Praying

You open a door to the roof, roll a cigarette, and stand close enough

I smell the Red Sea in your hair. One night we swam so far

I lost the little strung lights on land, almost pulled under by fear—

  —I wonder why I came here. Israel at least pleased Grandfather,

dead two weeks before I left. I never understood him.

One day, in my teens, I snuck into his room to get to the eaves,

stocked with racks of cast-offs from their clothing store.

In the attic I tried on varsity jackets, silver pumps, and cashmere wraps.

Cloche hats never felt cast off to me. To reach my little slice of heaven

I passed by Grandfather’s closet, where he kept his pocket watch and brogues,

his Polo cologne: these were his passions, along with VO whisky straight up in a snifter,

his violin, and God. Yes, I did know that. Grandfather’s stoicism,

his melodies from Poland. But before this day I had never seen him

praying. It seemed so foreign. I was purely secular and wore

ambivalence as a badge of honor. Intelligence was reason,

not faith. Anyway, that’s what Grandmother thought,

and I was inclined to believe her. She protected me from bullies.

She spoke out. He feared the evil eye, and for this I distrusted him,

yet logic just wasn’t his thing. How else to explain his white shroud,

his bowing up and down? He was a mystic in silhouette,

and I had nothing to say. I snuck away. He was usually the silent one.

Was he dumb or spiritual? And why was he hiding?

Grandmother. Religion: stupid tribal custom, she called it.

She was as fierce as he was gentle, impenetrable, gnomic—

  —Smoke is holy, you say. Religious men grow beards

to soak up each puff, the spirit’s breath. Should I believe this?

It sounds like an excuse. Do we have a chance?

Another night, no kiss. I wrap a piece of rolling paper

around the pen from Grandfather’s store. Tomorrow at the Wall I’ll wedge it in.