On the Death of Jack Lipsitz
As to heaven — since he was no saint,
I’m not sure my father was admitted.
He was the sort, you see, not especially
Given to taking orders. If God
instructed him to butcher his son,
the way Abraham was told, he would
have hesitated, probably offering
An excuse like an arm gone arthritic,
or, having taken me to the mountain,
would have suffered a case of acute
heartburn and been helped home,
burping.
That night he would have whispered
to me: “What is this, killing my son?
the man must have emotional
problems. I hear also he burns cities
supposedly wicked. He must be under
a strain. You have to overlook sometimes.”
and coughing once or twice, would have
fallen asleep.
Had any prophets been around, they
would have preached against his kind.
A man of the belly, they would have said,
giving over his life unto earthly pleasures.
unto suntan and games of chance. A man
never seen in the sanctuaries of the Lord.
but taking himself instead into barbershops,
Movies, haberdasherers, and, sometimes,
a casino. They would lament his slavery
to convention. A man without backbone
from the teachings of The Book.
So when he came to The Gate, perhaps
they would have admitted him, grudgingly,
for after all, he had never engaged in
cruelty, had never forgotten entirely how
to love. They would have warned him though
and cautioned him to keep to the side streets,
out of sight of the righteous men and women
who spread their pious, obedient wings
on the main boulevards.
After a couple of weeks, he would have
gone quietly to find the gin rummy players
who live on the outskirts of Hell.
By Lou Lipsitz
From Seeking the Hook
Signal Books, Chapel Hill, NC, 1997
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