Honorary Jew

The first year, I grated potatoes, chopped onions

& watched. The second year, I fed all but the eggs

into the machine & said I'll do the latkes & did,

my pile of crisp delights borne to the feast by the wife

who baffled me, our books closed, banter hushed,

money useless in the apartment—house, my in-laws called it,

new-wave thump at one end, ganja reek at the other—

in which she'd knelt to tell the no one who listened

no more no      no more no    a three-year-old mouthing

the essential prayer. The uncle made rich by a song

stacked three & dug in, talking critics & Koch—

everyone crunching now, slathering applesauce, slurping tea—

talking Rabin & Mehitabel, radio & Durrell,

how a song is a poem or it isn't a song

& vice-versa. Done, he pointed a greasy finger

at me, said You can't be a goy. You—I say it

for all to hear—are an honorary Jew!

which, impossible dream, my latkes lived up to

for five more years. Then the wailing.

Then the dust.