Friday evening in an attic, cooing.
You flicker at the moonshine in a Siddur. 
The points of your yellow patch are praying,
Like human limbs, they flicker and endure.
The pupils of your eyes drip with moon.
Mama-drops illuminate my faith with love.
Your prayer brings to me the smell of warm challah, 
With fervent prayer you feed the doves.
In each of your wrinkles my life is concealed.
I hear you cough. You tremble, trying
To hide it, lest anyone hear — for there in a corner,
Covered with earth, my bones are lying.
Your hand on my forehead is dozing: be calm,
Just a day or two, salvation — is near.
Your other hand on my ear is resting:
The voice of the murder I must not hear.