Wednesday, March 9th - "Yahrzeit Candles for My Mother"

My brother says it's silly, lighting candles for the dead.

After all, it's not like they'll know, and besides,

from the point of view of heaven, every candle

must look the same, anyhow. He can't believe in a god

that cares if children remember the anniversary

of their mother's death, if they walk across coals

to prove their pedigree. Still, he eventually says

he'll do it, perhaps just to get my mother

to get onto a less morbid subject matter, while we sit

and sip sangria, and wonder if Dad

will show up before the moon. I wonder

if at the bottom of a grave, every candle

is a little pathway, something to grasp,

a tiny little wire stretched cleanly

across the earth's magnetic poles. Breaking

a crust of bread from the basket,

my mother gums it slowly, slides

the little pat of butter onto it, careful

not to burn her sleeve in the candle

perched cleanly in the middle of the table,

each radian reaching nervously for our faces

as if it's the last step forward it can take

before being snuffed out across the horizon.