Or else, He’s — heresy — just like everyone else…is everyone else. A multitude of mensch, and their achievements: Joseph the dreamer dreaming Joseph the interpreter interpreting Joseph the prophet; the brother who hides the cup, Benjamin fated unconscious to steal it, prophesized together again, reunited forever in Him. Like the chance of that choice, how many lives you’re allotted, how many eyes and mouths and noses — O does He pick! The fraternity’s mascot, the tribal runt. Alone again alone. I sit on my bed and ask it, are you my bed? And because it doesn’t answer me I’ll never know and sleep. A pillow. And its whiter dream. One as in one. One meaning one. One one. It’s you, everyone’s telling me, it’s your life, so many options, and with so much support, what don’t you understand, your problem — I want to say, it’s me. One in the same, as in the emotions of Pain and Hope, as defined by Spinoza; as in the ideas of perfection and reality as Spinoza once set out. As I’ve been told, I’m telling. One as in God Himself. As in His son, but let’s not go there…He remains upstairs. No one does. Upstairs-upstairs. I sit on my floor, a mockery of mourning — its carpet of stains, hall’s wood bemoaning in trodden groans its scratches and the rug. A fundament of doubt. There’s a noise from below, a spirited banging of the ceiling with ladles and with brooms. They say, intensely private. Sequestered, they say. Appreciates His quiet. I say…Alone. An entire house at His disposal. And make no mistake, it is disposal. Unable to leave, He isn’t allowed to, and He doesn’t allow Himself, not even His possessions — to leave an intimacy just lying about. As the only permanent of this exorbitant house — as Mister & Misses Israel Israelien, Homemachers, Copresidents of the Board for life of this singularly shingled siding — this dwelling good for an immodest family of tens, and fine, too, to house at least a hundred others, certainly, in relative comfort, a thousandplus under refugee conditions; as the only survivor of this plot, He still feels like the youngest son and as such, infinitely old in His loneliness, banished to His room, containment policies pursued, to keep His dirt there, never to infiltrate or taint. Their expectations. And their painful hopes. His mess is His, roomed. I sit amid laundry and wrappers and cartons and cans, lightbulbs and hoarded spoons, foreskins shed, tight shoes. I wait until I am called, and when I am called I will call that call temptation, and live out the rest of my days against it, which is only waiting. Or so I say, unsaid. At the door, an official knock, a bell. Downstairs, demons surge. It’s time for Him to wash, to dress. Their whispers jar the window. Into the pockets of the pants He steps into go whatever’s around. Mementos. A pocket is the room of a room. And over that He shrugs on, against all advice, which are orders, a fond found shroud that’d been His mother’s, a blustery blouse, Hanna’s maternity let out in pleats.
