"They Who Waste Me."
When I ask for a hand, they give me a shovel.
If I complain, they say, worms are needles at work
to clothe a corpse for spring.
I sigh, whoever breathes has inhaled a neighbor.
"The Garlic."
Rabbi of condiments, whose breath
is a verb, wearing a thin beard and a white robe.
You who are pale and small, and shaped like a fist,
a synagogue, bless our bitterness,
transcend the kitchen to sweeten death.
Our wax in the flame, and our seed in the bread.
Now, my parents pray, my grandfather sits,
my uncles fill my mouth with ashes.