Lisa Janice Cohen

Havdalah

I have said goodbye, opened windows
to the night, the stutter of wings
against glass. Three stars mark
Shabbat's end. The angel nods;

Yes, she is the one. I read her name
on his lips. When they kiss, his mouth
will taste of honey and red wine. The echo
of cloves clears the room of antiseptic

fear. My hand shakes. Wax weeps
from the candle's double helix.
We extinguish it together. The song
of separation rises in lament.

He gathers her body to his breast;
one last mitzvah of tenderness.

Unveiling

Tonight, I light a candle, say kaddish
as you gather the driftwood of our family
without me. It's been a year. Your mother
made her quiet retreat after a century

of pitched battles, no more wounded
left for her to attend. You stand
in the line of fire, hands empty, refuse
to hear about dialysis. How Dad's blood

will choke with silt. How the catheter
is a snake swallowing its own poison.
At the unveiling, you bury another piece
of yourself, pray you'll go before he does.

When it's time to bear away your coffin,
you will be light as any child.