Spit in the oil can was his faith.
A fish floundering, gasping in gulps of salt sea.
“On Tuesdays, I have the revelation,”
he was whispering in shakes to Sarai under
a pocked table,
garnish’d with lahvosh.
But you see it hadn’t come; the candles were bald
with age mishandled, with dark nights sleeping.
It wandered while the full moon crept.
“What of it, M?!” Sarai the Impatient growled down
the humps of her moo-moo.
“…it’s Thursday…” he hacked. And he coughed up.
The black wood windows shivered as the spirit ran.
It was Thursday, the fifth day from the Sabbath.
“Come up here and eat!” shouted Sarai.
But she knew nothing of breads;
She forgot the hummus besides.
And emptiness like a snake,
Branches like a tree which harbors apples
A Jordan river bending down
Coiled inside the caves of his stomach.