One Boston December, my parents agreed—
or were shamed—to light the Hanukah candles.
No need for a menorah just a box of Crayola-
size white candles bought from the temple
at adult insistence but with my allowance.
 
Eight nights, first night two, last night nine;
on the kitchen windowsill, not-not-not
facing the street. Not-not-not a statement
of faith. Prayers mumbled in school-boy
Hebrew to parents who could not be bothered 
with an amen or praise. Forty-four
 
points of light to illuminate the covenant
between us reeling from the holocaust 
and a god who had long forgotten, been
forgotten, left behind in Transylvania,
Lithuania, Russia. Buried in Belarus
 
What color were the flames of Auschwitz?
There are not enough yahrzeit candles 
to remember those martyred for their genes.
There were none in our home, not for the dead
grandparents, those I did not know and those
who baked birthday cakes and gave 
 
no presents for Hanukah, no dreidels.
Only the rabbi to remind us that Israel
needed trees and unspoken weapons 
for the Hagenah, the Irgun; dynamite 
to demolish King David’s Hotel;
 
weapons that went from defense 
to invasion of Gaza, gentrification
of Jerusalem, uprooting West Bank 
olive trees and Palestinians.
Flames from centuries of hatred, prejudice,
sanctified points of machine gun lights.
 
On Friday nights my mother did not cover
her eyes or light the Shabbat candles.
My father never davened, never bowed
before a god, only snarled one commandment.
My brother and I had to learn enough,
 
enough so he could claim to be a Jew,
a Jew who rejected faith, a Jew who
did not pray, did not believe; not like
neighbors who paid for votive candles 
lit in supplication to their god, that god
who for centuries has bathed in a mikvah
 
of Jewish blood. May divine candles
illuminate our lives, our deaths,
our beginnings and our ends;
the universe above and hidden
places of our souls. God’s will be done.