Kosher Wine
Jan 6 2010


I remember small glasses
of kosher wine,
over-sweet
the purple stain
the foxy after-taste.

I remember honey cake,
golden loaves, thickly sliced
tipped back invitingly
like toppled dominos.
Oblivious to the niceties
of presentation
I would reach in for a middle piece,
avoiding the over-cooked crusts
on the ends.

The cake cut the cloying sweetness
of the wine.
The wine nicely moistened the cake
which had crumbled, in the over-heated basement
underneath the sanctuary
after services,
laid out in advance
to keep the Sabbath
free of work.

This was rare,
observing the day of rest
the service, sparsely attended
mumbling along to the prayers
in the ancient guttural language
that seemed more incantation
than words
— the verses, well-rehearsed,
the ritual tongue
familiar, yet mysterious.

We were not religious,
secular Jews, seduced by our worldliness.
But still anxious to honour
thousands of years of survival;
and wanting to believe
something so ancient and durable
contained wisdom,
had attained some higher truth.

My parents must have felt guilty
about something,
dragging us there, those rare Friday nights.
Or lonely, perhaps
ungrounded;
a young family
no relatives
living in a raw suburban tract
of shoe-box houses
non-stop children
big American cars
parked like trophies
on rutted gravel drives.
The lust for life
after Depression, and war.

But I never touched down
found my footing
in the company of such an insecure God
in need of so much reassurance,
constantly demanding
our devoted worship,
such a capricious, and cranky
taskmaster.
So I never believed,
never bought any of it
from the start.

But I still remember the wine and cake
on folding tables
with a starched white cloth,
the beaming rabbi
the bearded men, wrapped in tallises
davenning.
And I find myself reciting
the old familiar prayers
in my head
whenever I hear them.
Still not sure what they mean;
yet comforted
nevertheless.