October 2020
I knew Yigal in 10th grade, from Flatbush —
the Ashkenazim don't understand you, right?
Hanging in Hebron sure gave you the push
twisting Kook, turn it, turn it, words incite.
Law of the Pursuer and Law of the Informer,
my rabbi told me his friend Waskow debunked.
You waved that yellow flag on the the 5th of October,
a day after Yom Kippur, shouting like a drunk.
Your dad — Yehudi Galuti, weak in diaspora,
passive but you aren't, right? Yamin, hazak, mingling
with high schoolers who call you names on Quora,
you call me after Ma'ariv to tell me your faith is dwindling.
A shot rang out in the evening of 12 Cheshvan, 5756.
You stood hunched, nauseous — awaiting the sun's eclipse.
