Burying the Sacred Texts
by Gary Margolis
Perhaps the geese are wondering
what we’re up to, next to the fall
field. Standing around a grave-sized
hole, a backhoe has dug. Blind,
as they are, to the words for ‘boxes
of books”, “pages and scraps of
texts”. We know they’re looking
for a field to spend the night,
to pick over the poles and flags
of corn stalks. To make
as much commotion as they can.
Murmuring and honking. Trying
to draw as many of their kind down.
To what, perhaps, we can call
their prayers, too. Watching us
lower a grave’s worth of boxes
into the ground. Rabbi Reichert
might have said was the earth’s
library on loan to us and the meadow
voles who live there, too.
And now have parchment pieces
of torah to read. Drilling their way
down, after the geese are gone.
Finding what there is left to eat.
These prayers and chants, their songs.