shalev smokler

My name is silence. The silence of the doctor as he walked in. The silence as they understood he would not be born. The silence of the phone line as she learned she was not a grandmother. The silence of the ride home.

You assembled me with great care and patience like a ship in a bottle. You made me a fine coat with matching pants with pockets like yours. The only difference was that I was not in mine.

There is a man on the corner of 87th and Amsterdam. I do not know him, and he does not know me. He wears a red tee-shirt with red sweatpants. He wears a red coat with red shoes. He wears a red ski mask on his face.

I do not know if he lived but like the monsters under my bed, he was real enough to touch me. His name was Borach to me. He used to keep carp in the bathtub. He used to make sauerkraut in the closet.

        The Fisherman and I walked on. My feet ached like they did when he found me. When he found me, I could no longer remember if I had run away or was chased out.

Every vow cried to the tip of a saber,

Every soul sold to a higher or lower power,

Every road paved to lead others astray,

Is nullified.

Revoked,