefables about the knights in Christ’s armor shining the sunroundtable the slog and slough of the People’s Crusade covered in moondust and fairypixels desert hoofmatted pawpatted down the Appellplatz the Hellplatz the mustering plots of her stories postcardfalse postdated predated par avionlost to family friends in Los Angeles the American West the Red Indian lullabies the cowboys of Karl May who didn’t need to put their cattle in cars my people my kind of people we all used to do this too we’re guilty all guilty al cheyt thumping chests did the circuit Ashamnu the circuitous route Bagadnu to the east One and True overland portage whether the coached road via the Roman way or firstclass on the boat from St. Nicolas’ Bari and on into Dyrrhachium Bala Cynwood Cherry Hill or Yonkers Westchester County with Bohemond entering Byzantium via Central Avenue the eldest son of Robert Guiscard unleashed trained and flownin like parachuted luggage suitcases and trunks heaped with silverpieces and Familienandenken wares dispersed dispelled exiled galuted like the thumb opposable of John the Baptist brought to Maurienne Rome’s Moriana his body the rest of it left in Samaria with his Salomé head installed as an idol at Damascus as a relic a shrine not to be visited but conquered in pilgrimage barefoot but armed made habitus rooted turned hermitage hovel with central heating and Q & A coffee with Elias and Mauss their gifts of lectern time and dais time all of that bimaside convocational speech at schools and synagogues at JCCs and at YMCandHAs churches even the Cathedral in Manhattan of St. John the Divine we’ve been prodded and pushed we’ve been traded retraded untraded detraded around like goods gone bad like wares without care recorded rerecorded we’re being reeducated into ourselves we testified Nurembergfalse to all these auditoriums all those schools and synagogue dinner fundraisers balls and benefits in boxy carlike foursquare catering halls with the parquetfloor still out for dancing the bearpolka the trained sealquadrille the Katzetnik kazatzka the bard of the czardas mazurka the Parademarsch drumajor the brute master of the ceremonial Ring because how do you whether as a committee or one say testify true to all of that relevant work experience skills set to call it to cry it to name is to lie to yeshivas oceans of audiences Atlantics of public rapt tight in our speech to publicschools dayschools nightschools and once even I spoke to the senate the real live one in Washington the Heights of D.C. the New Jerusalem the whitehoused home of President Rumkowski the Presess of the Rat and the roaches a minority AIDS epidemic that’s where we were reborn and not say the Mount of Olives the pits or sloughs of Despond preaching Peter Eremit of Amiens the alms treasurer of Arqa disbursing generous ragehate giving forth light to the Diaspora’s already overlit underventilated rooms hall after utilitarian halls of conferencerooms meetingrooms boardrooms old age home women groups geriatric tzedakah benevolent charities and university lecture halls after hall and all as part of an annual subscription series the serialized telling of the same anthologized story of mine every time It was August 1944 over and over telling again and again memory machines how we’d been piled into the trains the boxes were the cars for the cattle the kith and the kine going south to go north by northeast through every nowhere town or village we couldn’t name as if children kinder as if one thing and only one thing ever happened in their lives to mine and not children or grandchildren and old widowed love new surgical leases on lifetime guaranteed stents and transylplants my old friends and family in the Appellight the primetimeplatz the drivetimerats racing a rush Floridian south to go north the roaches scurry across me like heartscars like stitches medical alerts advanced leakage protection diapers and bedrails and bathroom benches and eighteen hour mastectomy bras cupped with colostomy plates in their skulls and prosthetics fingers frozen one to another webbed the spinneret ice of SSpiders their rapturous captures the turdpellets the Spanishdirectionsforuse goatpills Elderpryl Gelderpryl Sinemet Levodopa sounds like a shtetl in Polyn im Polen is that Yiddish or Hebrew a language that possesses no superlatives rather doubles itself up like a medication regimen has formulas of formulas instructions for parody satire jokes just the setups forgotten which songs we sang early vs. the songs we sang late what jokes were jokes and where sung the silence über alles die Wacht am Rhein the Horst-Wessel-Lied die Fahne Hochdeutsch Roten und Welschen bangen feigen Wichten humming the tantz the rathskellerdance the harp my Mutter once played the Obermayer with that Babylon sound of her breath by the rivers of the Vistula the Wisła this much is clear Oma’s tears she didn’t make it in the ghetto a month before that Radogoszcz tumult when they closed the doors we shrieked when they opened the doors were corpses already bacillusbones resembling the portraits we drew with fingernail on the walls counting turns and the junctions with thumbs taking pulses the veintrack the nervetract narrow ironmarrow of what did they call it Aussiedlung Umsiedlung which embarkation which disembarkation which the first memory station and which the second or lesser which games we played with memorized cards what jokes weren’t jokes and what originals were better translations Ikh ver alt ikh ver alt un der pupik vert mir kalt is that from America or Auschwitz you’ll never know the problem with truth is that whatever you say suddenly is and God proved it with dung in the lungs with a shout with a scream an Isaiah Jeremiah Ezekiel exhortative yell at the first sight of Auschwitz the minor chimneys this prophet cried the first he saw smoke as if not from a moving trainwindow but the nest of a boat and the fire not land but an omen his preaching the shriek of the telephonevision downstairs in the stairwell a drugdeal head peals extensions away Riverdale hills past Scarsdale pale Whitest Plains on which nothing exists outside Moab leave it all to hump the gasmaskcamels the mammalian rats the feral catsandogs moving in with their Amalek slaves the nuclear roaches must think I’m already dead the dread Roberts of Normandy and Flanders at the Gate of Flowers for Herod they’re circling me circumambulating me as if for an encore of Jericho warring Godfrey and Tancred and Raymond of Toulouse scurrying down the summit of Mount Zion with the tails of his horses held between legs sniffing me out sounding a low whistling wind the passage of trains A B and C below me floors underground closing in on my islandbed’s watery walls a slow Torahora around this Manhattanroom a synagogue not a studio shul shtibl a Temple temped on the von Roonstrasse Moonstreeted the Luneroad we called them the Psalms and Hashem the Lord Our Gott im Himmelkommando where my barmitzvah was married off to a Son of the Commandments to observe without benefit of commemorative plaque a socialhall party and jestering badchany band get the strudel off the ketubah I never signed for my one hundred and eight Christmas Carnival birthdayburn candles a thin slice of Zyklonyellow crumbly cake too late for the caterers they baked themselves already gassed then hanged why not starved to a rope’s death a wick with a clutch of antediluvian roaches and rats a private simcha for me coopedup carboxedin trying to die celled and alone yet still breathing this deathbed confession this candlebed blessing the meltingwax face of this brownstone gravestone raintoes the snowindow the fall of the first flake in midsummer the ash or soot on my cheek to my taste on the buds of my lips to speak of the first kiss I ever had from Doris on Zgierska Street ul. Hohensteinerstrasse her cousin informing on us he died in Floridian Israel Tel Aviv Kibbutz Sasa Arad the land that once had been Promised where last I heard on the radio television saw ten years ago on the ten o’clock news nothing’s changed just the frequency the channel those two Gods they’re still Crusading the history right the hell out of each other I had relations there relatives cousins I haven’t loved them since Łódź expecting her every day every night to ring bell a knock at the door ding dong rung the swell of her hips the hug around the nooseneck the spine as thin as a hiss the train a snakepiss slither a puffhuff quiver and we’re whistling off south from northeast through Poland for nighthours for days until we pull into Radegast Litzmannstadt Auschwitz Explicit Itinerarium Hierosolimitanorum the words have no awe for me the nameterms just worms squirming lines of the Law to the left to the right to the last I knew of Doris she was a step pushed out of the car out of our boxed as if the present to a gift and thrown as if a bow into the air rapped with its billowing pillows of smoke she was pulled from my arms and my hands shoved away from my finger into the opposite line

When they were dead, he was dead, and when they came for the dead, he went.

I’ll tell you what I’ll admit if you’ll just listen to me I’m Joseph ben you don’t know me from Adam the last survivor that’s it that’s who I am and that’s that I’m the last survivor of the Holocaust if you know it the Shoahshowbusiness that whole entire complete consumption of fire by fire all Greek to me it was 1939–1945 east your dates the gates of your mouth guard them have to remember to chew the last bread the last sip of water not rain melted snow October the 23rd of November the iciclelick the saltick the rockstomach swallow of stones the ghettohuddle the puddles and the westerly mounds the barbarian wastes sub Ubii and their tribal cannibal canon those redruddy blood-running brothers of Esau and the clay tit cults of Mithras and Isis our Nemesis Jesus it was us maybe two three generations of wandering Wartheland ul. Franciszkaska north up from Franzstrasse south and west through Turkey the future Crusade route in reverse the Bosporus over and up through the Balkans huddled through the mudpuddle pass the flumeRome paganpaved into Gaul home of Gomer the furthest barbarian Bałuty not what’s it been a hundred two hundred years after the Temple came crashing down in Jerusalem D.C. with Solomon dead and Herod too we came enslaved as exiled priests and as merchantraders rabbi heretics and false prophets we settled and lived and died we died European I survived Washington Holocaust Heights I’m one hundred and eight years older or nine and I’m the last living survivor of the Holocaust the last one the last of the dispersal the Exilelot the wheel-ready firetamed life made the newspaper Rozensztajn’s Getotsaytung the whosepapered Kronika the Tageschronik the Neue York Times and the radio’s announcement its songs bullets tin of ear Es geyt a yeke mit a teke a suitcase a bootchase a claptrap clumptrunk unplugged atop the television I’m the last person in the world who owns a radio I think they broadcast only for me the last person too to read the contraband newspaper clippings in Polish who knew to clothe the starved cheese flesh rot the honeypot Chanukah candles turnedover to the Einkunftstelle traded in return for worthless money scrip Rumkies two year old news the surrender of Warsaw the last surviving to read the Times the crossword catechism I used to find in the hallway or slipped under the door by Jesus Angel se hablemos the language of goats to wrap their turds in the shroud of the oldest on record survivor of Auschwitz the Holocaust Europe say the obituary headlines say the footstones he died a she and I’m it says right here now three years nine months two days older than him or her I won what did I win another ration whether the grandprize telemarkedcar or a threeyearninemonthtwoday vacation to hell though the televisionary phone died so long ago a generation to dust at the wall and the only station the radio got back when it worked was the frequency of shrill salsa A Toda Cuba Le Gusta A Toda Buna Hear Oy the government warning the flash-floodwatch hurricane threat will outlive me the last survivor the last victim dead soon enough of the other previous dire after me what fire what final testimony for our people mine Nazis live forever and are always everywhere under every eternal rock in your toilet behind every one of your refrigerator doors to the infinite freezer I’m told cold I’m freezing not for the last but for the first the very Shechyanu a virgin like Doris who never told this to anyone either she died in Birkenauschwitz survived Agnesz she gave out on the boat across the Bosporus of what I didn’t know if she was infectious or not the last one to tell it to silence the mute the wall of the wind no pasarán she used to tell me when I tried to taste her vagina the Passierschein Ressort whether Floridian or an Arizona New Mexico Heaven Olam Habla se the shovels and spades of the gravedigging snoutpigging work detail the Marysinful construction of roads the street ul. Inflancka Gärtnerstrasse to the cemetery the garden of graves paved with brick and coal cinder the legendary legionnaire stoneturning upending of rock to make a mirror dull of Lyons on the leftbank of the Rhine with the blessings of the Emperor Claudius and his clemency the favor of his wife Agrippina born Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium the home of the War Fleet the fastfooted jewelpeak of Lower Gaul all Three of them the Gallic Empire it’s called by the history that destroyed its own soldier camps that ghetto of veterans from the First World War mercenaries come home to grow fat and sons of Bałuty it’d been called a suburb a ghetto and larger absorbed assimilated into the mess the mass the Urlubbed urbhub city-central with us in from Hamburg Frankfurt am Vienna and Prague on the old burial road up from Bonn was once Bonna to Colonia not the one in New Jersey where Eva lived with the tickytacky houses amid that ghettofenced Levitt suburban insanity cramped into flaking stucco buildings a million or so of them to a room or more always they kept coming they keep coming and going the three knocks to use the latrines or the pot or the kettles the push-squat the urnpiles headown facedown a walk past the factory on Mostowski or the Masonic Lodge dodge on the Moorweidenstrasse not half as grand as the synagogue destroyed on ul. Kocuiszko or Izrael Poznaski’s the two of us me and Doris deep in Bundist conversation about the communards and the verse of Rimbaud’s love for Verlaine and the greatest poet of Polish Apollinaire was the name of that student nonsense the young enthusiasm excitement of our adolescent speech the Zionist mishegas narrisch quick as the rein of the rainsnowflakes dancing to Rabbi Fajner’s songs in honor of the Presess’ marriage to that Weinberger whore as lawyerloud as Marysin kibbutzniks their dreams hitchedup to weddingtrains leaving the Aktion behind north to Chełmno in a rush to be home by curfew what we called home the Sperre Agnesz Doris and I would kiss in the settling noise and hug in the settled warmth with our coats any tag left on the ragfloor atop the scrapfloor as our cots as our bed shared together enough room for our knees to root for trufflespace muffleplace I’d never slept with a girl before from Berlin through the whistling humming the tart farts and whispery drafts the hack and tack of the coldcoughs our beginning the foundations the altar of my religion was three floors up in the back with an unwindowed view to the cherry courtyard trash-packed Oppidum Ubiorum the Ara Ubiorum the snowastes mudhastes the wheelfling the arrowslinged from the towers the ratatat yap of the wolfdogs their gurgling hordes machined just beyond the barbedwire walls erected upon our own Egyptian shoulders the whipswish the switch and the taskmastered wish we were there before ever the goyim were the Clementine Christians the Constantine Christians and the Curia years and maybe even a lifespan a lifetime a century sinned before the Emperor even declared that inconstant cult to be the equal of all religions and so exempted its initiates its initiators its priests say from public duties the munera and the Hieri the Archisynagogi a world before Bonn before Bonna the Franks too the Saxons suckling at the teat of the sow of Rome’s warworld the moneymundi Neronian Flavian us in our Babel and Babylon robes the weeping harpy women and children in legioned liege in servitude bound and chained along the chariot-ways back in the Iscariotdays our shaming slum Germania Inferior it was wrought as Suetonius for one tells us in the name of my father at the end of Caesar’s sword at the Rhinepoint the Reintip ranked as Colonia broughtover imported to New Jersey America with all of its lawnornament idols at the ends of its looparound wraparound drives deadending unending the elms the Elmont Places the icerinkydink publicschool system in which she taught the Latin of German alongside the mall with the Indian movierental store the Pakistani carwash across the river washing the Hudson ben the ocean Atlantic just down the Turnpike just off the Garden State Parkways a bissel south past Newark and Elizabeth Woodbridge over Zgierska Street Township Middlesex County country to where Eva my cousin survived lived to die but I never visited her there amid the Metropark hospitals the Walgreens the red whites and blues of the Foodtown the foodgreen mallwall the parkingplot haze of the wireraze with its honking of sirens the L.Z.A. choir voicing the tears of the painter who’d lived he said in Paris but spoke no French Antwerp or Brussels who did portraits in charcoal he wouldn’t burn for my Mutter of me and my Oma whose head became black and swelled with the pride of disease no one could diagnose not even Berlin’s Caspari we bribed until suffused with cancer it began to resemble the week’s rot of that pineapple we’d buy at the market on the Severinstrasse we’d never finish because there’d always be another palm never empty her fruitface grew silver crowns gray rotted mold the money from my Onkel the gambler up late at table over his ersatz coffeemud cigarettes rolled out of the leaves of the Goethe birchoak inveighing in German auf Deutsch against the Poles their Tuwim and Słowacki all of those poems about hummingbirds and flowers how can you call those goyishers writers they’re goyim they’re illiterate roughs toughs he’d never read them from Aragon Breton or Rosenstock Tzara he used to say to us in our room be careful with your horseplay your Morseneigh it’s still a bookshelf even if there aren’t any books on it just my papers my meds and my glasses their prescriptions never updated my toothbrush and teeth Marx and Nietzsche of the moment’s Göttergötzendämmerung the instant’s Good set against Evil’s Dasein designs Entosteter Entwesteter Freud he’d yell at the Poles the Yiddishist moles with their Mendel Schmendel whomever E equals MC squared like a shvartze but what about jazz and surreal Expressionism he’d spit Dadadadadada what it sounds like in Polish or Yiddish they had to yell back at him in German because though they were impoverished peasants Ostlost pissants to him they knew more languages than us they had to it’s always the poor who have to know more and work harder be quicker in whatever language in charge of the mouth department the strike of the hands the reading of palms by the Gypsy encampment the Tzigane her name toothless womanwhoremother foretelling for me but not for Guttmann Futtermann a life so long the pregnant Rom laughed at me my inheritance the Porajmos they call it the Samudaripen biboldó meaning unbaptized by liber or fire left to the gnaw the crowcaw of the Rumkowski rats arrived official in glasses hat tie and cane raised to strike the orphaned king of the roaches the guttermann muttermann his name I metup with him later with the eyes and the frothmouth gothmouth coming through Köln in search of survivors at the foot of the bridge blown all to Hohenzollern hell across the Rhine its ribs floating like drowning snakes the temptation of a woman I thought was a man walking with the branch of an aspenbeechbirchcarob tree in her hand she said she’d found in Czech stumping her way the dumky Rumkie to Paris pracuj powoli over the footbridge slowgoing woodbridge too far over the next Biebowing Aktion a last Ressort courting the paper matter of factory cuts bleeding the kiss of Doris’ lips on my fingertips and the lids of my eyes Give me your children she’d say but she couldn’t bear the work quotas lack of supply the factory hours demand strikes over wages and rations of food and word a loaf for six days for five the lessening weight of the soulbread the souldead forty grams to thirtythree the angry complaint and the rage stealing the thieving Tarnungtalk that latenight rainwatersnowatergossip the recrimination drip of the mouth-leak hate accusation and blame the bitterherbturd snuggled close before the first shifts the aching hands love between the thighs of the Kishinever circus dwarf and the banker from Prague it cost money to love and to live the plenty the fat and the lean cowlike cowering women the protekcja Thirteen the rabbi without wife their twelve bearded daughters whom Doris mothered in lieu of her own an imagined life an imaginary life nursing away at a breast dry thirst-arved wombed beyond the jurisdiction of God the King’s jurisdictation of the Gettoverwaltung with halting tongue the eyes electroshock bulged by yet another rule sensless another regulation meaningless mental meat the soup issue the watery moonless night as black as a screen blank for which I forsook my father and Marlene Dietrich Unrat fit for the Kino row K seat 2 just in time to make the news unreeled over Desutschland gedenkt der gefallenen Helden at the Staatsoper with General von Blomberg addressing in rückhaltlosem Vertrauen zum Führer sehen wir die Saat reifen einen Staat der Einigkeit der Stärke und der Ehre ein Volk in Frieden in einem befriedeten Europa in the loge alongside von Mackensen Göring Hess and Eddie Cantor it was Iskowitz in Kid Millions 1934 35 in icecreams and color after those goosestepping parade marches in gunpowder black and surrendering white all these American visions saddling you with yet another possibility of exile a widest frontier a darker Diaspora galutglut ever deepening selfimposed selfreposed as a limitation stronger than any barbedwalls or barbarous gates of being made rendered like fat stupider idiotic less informed intelligent worse just less curious being remanded to the silent and dumb only wet primordial animals just crawled scrawled themselves out of the Lebensraum they’re now trumpeting like the Levites at Jericho’s Temple selfdenial I mean the wiles of while in the worst possible way missing notes what’s worse skipping with sloppy brush-strokes and imperfect marble verses that don’t scan skim stanzas or addup understood the patience to falter before the grand equations of unread pages hated because they exist because they hate to exist as they are have no value no worth a snowedover snowedupon clearing covered in white a blank page a black & white page strewn with the cursive of corpses Rembrandtstrasse 16 or Schneidergasse Schiller and Goethe to the gas alongside Ventzki the vents and even Rumkowski’s wife the ghetto’s Venus starved far beyond the capacities of even Marienbad or Morszyn Łódź unable to sleep but thirsty for dream Łodzia reduced to the daze that is waking in its own coat torn of arms with the crowns and boat sunk to the bottom of the lowest circling rung hell frozenover the reversion of bells its last days tolled grave excavation that selfexploration self-examination the Aufräumkommando archaeology of bodies charred shot unclaimed without birthright or only that of the Poles the roaches and rats the streets overturned an upheaval the reversed spin of the globe revolting the stenchstanch of anklehigh kneeabout blood the stain of the crotch the collars of priests unto Mengele what’s my lines demarked remarked strata dug beneath the Germans beneath the Romans dug into pagan rebirth a nowhere unfounded on air in the air the smoke rivered Rhineleft Rhinelost at the edge of the barbarian west with the nit grubs lice hair tribes the rootruned ruination of mudhives thatch the love of fire and wheel and sharp fur and the cult of the clan the earthworship the Saxsexed sunlust of the Suebi the Kings of Gallæcia the Galatai descended from Gomer the grandson of Noah the other the enemyother of the westerlybrother the Cain of the holehumping tithumping rapedsisterdaughter grunt mother of the fields the three fallow stars shining upon the bodied ruin of Batavia’s shitpissfleck and maggoty corpserot corpsetrot a clump a clod as over the horizon now comes a whiteness a sheet a man a mensch arrayed in a page he’s led as a slave to his loins for its generations to die here at the north edge of the northernmost fence of the cemetery roadstreetmudfeet trod the chatter of any teeth left serving for the perching of crows on the graves their names it’s these jokes the yolkyokes I remember the hits and the missing witzs meaning not just joshing with humor but the witzs patronymic witz meaning the son of the vichs or the vychs which son of a wich wicz vits or vitz I’ve saved them up in the drawers of my nightstands two that’ll survive me and survive survival a will the humor a testimony we traded traitored hated and loved the last to live to return from last century bearing its gifts its souvenirs a suitcase of tchotchkes the trunks smokedamaged remaindered remanded looted givenup and over away that’s all I stole what’s my sin thieved what they left me with an appreciation of that whole spit image graven in laughs in these ways to get through it all I’ve savedup their jokes understand their cemeterylaughs their prats their blackandbrownstonegigglesandsmiles not their beginnings understand never them never did like them understand we’re the beginnings we’re talking about men and the angels they laugh like women Doris and Agnesz and Eva my cousin out in Colonia dead by the Turnpike the Parkway down at the deadend exit mile numbered zero of ul. Okopowa it’d been called Buchdruckergasse the binding street paging white way the road to the grave the tums of the tombs we’d gather who knows who to remember how to laugh at these punchlines to the face to the gut is the word in America shutting my eyes to the setups they’re called the blackblankness the blindness of night to tomorrow today to sharpen our knifeteeth the faculty the facility of our laughter freezing to remember those late afternoons it must’ve been Shabbos the Sabbath it felt like it at least without work getting done getting it right unfinished laughter half done half leftover these onehundredeight of them I have punchlines they’re called kick-steplines the march through the years its remnants I have one for each year for each language of life we’d stand around talk and gawk joke and rub hands for warmth and butt heads and hearts without horns or barbs without names none of them darker than hope the thing with feathers our wan hope the butterfly stitch the wax wings of mice and the roaches of rats leaving them nothing taking nothing but our century with me overstayedandextended at day rates by night by the hour the soured expiredlongpastdue the rent third floor #3B remember the Second Commandment they owe me six months I’ll give them another loafing or idle to fill the air cold with what breath left in our bodies taking memory with us my ribs hurt to recall all these Łódźlines the bordering Babel ways of the wall gravegriping darkgropes those Linzmannstadtlaughs one hundred eight what they’re called punches and kicks to the groin betrayed by the face of the mouth that we’d trade we’d bait them bated in mud and the puddles of rainreinwater snow to salve the wounds of shitandpissandIdon’tknowhatelse pondy scars these hahas these mars funnies I’m left with I’m leaving all I’ve ever been born for and against what I’ve borne witness false for and coveted the foretold you heard it here first folks my famous last words lying swaddled a newborn Wort clothed but still cold there’s no heat here only a spoon only a candle because the electricity future I’ll tell you despite any sophistry sophistication that suit and tie business the cafédämmerung Commerz the Yecca airs I’m their heir I’m a nostalgist at heart I like the down I love the troddenupon all that spitonandovertheshoulder I’m sentimental my birthday being Christmas this Sabbath Shabbos indulgence before the three stars blink dewy weteyed not for what I’ve lost understand what I’ve never had is what’s forgotten was denied me and wasted I can’t drop it my pants the same madras pair can’t let go of my body and breathe lungs and rib to keep myself in memory like a Venetian overcoat of my father’s robbed or lost surplus let go on sale for next to nothing no more discussions no more discursions excurses exegesis eisegese didn’t one Ecclesiastic or another once gloss there’s nothing new under the sun the moon the twin Pole-poles within the fences the walls the barbed boundaryround laughlines of Łódź there’s nothing left for me Joseph ben my father you didn’t know him don’t worry or apologize to God forbid lie to believe in Him the women I’ve loved and the men who’ve made me smile as wide as a grave the gape of the void bottomed with a humorless corpse to not know from guilt is to be either guilty or dead no more the setups the buildup eternal construction of the cemeteryroad this cementerystreet flooded flumeline straight to the heart of the issue toward the soul of the mattering womb yuk it up to remember what I want to what I need to what I choose what has been chosen for me in quotation »auserwählt« marked say by Hitler I don’t even know her these punchlines these payoffandons these zingers and dingringers of bells the bleeding heart of the mouth that’s what I have that’s what I recall they come back to me now as I’m dying this whispering hiss I’m this dying moment forsaking me for a laugh these one hundred and eight of them lines but who’s counting

one I pray in the other I’ll never step foot in you know business is business but if I should die before the debt’s paid that’s just my good luck I gave at the office I make a nice living hymn if all of you are here then who’s minding the store whatsa matter you kids never seen a Yenkee before schmaltz or matjes one of our boys made it from here it’s a local call because I didn’t want my mouth to be filled with food if you should call you ate three the hostess says but who’s counting then I figured the debate was over because he took out his lunch and so I took out mine okay okay alright already so bring me a piece pie nu better bring me an apple on a paper plate when it comes to my health the man’s saying nothing’s too expensive back home you could be sick on that money for three years they treat their help well but tsu feel ungepatchket because he didn’t want to be a doctor or lawyer that’s why at least I’d have a shirt better you should have bought a hundred dollar hat it might be Yom Kipper for you but it’s Simchat Torah in my pants I couldn’t walk for a year not bad for shlishi no but Rothschilds are what’s it to you if I keep on winning but if we pay him two rubles a week what will he have to worry about the Tsar doesn’t want just any ruble he wants your ruble and keep the Czar far away from us somebody has to buy retail but you have to understand it just doesn’t pay to cook for two people it wouldn’t hurt it’s not my heaven it’s her hell and to my brother-inlaw whom I made a promise to mention him in my will hello there Danny oy such a healthy man oy was I tired but the one thing is that it’s impossible to get red ink anywhere you got maybe another globe thanks Rabbi lately we’ve had so much room pregnant too what you mean a wart the assistant says it’s a hump nonsense says the shadchan who’d lend silverware to such thieves yes but do the dogs know that no but try and tell them that after you’re shot sh the fire’s not until Thursday I didn’t think it would rain I only trust my own watch because I’m also from Minsk from Pinsk I take all the money throw it up in the air and whatever God wants he keeps I deliver and so I’m here to tell you I’ll marry her for half that pig says the officer Mendelssohn the philosopher replies Doc listen the man says if you had my headaches I wouldn’t worry about them neither if I had his voice I’d sing just as well a Heifetz he’s not Ostropoler Rabinovich says we’ve been friends for years he’s the one with the yarmulke O the man says then puts his feet up on the seat again you’ll never guess who I had lunch with today our Rabbi’s so modest that if he eats it’s only to hide from others that he’s fasting isn’t it enough our Rabbi’s able to see all the way from Lemberg to Lublin well it’s a miracle here if our Rabbi does anything God asks of him tell me who told you that look why should we both tremble Barry look around you the sun’s shining we’re sitting around in our shirtsleeves the water’s blue calm tell me Barrele you call this winter you’re velcome oy you’ve gone and changed your name too sh he thinks we’re teaching him English I’d do a little teaching on the side the morning or the afternoon I can wait I just don’t like living in a place where they deliver mail at three in the morning whaddya want can’t she have one fault you needn’t lower your voice the shadchan says she’s deaf too listen the man replies who listens just because you’re having a bad month should I have one too I work so I can drink should I give up drinking so I can work what do you take us for a coupla goyim the difference between us is that I’m an apikoros and you’re a goy then the merchant wires back cancel order STOP can’t wait that long I don’t understand says the man if I’m broke I can’t eat strudel and if I have some money I shouldn’t eat strudel tell me then when I’m supposed to eat strudel you call this living this you call living what do you know from living no sometimes we switch aha what’s it to you if it doesn’t whistle I just put that in there to confuse you nu so it doesn’t sing two out of three ain’t bad you’re going to lose your hundred because I ain’t gonna dream of paying you back until the Day of Judgment we have three days to learn to live underwater schmuck I’m drowning nu so it’s not like a fountain welcome to America Shaun Ferguson he lived at home until he was thirtythree he went into his father’s business and his mother thought he was God I know that one too hey Yossi print one less doctor gave him another six months he just puts a sign on the door that says Closed for Business the Holidays sh don’t make trouble it could’ve happened to me but the suspicion remains what’s a bracha why disturb the Rabbi on a night like this better one of them should die than one of us Bernie great news your sister died the dead girl is one of us you’re Joseph Cohen I didn’t recognize you funny you don’t look who thinks he’s a nothing also Cohen it’s like this: my father was a Cohen and his father was a Cohen and his father before that was a Cohen it’s steady work

JOSHUA COHEN was born in 1980 in New Jersey. He is the author of five books, including the novels Cadenza for the Schneidermann Violin Concerto and A Heaven of Others. Cohen’s essays have appeared in the Forward, Tablet, the Believer, and Harper’s. He lives in Brooklyn.