Deep, slowing grinding, metal on metal,
unknown in Chicago except in now rare snowy winters.
I learned to drive on the Mojave desert,
grinding the gears of our old Ford pickup.
The only grinding gears my children know are my vocal cords,
petitioning God the merciful in the Amidah.
God shares my rusty voice:
She growled at the Israelites—celestial gnashing of teeth!
The voice of a hazan may soar to the top of the ark and beyond.
I stand, grinding out the Mourner’s Kaddish,
my children beside me at shivah,
now occasionally zooming in for minyan.
Angelic choruses may be filled with sweet sopranos,
but God’s voice could drive a pick-up with gears.
When God and I get it on in prayer,
jump out of the way of the truck!
We’re headed straight to Heaven!
