The Old Days
In the old days of the old God, demanding and full of blame,
there was such commerce between heaven and earth—
burning bushes, angels knocking at the door, high drama
at the Red Sea. But after centuries, tired and overwhelmed,
God moved into a book with black frayed covers;
this book lived in our shul. And so my mother
rose to the occasion—she was the one who warmed cold
waters, parted them, pinched my cheek, made my bed.
Now she’s like God, helpless and confused,
the miracles of Egypt are lost, like her recipes and opinions.
Here, she would say, drink this, it’s good for you;
here, this way, and my hands would ties a shoe.
God, and my mother have grown to resemble each other,
like a couple who’ve lived under the same roof
for a long, long time. And both seem to have forgotten me—
He spinning the world, she rinsing the dishes,
remote and distracted, the two of them moving, morning
and night, of little circles of water and air.
by Gene Zeiger
from Leaving Egypt
White Pine Press, 1995