CRITICA

So many risks — if the wax is dirty,
too hot or too cold, poured too quickly,
if the wick is the wrong width,
the mold opened too soon,

the first burn not long enough–
then the candle can tunnel or smolder,
failure in the world of candles,
where the goal is a clean constant flame

without soot or flutter.
Friday night services, I watch
the candles light, sing the familiar prayers,

listen to the rabbi: his family in Jerusalem
for ten generations, yet he speaks
to both loving Israel and hating the war.
His words flow between hot and cold;

the numbers of dying children tunnel deep.
My heart rises and flutters, full of soot
from the bombings. Rubble
reveals a leg here, a toy there.

How do we filter life from death,
right from wrong, a people from a people.
The care it would take to balance this conflict,
hold the center as it cools, pray for

a true, constant flame that warms food, boils water.
I know less than ever, but I feel more.
The rabbi says this conflict must be our spiritual practice,
that Jews must triumph over trauma and find the way to peace.

I daven and sway, cry and hold hands,
keep my heart open as it boils over the fire,
and hope for hard-earned miracles
like honey, each teaspoon

the harvest of a thousand flowers
by hundreds of bees,
pollinating blossoms of olive and lemon,
buzzing across the barbed wire.