Blooms

Everyone's sending something important at the post office,
laboring over the licking of the envelope, adhering to the still-preferred
sealing (ceremonial) of the paper vessel even in the era of self-adhesive
stamps and self-seal flaps. Sending mail is an act of faith. Standing
in a line is an act of faith. Stepping outside is an act of faith.
Getting out of bed each morning is an act of faith. Kids are afoot:
a black girl, a white girl, and a Hasidic Jew with long blond locks
sticking out of his yarmulke. It's five and the call to prayer comes on somewhere,
must be set as an alert on someone's smartphone. All the sad music the world can't
evoke what it does in me. Seeing my grandfather prostate, praying. The only thing
he'd ever bow down to and even then rarely, the holiest of holidays, maybe.
He has his own mythology about how the way he came to be. Royalty of the mud,
roots spread round the world, blooms he'll never see: gay granddaughter,
Simon carrying the torah to read it on the altar, Momo climbing mountains
in wilderness rehab in Utah, his blackness no bloom in my grandfather's eyes.