Nu, grant thee according to thine own heart, if you’re familiar, and, nu, she is and she’s isn’t: familiar because she’s pregnant again, swollen and snippy and thinning of hair, though her other daughters had never overstayed and by so much their welcome, what’s it a week well past due, any night now into day how she’ll spring open a door, the smoke that attends though it’s the doctor who’ll be wearing the mitts…high on the hospital wall, the deliveryroom as if a vacation house that’s how much time she’s spent there, she remembers: her as round as its clock and as pale, that and upon its thirteenth cycle its last how she’s slowing, how quickly she’s stilling, the tick of a timer winding down not just on a tray or dish warming but on the mechanism itself, the entire body she came with, the oven of her womb without warranty as installed too near the soul and too private — and then, at the same time, as she finds herself answering Feigenbaum’s psalm with her silence (behold, she recalls: she that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep), not so much familiar…which sensation she feels moved to explain is almost pregnant itself, as if by itself, selfgenerating in how it’s constantly, circumlunarly estranging me from myself, I’m so lost, but she doesn’t; in the end, timelessly unfamiliar, because — and this she withholds by fingering a knob, a drawer’s navel — not only is it a boy, Mazel Tov, but why does it feel like He’s early?
Their table, like the sun, almost set. In the kitchen, the shades are down anyway. Four are the legs of their table, a table with three legs is suspect, two are impure, and a table with one leg is an abomination in the eyes of God, which are infinite and are less eyes than they are legs upon which we might flee from the gaze of His judgment come the close of the Sabbath, our day of rest. The table sits on its legs, its legs sit on the floor. All is grouted — stayed, put — not moving, nothing rushing anywhere is what, just now no; all is grounded. Upon the ground, we know what is expected of us, and what to expect of others — to grovel for air. Tile tiles — molding molds — laminate void — formica without form — linoleum turf parquet that’s wood real wood, carpet carpets wall to wall to wall to sky; rugged, shagged, we’re just floored. Breathe easy, brotherfriend. We’re here to stay again. House to heavens stilled. Beyond, who knows. And who wants to. Cloud. All’s darkening, slowly — a scurry. Tonight is a night for stray dogs. As the dark is immovable, its shadows may roam as they please. It hurries into their yard up from the sidewalks. Without traffic, however, there can be no streets, there can only be sidewalks, and so every way of the earth is made safe. Finally, we are home. Weather’s wet, dripping ugly, though it hasn’t yet begun raining, or snow. The waters below and the waters above have not yet become separate. We will tell each a lie about the other and they will come to hate one another and they will never come together again except in a storm. That lie will be the oceans are more beautiful than the sky and the sky is more beautiful than the oceans, and though both are lies they are equally true. From a cloud, the threat of clouds. Collarless, tiny. Nameless and without sound. It paws the stoop, then raises its head. Mensch speaks. Woman speaks. None listen. This barks. It barks stray. Bowoof. Arfgr. And at its sound the lights give it a new name, the lights name it dog — flicking on.
A neighbor’s, hopefully — and inside, Hanna, like these lights alert to every motion of the house, those outside it, goes to see who or sends Wanda, thinking can’t be a guest, it’s too early.
Never to suspect her husband, who’s late, always last.
Thinking which door.
As Hanna believed: frontdoors exist only to provide for the existence of other doors, the sidedoors, the reardoors, and, too, to mark for her the meaning of those who might enter her house — for dinner or which meeting home-hosted, whether invited or just dropping in: who her intimate and who not, who’s to be trusted with her keys and her friendship, her family and hospitable heart. Some would enter through the frontdoor, only to exit — meaning Hanna would exit them, holding their hands, or her arm around their waist — through the side, the rear, and so they have gained in trust and love. Others would enter through the side, the rear, even the porch, only to exit through the front — and so losing the goodwill of her soul.
As Israel’s understood it, despite doubting his wife’s belief, always leaving his own home from the side.
Her husband, who even at this late hour sits atop Midtown when and where there’s still light.
The Sabbath to the left of him, Sabbath to the right, but there’s no Sabbath where he’s sitting — the sun stayed above him, just waiting, as he waits, he’s working, he works, is a lawyer, too much.
Of him, the following’s told:
