I push my neck beyond its reach,
contort my achy back; lower my
face til it’s horizontal to the
pocked wood floor. With an ants
view of the world, like a miner I
prospect; small bits of bread
my treasure. Wax dripping off
stubby candle blister my hand
as I peer into unlit corners.
My grandfathers who died of
hunger watch me; the crumbs I
burn would have fed them days.
Beyond, my wife and girls, holding,
incongruously, white wax-covered
paper bag and wooden spoon, sigh
as they await release from the ritual
that isolates them from their cellphones
and laptops; no insight as to why
a decidedly non-fanatic man
inches around on his belly for hours.
Wheezing from the dust covering my
mouth and nose, I ask the same
question. My mind jumps forward
a night to a table laden with food
and finery. Erect amid the china and
crystal, is the just poured silver Cup of
Elijah. The wine, trembling above the lip,
awaits the prophet himself. Eyes on
the open door, we laugh and cry hoping
he will herald an end to the numbing exile.
Jerked back to reality by a hot burn on my
cheek I accept that at my deepest core I
crave and am comforted by illogical belief