for Rivka Augenfeld
It's a mouthful
nominative determinism:
the optician name Glass,
the jeweler named Diamond,
the doctor named Payne,
the writer named Penn,
Fields the farmer,
and you don't need to be a lexicographer
to know what Carpenter, Cook and Banks do.
But rules don't always apply,
take Klein for example.
He was anything but small,
a giant, a master of words.
When he wrote about himself
it was always about something bigger
than himself,
his kin, his community, his country,
he grieved publicly
for the whole damned broken world,
and then privately
in silence.
Invoking the poet's significant influence
on my insignificant life,
paying him homage - the least
I could do -
I misspoke,
said his beloved daughter Sharon
had done herself in
at 27,
joined that tragic club that includes
Jimi, Jim, Janis, Kurt and Amy,
but I was wrong about that,
it wasn't her decision,
or an accidental OD,
maybe I said that
for my own reasons,
a mystery.
And then there is
the Name of Names
the Creator,
the Almighty,
the Unpronounceable,
who I try to revive weekly
with my uttered blessings,
cup of red wine,
pale bread laid before me
covered
like a corpse.
If there is any certainty
it's that we don't always do
what fate prescribes,
or see why
we should have faith
in what we can't name
but try we must,
again and again,
we must try.
