The Siddur in Our Kitchen
My Saba’s prayer book
idles on a pedestal
of magazines and opened mail,
receipts and peanut crumbs,
its borders, embroidered,
a mantlepiece for
It reclines against routine,
drapes a holy face
over coupon clippings—
And I see my Saba in its binds.
Hear his humming
swell from the pages, pressed closed.
His scar, a crease in the spine.
His smile glints in the cross-stitching.
And he soaks his perch with his prayers,
my grandfather on our kitchen table.