Between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur

He opens The Book of Life and Death
where last year he penned in an uncle—
the world quieter for it—
and put me in the hospital
for nine days, my name
just lightly pencilled on the page.
Tonight I call him in capitals—
Father, King-while still dialing

your number, not speaking.
The hush between us so humid
like the silent prayer
from the congregation—its anxious
words writhing in the air, steaming up:
Grant Me The Luck
Of Health And Wealth And Love
And I’ll Be Good,
O Lord. Who hears the mute

clamor, the breaking of language
into the oblivion? Who can pull
the splinters out of the tongue
and attend to our quick
futures? What is really being
written here? Will we
talk close-mouthed again next year?