Razovsky Rides a Cloud

SYDNEY ROSS, 1926-2001


RAZOVSKY RIDES A CLOUD

Razovsky knows he must
finally be sleeping, because
he is cushioned on a cloud
sailing past a jet bound
for Florida, and this is not
possible, this thing
of floating on a cloud.
He must be so light,
and he feels light
inside. He feels his eyes
are lights, their beams
guiding his way. Straight up
the aisle, from the very back,
where the bent old men pray,
the regulars, their tallitim hanging
like ancient draperies,
up the aisle
towards the rabbi, the cantor,
the trembling bar-mitzvah boy.
Razovsky marvels at this shul
in the sky, and the
storm of candies
that rains over him. Razovsky
sails over the altar
and through the stained glass,
a little baby
floating in a basket
looking for his parents, for
a future, for love.
Jeepers creepers, he's
got racing stripes, he's
wearing pyjamas of cloud,
his glorious sleep
will not end.




from Razovsky at Peace, ECW Press, 2001