Today's poem is by Sarah A. Etlinger

Hanukkah Dinosaur
       

Judaism is trending again, my friend Jared tells me,
so I wonder if I should buy Dinokkah,
the inflatable Hanukkah Dinosaur,
who is bright green with a blue T-shirt, cartoon
menorah blazing on the front, and a big blue
dreidel lying on its side. He wears a white yarmulke,
which you can only see from the back.
Everything is lit from the bottom.

Imagine, I respond, you too
can have a Hanukkah dinosaur in your front window or yard.

I want him the way adults want things
to remind themselves they were once children.
I do not buy him.

Lately people are asking me
if I've noticed how anti-Semitism is getting worse
or if I think people aren't afraid of anything anymore.

Bob asks me quietly, and is very concerned.
Last week I told him do not read any of the tweets
or the headline in the NYT calling a blatant attack on Jews
purported anti-semitism—instead of what it actually was,
actual anti-semitism. Do not, I said, think harder about
the Jewish Space Lasers or the LA bridge protesters
or Adidas.

Another friend texts me about Kanye West
and says he's a fucking asshole looking for more power,
and I say Yeah, but we took down our mezuzah this week
for the first time ever. She is silent for several minutes
before she tells me about the football game. She doesn't know
what to do or say about any of this.
They all want something different
for me, and when someone asks what they can do,

I want to tell them to buy this dinosaur,
so I can rig him up on my small unruly yard
for everyone to see as they pass by, on their way to elsewhere,
as they whiz past warm glowing plastic faces
of the tiny wan Jesus and Mary and Joseph, dingy lambs
weary at the end of the shepherd's crook, the molded
shepherd's face hidden by his modest plastic cloak—

the dinosaur bright and garishly green, proud and smiling
instead of somber—a wholly joyful amalgam:

two ancient entities older than all this grass and pavement
and even this darkening sky, its hollow core
full of air and light quietly humming.

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Copyright © 2024 Sarah A. Etlinger All rights reserved
from A Bright Wound
Cornerstone Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission