Torah can be acquired only in the company of others. ( B.Berakhot 63b)
In winter I wear layers when visiting my friend,
who flings open the door, pulls me in.
Has she waited long in her drafty hallway?
Her aged mother unfolds from a rug,
braces against the wall to rise, cups my face
and greets in three languages: jambo, hello, asalam aleikum.
I keep on my mother’s blue coat and scarf.
Blue for sky. Scarf for for neshama, for wind.
My mother loved to have tea with friends.
She’d shine in gold necklaces.
Born here to a settled, comfortable family,
she never had to bank her fires.
We kneel to sip chai
two daughters and their mothers,
(mine a ghost,) who stiffens
when a man treads downstairs,
shouting, shouting
then quiets, noticing me
watching him.
I straighten but say nothing
as he slams from the room.
One winter I taught classes
in a church filled with holes.
It’s ceiling was so porous
that pigeons flew in, flew out,
bearing bread crusts and twigs.
In a dark building across the street
adults streamed in, streamed out
clutching bags.
A meth lab, someone said.
Children passed there every night
walking home, young ones grasping
the hands of younger ones.
I learned to stand and stare at the one
who guarded the stoop, his arms crossed, staring back.
This went on for months.
My rabbi advises to seek the light
in another’s eyes. And to speak of this,
you must name the other first.
It’s not safe to name my friend.
So I visit, bring sweets, sip chai
and wait for her to speak.
Painting by the poet
