by Herbert Munshine (Great Neck, NY)
To me, a synagogue should be
an exclamation point,
standing tall and straight,
reflecting strength and confidence
but, instead, it is a question mark, swirling
and broadcasting insecurity.
The confusion brought to me by
the Hebrew chanting and the davening
saddens me, for I feel excluded amidst
the longing to belong, to share the unity
and the compelling desire to recognize
our attachment and connection
to our Greater Power. I am conflicted,
ultimately lost.
Even so, I feel an urge to walk inside,
to join the others who have worn
the Magen David draped over their hearts,
but I recognize that the ancient language
spoken is a code, a kind of price
of relevant admission, that excludes
the likes of me.
I find no Rosetta Stone handed down
from Mount Sinai that will lead me
to a satisfying translation of the wisdom
which will assure me that I’ve found a home
among those strangers. So I reluctantly eschew
entrance, step away from the well-constructed but
foreboding question mark, that of Chagall-like
technicolor windows and impressive wooden doors
and pews and platform, and stumble hesitatingly away
on my solitary path, thinking of the lonely road
through Jewishness that I have followed because
He took my mother just one week before
my 10th birthday many years ago. I dwell
within an exile self-imposed. I try
to fight it but I am left to wonder
just what might have been . . . .
Herbert Munshine grew up in the Bronx and graduated from C.C.N.Y. with both a B.S. in Education and a Master’s Degree in English. You can find his baseball poetry on Baseball Bard where he has had more than 100 poems published, and where he was recently inducted into that site’s Hall of Fame. He lives with his wife in Great Neck, NY.
The Jewish Writing Project 