Miracles of the Kingdom of Sleep II

In a granddaughter’s dream, her grandfather
wings down on the day of his funeral
like a Chagall bridegroom, flexes
his feet like a landing crow’s,
and screeches to a flailing stop, with a little extra
hop. “Whew!” he winks, so not dead,
and signature squeezes her hands
inside his. They’re enclosed
like the innermost Russian doll.
“You baby me too much!” he says,
and commandeers her limo
for a jaunt far, far from school.

At her mother’s home, the funeral meats
are growing cold, or warm--
mini-knishes, pickled herring, lox on a dot
of cream cheese on a melba round,
melt-in-your-living-mouth
brie--since

at Temple Beth El, the rabbi’s prayer books
snooze on the empty coffin, the rabbi,
gritting his teeth, paces
in front of the bima, slapping a palm
on a thigh, and all the ancient nodders and dodderers,
the limpers and tremorers fidget
in their seats; the cousins
flown in from the East snore--
mouths agape; the great-uncle
who suddenly surfaced twiddles
his wizened thumbs.

How embarrassing!
The dreaming girl
smiles inside the dream,
then laughs out loud.

copyright 2007 Judy Kronenfeld
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Barnwood magazine
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