It’s not only the allergies or infections, though; it’s the promise of food more than the food itself, then the drink, the zissen l’chaim, the mashke, the schnapps, not even that — it’s the old appetite for the as-yet-unfulfilled. Their handkerchiefs, in their pockets, have been in their respective families for who knows how many generations ever since Adam first dressed Eve only in order that she should have a pocket for that apple of hers and so keeping her hands free for tree’s cleaning, the cooking of Eden: napkins stolen from the tables of every diningroom ever liquidated to stain more than could be sopped with a badge or by a country absorbed, clumped into tight balls, into furrowed globes, wadded with snot and liquids in a respiratory ersatz of rainbows. Approaching the summit, this Sinai’s high arch — they clear their throats, an invocation of phlegm, only in order to greet, to meet, say Shalom; only in order to tell their future generations of Adams and Eves about their own passage here — how they came to be at this dinner, how they came to sit and be served only after their crawl through the desert like snakes…the wasteland infertile no good racked an ocean away for the torture, the work details, the lineups, the musters, the no food or drink hunger and thirst, O the ovens!
Everything slows, when, to the kinder, the daughters Israelien all twelve of them Rubina through Batya, their guests, The guests as ours, are even only a few, fifteen minutes late, it’s forever. Rubbed wasted time, what to do. Sing a song, say a story. Tell me about your day, I’ll care as long as they’re coming. Upstairs. Our late wander on on intentions, always, please, and so it’s enough that they want to keep no one waiting, should be. Have patience, and enough with that shuffling. I’ll be up to tuck you in in an hour at 360º. Though this sound can’t be exorcised in that way, as it’s made in no image, has no source in the body that might seek to cool down or drown it: that of blood flowing’s too soft, a heartbeat too familiar, perhaps, makes you think of death’s love and not life, as it’s mechanically measured, pursed out by a Schedule, the pinch of a hand; it’s the tick, the timer’s tock, each tooth as its ancestor was, at the discretion of eternity, to the second, the minute; the sound, it comes from the oven, the oven at the end of the arch, the arch into the oven, then out the other side.
Here is their passing, from the world of the father to that of the mother, her power, again a reparenting: the menschs reduced, exampled less in their shrinking, their squeeze, while the womenfolk only gain, increase, go from strength to strength and further — over the ocean, perhaps the flow, the wetness, made it maternal. Over there, it’d been the Father, the overbearing idol, the loved one hated who’d reigned upon his high clerkdom chair, invested deeply in his dark office raiment, his threepiece, worsted wool suits, tie and hat, his habits of chess, coffee, tobacco, his ledgers kept in scrupulous scripture: sons mulling idle thoughts of patricide, while daughters were ignored, then the mother, too, she was kept marginal if not flipped past forgotten. Here and now, though, it’s the Mother, chesty in her coming, asserted — demonstratively disapproving, her questions as to how late they are proceeding without an apology, in mounting degrees of scrutiny with each tongued flick of the timer, which is the soul of her face tipped with the wag of a finger, accusative, the settling of blame on all but herself — and as for the father, he’s fallen, demoted, let go as the weaker, submissive, stripped bare of his birthright, mortified as made mortal; less meat and more soup: watery broth with its lentils cut up so that Aba won’t gag, it’s too sad. Admit how it’s sexualized, psychology, that science we’ve made to explain our suffering as an internal affair, if only to forgive those truly responsible and so, we hope, to avoid future wrath; the redoubled vengeance of those who do us the one, true, and inexplicable harm, as if nothing’s more natural save how well they keep themselves free from guilt…as if the sons surviving, they’ve agreed to dispense with the middle, the mediating paternal — and to head instead straight for the issue; to dive down headfirst, back into the black from whence they’d issued in warnings better kept private for centuries, generations of gross sublimation, denial: the Mother, the womb…them going into the oven, then out the other side — as another, reborn: not matricide, but an erotic fight — against death.
Her, she’s the head of the household now, around here wears the skirts.
