T'rumah

By Laurie Patton

We've always known
that clothing makes a world;
tents on our mother's beds,
earth and sky made of quilts
letting the light in
os that we are small makers
of tiny suns and miniature moons,
each requiring new stories.

We've always known
that our shawls are second skins,
which, unlike snakes,
we have the blissful choice
of removing at will.

We've always known
that blankets have an inch of heat
that can be the difference
between life and death
for someone newly nameless
searching for a subway vent.

We make
tiny worlds,
and shed skins,
and seek warm winds:
in these ways
we cry to You,
and You hear,
because You are gracious.

Chayei Sarah

By Laurie Patton

Ishmael:
I was thirteen,
and I remember the music
and my mother whispering,
"Why such a party, when
it is only a weaing?"
And the smell of lamb
and the hand drums;
and the involuntary sound
coming from my own throat -
half laughter, half-sob -
after I saw my mother's face
in the firelight;
and I knew
my little brother
was now my rival.
But God was still good to us -

Isaac:
- and I was three,
and I remember
starinh out in the dark
of the morning
and seeing two shadows
and then the clear outline
of your mother
clutching a water bottle,
and watching her wave
in the air,
as if she were talking
to Someone.
But God was still good to us -

Ishmael:
- and now we stare together
into the cave
that holds our father -

Isaac:
- our father's bones
and his memory,
in the place before Mamre -

Ishmael:
- and yet I fear
for the future -

Isaac:
- since perhaps
the only thing
we can do together

Isaac and Ishmael:
is to bury
and to mourn
our dead.