Last Dance at the Four Penny

Layton, when we dance our freilach

under the ghostly handkerchief,

the miracle rabbis of Prague and Vilna

resume their sawdust thrones,

and angels and men, asleep so long

in the cold palaces of disbelief,

gather in sausage-hung kitchens

to quarrel deliciously and debate

the sounds of the Ineffable Name.

Layton, my friend Lazarovitch,

no Jew was ever lost

while we two dance joyously

in this French province,

cold and oceans west of the temple,

the snow canyoned on the twigs

like forbidden Sabbath manna;

I say no Jew was ever lost

while we weave and billow the handkerchief

into a burning cloud,

measuring all of heaven

with our stitching thumbs.

Reb Israel Lazarovitch,

you no-good Romanian, you're right!

Who cares whether or not

the Messiah is a Litvak?

As for the cynical,

such as we were yesterday,

let them step with us or rot

in their logical shrouds.

We've raised a bright white flag,

and here's our battered fathers' cup of wine,

and now is music

until morning and the morning prayers

lay us down again,

we who dance so beautifully

though we know that freilachs end.