{ ... }

۞

  Up above the crematorium lay the lovers in wake.  

  °Hey-Rebecca-Hey°  

  °Say Holam-Maley°  

  °Say Holam-Maley°  

  °Hey-Rebecca-Hey°  

  {they sung at the funeral}  

  No Holam-Maley  

  °וֹ°  

  No “oh … ”  

  No Rebecca-Hey  

  °ה°  

  No “vah … ”  

  No “veh … ”  

  No “ziy” no “zey” no “zeker.”  

  An object.  A sullen looking woman wearing red lipstick.  Once adorèd fate, now abhorrèd it.  Too late.  Adornèd in silver jewels, not tacky gold.  Ornamental.  Very eager to speak her mind at a funeral but always hinting down to her breasts, just to make everybody feel better about the situation.  Underneath the clothes, lingerie, same colour as lipstick.  Did she make aesthetic pleas pleasing to a wandering eye before covering up in sack-cloth for poor Rebecca's funeral?  

  {Shiva sitting}  

  Pins and needles, walking on egg-shells, duck-egg colour bathroom walls.  She reachèd for the object.  A mirror.  

  No one there knew she had naturally curly hair, preening and plying to just make straight.  Running late, rather red, coitus flush, applièd some blush, just to look sombre.  A little pressure being also applièd, her eyelashes metèd out.  

  Still.  Still making cosmetic.  She cranèd a neck to bed-ward.  Four people were reflecting figmentarily behind her in the mirror.  She momentarily reflectèd on her orgasm.  The ones in the mirror lookèd like so much more than the one she wantèd to look like inside of herself.  In the room with her, her lover and her partner.  Her's children's father.  A somewhat sullen room, a somewhat sullen woman, despite the strength of her orgasm.  In relation to her he bore some resemblance.  They were mourning a double loss, feeling a mutual orgasm.  How life loves such a destruction.  The total contradiction.  

  Poor Rebecca, poor Gideon.  Their name still remainèd above the shop.  Their still remains were six feet under.  

  “We've hit the middle, Michal,” said Simeon.  “At least we've made it over half-way, successfully, hey.  Shame about poor Gid, trying to cheat death, the crazy alchemical yid.  What does he think he did?”  

  “That's all he ever did,” replièd Michal.  “Mix a potion, concoct a concoction, a crazy alcehmical solution to the dire conundrum of his ailing daughter, our dear daughter.”  

  °Batkha°  

  “Rebecca, his one-and-only.  If only, iym rak,” she went on.  

  °The wake downstairs° thought Simeon.  “We should rejoin them,” he said.  

  A sole tear ran amok over make-up.  

  “I'll have to start all over again now,” utterèd Michal.  

۝