Taharah

I’m wondering about you, chevra kadisha,

the “holy society,” who will prepare my body,

once I’m no longer in it, for the earth.

Will you know me already, or see me for the first time

as you wash and shroud me, as my father was washed

and dressed in simple white tachrichim, for those

about to stand before God. Perhaps by then I’ll know

if I believe in God. I like the democratic

nature of the shroud, an equalizing garment. You

may see a body that surprises you. You may not have seen

a man’s body like this one before you, which I hope is very old,

wrinkled, and (since I’m wishing) fit, muscled

as much as an old man can be. You’ll see scars.

Ragged dog bit forearm, elbow my father picked gravel

from over the sink, then flushed with foaming iodine,

and the long double horizons on my chest, which trunked my body

like a tree. If I am unexpected, let me not seem

grotesque to you, as I have to many people, perhaps

even my own parents, and others whose highest

kindness was to say nothing. Please let me return to dust

in peace, as the others did, and recite those beautiful psalms,

remembering, as you go about your holy ritual,

how frightening it is to be naked before another,

at the mercy of a stranger’s eyes, without even any breath.