When the congregation assembles,
I look to the chorus, modeling
wholeness, how to remain intact.
Absorbed in music,
its supplications, they seem purer,
don’t they? Those whose voices
make meaning, while their bodies
dematerialize, or mean to, or should.
They sing Avinu Malkeinu, Our Father,
Our King. One in a blue cardigan
with a brooch—I find myself drawn
to her in particular. Whole
comes from hail: to attract attention.
I choose her as one might elevate
a tulip from a bowl, relocating it

to its own vase. Watch
as I hand her this awful gift
of recognition, as if I fastened
her brooch or made her up
entirely. As mourners, we rise
when the names of those
we have lost are called.
And when I was a child,
I wanted everyone to stare
as I stood. How I needed them
to grant loss a certain look
that one could mistake for beauty.
I thought God chose me for this.
Is death a sword that knights
the living? I kind of believe it is.