Count on

What I can
count on, when

democracy might be dying


at the hands of white men


 


and women waving


Confederate flags, wearing


 


Camp Auschwitz shirts,


brandishing zip ties:

the havdalah candle's
sizzle, plunged

into wine; the scent
of shankbones, simmering;

the song of Torah
where every sentence

culminates, with no
uncertainties;

the winter sun
lingering

just a little longer,
promising better days.