Sacrament My neighbor is robbed one night At gunpoint On the pavement that fronts the house Where his wife and three year-old son Sleep in a bed behind a folding paper screen The color of the moon over a milky bay He throws his wallet—that’s what they want, the money—if he throws it far Enough they won’t shoot him for Fifty dollars and a receipt from The supermarket All creased and faded No one knows who it is Because there are no street lamps on Our street, only a dark that smells like Woodsmoke and orange blossoms and Food on a stovetop: papery noodles And borscht, and spaghetti and flour tortillas The next day our street stews under A red dawn, and the voices of Neighbors rise Above the tangle of fruit trees, clotheslines A plastic pool, two feet deep, in which My neighbor’s son sits 20 Pillars of Salt
Samantha Rosenwald
