his shivering lifeA Poem by Philip GaberHe thought back. To an earlier time. But the memory was fragmented. In pieces.
Colliding with other memories.
Just out of reach. Accessible to
him only during rapid eye movement. In a
room. No. In the womb.
During a full moon. In June. Yes.
That was the memory. In the
womb. He recalled. Something.
Somebody. Shouting. Then hushed whispers. Being yelled at. Then whispered to. How lonely.
Rapid breathing. Heart
beating. Sweats. Panic.
Gasp of breath. Alone. Shouts and
whispers. Then silence. The sound of a clock? Or the beating of a heart? A song?
Voices in discord? No
harmony. No melody, either. And very little rhythm. But sounds nonetheless. Guttural sounds. Guzzling sounds. Guy sounds.
Even though my birth certificate says Easter Sunday, it was Good Friday
that day. The rabbi had to drive in from
Teaneck to perform the bris. He had a
bad back. Garlic breath. Eyes kept blinking because he’d just been
fitted with contact lenses. Said he
didn’t think they were ground right.
Everyone said he looked like he was crying when he snipped off my
foreskin. I for damn sure was. That much I remember. Nerves for days down there. And Rabbi Watery Eyes deadens the sensation
for me forever. The family
celebrates. Hard salami served on rye
bread. Chopped chicken liver. Herring. Lox.
Bagels. Bialys. Chala.
Cream cheese. Kosher dills.
Manischewitz wine. Schnapps. Hear all
about it! Secular Jew born on Good
Friday (or Easter Sunday), take your pick; who wants to argue? © 2024 Philip Gaber |
Stats
86 Views
1 Review Added on August 8, 2024 Last Updated on August 8, 2024 AuthorPhilip GaberCharlotte, NCAboutI hate writing biographies. I was one of those kids who rode a banana seat bike and watched Saturday morning cartoons and Soul Train. But my mother would never buy any of those sugary cereals for us k.. more..Writing
|